The light beyond the window was as grey and colourless as the weather itself; it seeped inside and settled on the walls in a dull film. Outside, a fine rain was falling, and its quiet, endless tapping on the glass made it seem as though someone invisible was patiently knocking at Gryffindor Tower. Someone who could slip into rooms unnoticed and leave behind frightening notes…
The air in the common room was cold; the damp breath of autumn crept even through the stone walls. It felt worse because the fireplace had not yet been lit, and the empty hearth stood out on the wall as a sullen dark patch.
Harry and Ron sat in armchairs by the window, wrapped in their cloaks, and Ron had even thrown a light blanket over his shoulders. He was especially cold today. They watched Hermione in silence as she paced the room, unable to settle. She had already told them every detail of yesterday's discovery, but her gaze remained distant. It was as though she were replaying that scene again and again in her mind.
"But the main question is, how did that Hand even get into my room?!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence so sharply that both boys flinched.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look and shrugged helplessly. Hermione stopped for a moment, then immediately began pacing the room again.
"And what about the note?" Ron spoke up hesitantly. "Did this one burn too? Like the last one?"
Hermione froze by the window, her fingers tightening on the sill.
"No. Worse." She fell silent and stared through the rain at the grey sky. Then, as if pulling herself back, she added in a choked voice, "It just vanished. As if it had never been there at all."
"What do you mean, vanished?" Harry frowned. "Completely?"
"Exactly!" Hermione turned on them. Despair flickered in her eyes. "That's advanced magic, really difficult stuff. Not just anyone can do that." She broke off, as if weighing something, then went on more quietly, "This morning, I even doubted myself for a second… what if I'd dreamed it all?"
"A-and…?" Ron drew out expectantly, leaning forward.
"And what?" Hermione snapped, flicking her hand in irritation. "I remember the note perfectly! And all of yesterday! It really happened!"
"I'm not arguing," Ron said quickly, lifting his hands. "It's just… you said yourself, there are no traces."
Hermione brushed off Ron's excuses in frustration.
"So what are you going to do about it?" Harry asked. "Go to McGonagall again?"
"What's the point?" Hermione turned on him. "There's no evidence! And I've already told her about these letters and notes several times. There's nothing she can do about it. I need some other lead. And anyway, she's got enough on her plate right now. I told you — because of me she's already up to her neck in the investigation into Honeydew's disappearance. And then there's that portal."
"Yes, but we still have to do something about this," Harry said, frowning, then shrugged.
"We do," Hermione nodded. "But first we need to figure out who's behind it all. Could it still be Malfoy?"
She looked at her friends.
"Malfoy?!" Ron snorted, as though the Slytherin's name left a bad taste in his mouth. "You said yourself this kind of magic takes real skill. Do you honestly think Draco could manage that? Not that I'd mind seeing him punished. Quite the opposite."
"Maybe you're right. He couldn't," Hermione said slowly, biting her lip. "But what if someone's helping him? Someone from the upper years?"
Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead, thinking.
"Could be," he said at last. "No one ever said the League of Light has only one helper at Hogwarts."
Ron stared at him, taken aback.
"You think there are a lot of them here?"
Harry only shrugged. In Hermione's mind, Terry Foster's words kept turning over: "I would hate for your talents to go unrealised. And without my help…"
What if he's right? Maybe she should agree after all. But then why does none of the powerful wizards want to help him? Dumbledore, for instance. He surely knows how to handle Time Magic.
She was racking her brains over it when she suddenly heard Ron's worried voice.
"Hermione! Are you with us? What are you thinking about? Do you have a plan?"
Hermione blinked, snapping out of her thoughts.
"No. It's just… the thing is —" She glanced around quickly, then made up her mind. It was time to tell her friends everything. About the Gaze of Eternity ritual. About the danger threatening all of them. About Terry Foster. She had no secrets from Harry and Ron, no matter what Mr Foster wanted.
"Listen to me carefully," she said in a low voice, leaning closer to her friends.
Harry and Ron leaned in too.
"Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug," suddenly came out of Hermione's mouth, and she froze.
Harry and Ron stared at her, confused. And Hermione understood at once. That was how the Non-Disclosure Charm worked. It would not let her say a single word.
"Hey, are you all right?" Ron frowned.
"Uh… yeah… I'm fine," Hermione said, forcing her voice to sound as neutral as she could, and even smiled. "I just choked on something. And I'm thirsty. And anyway, we should head to breakfast. Or everything will be gone by the time we get there."
She turned and hurried towards the common room exit. Harry and Ron exchanged a look, but didn't ask any more questions and followed her.
***
The note wouldn't leave Hermione's mind. Again and again, she came back to the same question: who could be the League of Light's helper at Hogwarts? Apart from Draco Malfoy, no other likely suspect came to mind. And even he had become her main suspect only because he never hid his hatred for Mudbloods. People like her. Which meant that he and the League shared at least one belief.
