Ariana's approved absence from practical Defence lessons became a topic of intense discussion within the second-year Gryffindor common room. The reactions were varied and telling. Harry and Ron were openly, almost painfully, jealous. They were forced to endure Lockhart's increasingly farcical classes, which now consisted mainly of dramatic re-enactments of scenes from his books, with Harry often being dragged up to play the part of the werewolf or the yeti, much to his own mortification and Malfoy's delight.
"It's not fair," Ron grumbled one evening, nursing a bruised ego after being forced to play a 'weeping villager' in a scene from Wanderings with Werewolves. "She gets to sit in the quiet library reading, while we have to listen to that fraud drone on about his fan mail."
"She's not just reading, she's studying," Harry corrected, though his own envy was palpable. "But still… I wish I'd thought of it."
Hermione's reaction was far more complex. A part of her, the rule-following, diligent student, was horrified at the idea of willingly missing a class, no matter how useless. Another, larger part of her longed to be in the library with Ariana, delving into the real, deep magic they so often discussed. But the most powerful part of her, the part that craved validation from authority figures, couldn't bring herself to follow Ariana's lead. She couldn't bear the thought of a black mark on her perfect academic record. This internal conflict left her torn, and she found herself looking at Ariana's empty seat during Defence class with a mixture of admiration and wistful regret.
Ariana, for her part, thrived. Her "independent study" sessions became the most productive hours of her week. She systematically worked her way through the entire seven-year theoretical curriculum for Defence Against the Dark Arts, her mind absorbing and cross-referencing information with terrifying efficiency. She read about dark creatures, curses, hexes, and their corresponding counters, but she did so through the lens of pure magical theory. She wasn't just learning what to do; she was learning why it worked. Her understanding of defensive magic was becoming academic, profound, and utterly detached from the performative nonsense happening in Lockhart's classroom.
As the weeks turned into autumn, the school's attention shifted to the grand passion of Hogwarts: Quidditch. Tryouts were announced, and the atmosphere in Gryffindor Tower became thick with nervous energy and competitive spirit.
Harry, as the established Seeker, was exempt from trying out, but he attended the practice to support his teammates and observe the new hopefuls under the watchful eye of their driven captain, Oliver Wood. Ron, filled with a desperate hope and a lifetime of practice dodging Bludgers his brothers threw at him in the paddock at the Burrow, decided to try out for the position of Keeper.
He flew with a frantic, scrappy energy, his long limbs flailing as he blocked Quaffles. He wasn't the most elegant flyer, but he had surprisingly good reflexes and a fierce determination. In the end, Oliver Wood, a man who valued grit above all else, named him the reserve Keeper. The starting position was still Wood's, of course, but Ron was officially on the team. He returned to the common room puffed up with pride, the achievement a much-needed balm for his ego after weeks of Lockhart's classes.
Life settled into a new rhythm: classes, Quidditch practice for the boys, and intense study sessions for the girls. The mystery of the diary lay dormant in Ariana's trunk. She knew its time would come, but it was not yet ripe. To act now would be premature. She needed a catalyst, a public event that would bring the Chamber's secret to the forefront. She knew that catalyst was coming.
October bled into its final days, and the castle began to transform for Halloween. Great, grinning pumpkins appeared in the corridors, and swarms of live bats were enchanted to flutter through the Great Hall. For most students, it was a time of excitement, of looking forward to the magnificent feast.
For Harry, it was a shadow. The anniversary of his parents' murder. A day of profound, personal grief that was completely at odds with the festive atmosphere.
A few days before the thirty-first, Ariana approached him in a quiet corner of the common room. She didn't wait for him to be alone; she simply drew him and Hermione into a small, private conversational bubble. Ron was across the room, engrossed in a discussion about Quidditch tactics with Fred and George.
"Harry," she began, her voice soft and direct. "Halloween is approaching. Last year, we found a quiet space to acknowledge the day. I would like to extend that invitation again this year." Her gaze then shifted to include Hermione. "I believe you would be welcome to join us as well, Hermione, if you wish. A quiet meal in the kitchens, away from the noise. A time for friends to support a friend."
The offer was a lifeline to Harry, just as it had been the year before. The thought of facing the feast alone, surrounded by celebrating students, was a heavy weight on his heart. The idea of having not just Ariana, but Hermione too, sitting with him in quiet solidarity, was a profound comfort. It made him feel seen, not as the Boy Who Lived, but as a boy who had lost his parents.
"Yes," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. "I'd… I'd really like that. Both of you."
Hermione, who had been dreading the thought of leaving Harry to his grief while she attended the feast, looked immensely relieved. "Of course, Harry. We'll be there." Her eyes met Ariana's, a silent message of thanks passing between them. Ariana had not only supported Harry but had also provided Hermione with a way to show her own loyalty without having to navigate the awkwardness herself.
Ron, when he heard of the plan later, was nonplussed. "Skip the Halloween feast? Are you mad? They have pumpkin tarts the size of broom wheels! Suit yourselves," he said, not with malice, but with the simple, uncomplicated priorities of a boy who saw Halloween as a purely culinary event. He would join them later, he promised, after the pudding course.
And so, on the evening of October thirty-first, as the rest of the school filed into the Great Hall, its ceiling enchanted to show a sky full of dramatic, swirling storm clouds, three second-year students slipped away. They made their way down to the kitchens, a small, tight-knit group united by a quiet, somber purpose.
The house-elves, remembering them from the previous year, welcomed them warmly, providing a simple, comforting meal of soup and fresh bread. They ate in near silence, but it was not an awkward silence. It was a silence of profound respect and deep friendship. Harry didn't have to pretend to be happy. Hermione didn't have to fill the quiet with nervous chatter. And Ariana, the architect of this small sanctuary of grief, simply sat with them, her serene presence a testament to the fact that sometimes, the greatest act of friendship is not to cheer someone up, but to simply sit with them in their sadness.