In search of allies, she even decided to approach Elliot Grimm. After all, last year they had both been victims of the League's agent, Casper Honeydew, and it seemed logical to Hermione that he would want payback from their new helper as well. She checked his timetable in advance and lay in wait for him in the corridor, catching him alone as he came out of class. Elliot noticed Hermione and looked surprised when she stepped towards him, clearly about to speak. But as soon as she explained what she wanted, he rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"What is it, Granger, hunting for enemies again?" he drawled.
Hermione swallowed the jibe and, bracing herself, laid out her suspicions about Malfoy, asking him to keep an eye on the other Slytherins as well.
"Oh, of course. Malfoy. Or someone else from Slytherin," Elliot gave a crooked smirk and added with a sneer, "Who would have thought? All your suspects come from there. As if villains can't be in any other House. Gryffindor, for instance."
"But he really could be involved!" Hermione insisted.
"And?" Elliot raised an eyebrow lazily. "Why should I care?"
"But we were both hurt by the League of Light. Doesn't it matter to you to stop them? I thought this was a matter of honour to you!"
"A matter of honour?" Elliot snorted, amused. "Seriously? Granger, let's get this straight: the fact that Casper played both of us doesn't make us allies, let alone friends. I'm not going to spy on the Slytherins for you. And I'm certainly not stupid enough to get in the League of Light's way."
He smirked, letting his gaze slide over her, then added with poisonous mockery, "And you, on the other hand, really do seem to have nothing to lose. You're ready to take on You-Know-Who himself… so the League is nothing to you, right?"
Hermione flushed and dropped her eyes. Elliot smirked again, but now there was open spite in his smile.
"You know, I'm even curious how Malfoy will react when he finds out what you're suspecting him of. That should be fun."
"Don't tell him!" Hermione blurted out. She swallowed and added more quietly, "Please."
Elliot paused for a moment, then shrugged and turned away.
"We'll see," he threw over his shoulder and walked off without even saying goodbye.
Hermione stayed where she was, watching him go, and the dark sense of unease only grew stronger.
One week followed another, and her anxiety slowly dissolved into lessons, homework, and routine. Everything felt almost normal… until Halloween arrived.
***
The whole castle had been transformed for the evening feast. The air was filled with the scent of pumpkin pie and caramel, floating lanterns had appeared in the corridors, and garlands of bats on the walls began to click their wings whenever anyone came close. From early morning on, the students were buzzing louder than usual, talking about what pranks to pull this year and what unusual costumes to wear.
In a corner of the Gryffindor common room, Fred and George were busy making something. From time to time, loud bangs came from there, along with flashes of sparks and clouds of coloured smoke. Curious students tried to come closer, but the twins chased everyone away at once, repeating, "Don't get in the way! If anyone sticks their nose in, they'll lose it!"
This time, however, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were not meant to join the school celebration. It turned out that in one of his conversations with Nearly Headless Nick — the Gryffindor ghost — Harry had promised he would come to Nick's Five Hundredth Deathday. And, just their luck, that day fell on Halloween.
"Halloween is a fun holiday, of course," Hermione said as she went down with her friends into the cool dungeons where the ghosts were gathering for Nick's Deathday, "but celebrating it with real ghosts is a unique experience!"
Harry and Ron looked at her without much enthusiasm. Harry had almost changed his mind — he was ready to 'forget' his promise and go to the real feast instead. But Hermione firmly reminded him that a promise is a promise and talked him into making the 'right choice'. What's more, she tried to present it as though going to the Deathday on Halloween was not just a decent replacement for the feast, but something they would proudly tell their children about years later.
"And besides, just imagine how much there is to learn about ghosts!" Hermione's voice took on the eager excitement of a discoverer.
At her words, Ron rolled his eyes.
"All you ever want to do is study," he said in frustration. "Even on Halloween!"
"If there's a chance to learn something new," Hermione replied, "that's exactly what you should do. Holiday or not! By the way, how much do you actually know about ghosts? How they 'live'? What do they care about?"
"I don't care what they care about!" Ron shot back, scowling.
"Well, you know —" Hermione flared her nostrils, clearly about to say something sharp, but then thought better of it. She pressed her lips together and strode ahead without looking back. She had already spent too much time trying to talk them into this.
Behind them, Harry said quietly,
"You didn't have to say that…"
"What did she expect?" Ron muttered. "It's Halloween, and all she can think about is studying: 'if there's a chance to learn something new…'" he mimicked her lecturing tone.
When they finally reached the dungeons, the one being celebrated — Nearly Headless Nick — greeted them cheerfully at the entrance. He was practically glowing with pride: for the first time, his party had living guests.
"What an honour! What an honour!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. "None of my departed colleagues has ever been honoured with such company!"
So Harry, Ron, and Hermione became the stars of the evening. All eyes — dull or completely empty — kept turning their way. Hermione couldn't quite tell whether she liked that kind of attention. Ghosts, even dressed in their best, looked… to put it mildly, frightening. Most of them had died violent deaths — and it showed. Many bore wounds, scars, and holes — grim reminders of the very moments that had turned them into what they were.
A piercing, drawn-out creak filled the hall, standing in for music for the ghosts. To this uneven 'melody', they slowly turned in a waltz, copying the living — there was a certain grace in their movements, but also something eerily unnatural.
Hermione watched it all with genuine interest. More and more questions crowded her mind. She looked around, then headed towards one of the guests — a thin ghost settled nearby. He was dressed in a faded toga and held a half-transparent cat in his arms, lazily stroking it, his gloomy gaze fixed on the dancers.
"Oh… Mr Ghost…" Hermione said to him. "Do you have pets too? Do you get them after you die or did this cat die with you? Does it ever run away from you? How often does that happen?" She blurted it all out, firing questions at the ghost.
The ghost slowly turned towards Hermione, lifting one transparent eyebrow. He looked as though her words had deeply offended him. He straightened, showing off his thin figure in a worn, half-transparent toga. The cat in his arms lazily lifted its head, yawned, then settled again, letting its ghostly claws slip through his fingers, which of course could not scratch him.
"For your information, extremely young and ill-mannered girl," he said in an icy voice, trembling slightly with age, "I am not some 'Mr Ghost'. My name is Decimus Lucretius."
He paused, as if expecting the name to make the proper impression. When it didn't, he went on.
"And this is no mere cat. Her name is Fury. She was with me in life, before a treacherous barbarian from the north ran me through with a spear."
He turned, and it became clear that the same spear had pierced both him and Fury straight through.
"We died together," he went on, "and for long centuries now we have been inseparable in this dreary afterlife."
"A barbarian from the north?" Hermione repeated, frowning. She studied his face, his clothes, his manner more closely. "Do you mean you're from Roman Britain?"
"Of course I'm Roman," Decimus lifted his chin proudly. "I lived in Eboracum and ruled it in the Emperor's name. Now the city is called…" he waved a hand dismissively, "York, I think. Once, it was a great city, founded by great people."
Hermione looked at him in surprise — she had never met ghosts this ancient before. For a moment, she even forgot about the cold in the dungeons and stopped shivering. Then, gathering her thoughts, she returned to the question that interested her.
"So your cat is a ghost… I mean, Fury — she stayed with you after her death of her own choice? Does that happen often? I've never met animal ghosts before."
Decimus paused for a moment, still stroking his cat, who gave low, contented purrs.
"Ghost animals are rare, but not unheard of," he said slowly. "When an animal truly loves its owner, sometimes they pass into this… hm… state… together."
"And does she ever run away from you? Or does she always sit in your arms?" Hermione pressed on.
"I told you, she loves me!" he snapped, his eyes flashing. Then, softening a little, he added more calmly, "Sometimes I let her go — to wander around, to 'hunt' mice."
"She catches them?!" Hermione stared at him. "And… eats them?"
Decimus gave a crooked smile.
"How would she catch them? She's a ghost!" He shook his head slightly. Then a warmer smile crossed his face. "Still, it's sometimes funny to watch Fury not understand why the mice run away after she seems to swipe at them with her claws. She doesn't know she's a ghost. For her, nothing has really changed."
"How interesting…" Hermione said thoughtfully.
At that moment, her gaze caught on a group of identically dressed ghost children standing apart in a corner of the hall. And Hermione remembered the legend Miranda had told her last year — about the Phantom Choir.
"Mr… um… Decimus Lucretius…" she said uncertainly to the spirit.
"Yes, young lady?" he replied in a noticeably softer tone. He seemed pleased that she had remembered his name.
"Is it true there's the Phantom Choir at Hogwarts?"
"The Phantom Choir?" Decimus frowned. "What's that?"
"Well, there's this legend…" Hermione began. "That somewhere in the dungeons of Hogwarts, at night, the Phantom Choir gathers, and it —"
"I'm not an expert on local legends!" Decimus cut her off, irritated. "I could tell you anything you like about great Eboracum and the worthy people who lived there. But if you want silly Hogwarts legends, you're better off asking Helena Ravenclaw. She's been here almost since the castle was founded and will know everything that's happened here."
"Oh… how fascinating. Ancient Eboracum…" Hermione began eagerly, but it seemed her friends' patience had finally run out.
"Hermione," Harry cut in firmly, tugging at her elbow, "I can see the banquet table over there. Come on. I'm starving."
Hermione had no choice but to hurry through a goodbye to the ancient Roman and follow her friends. And to be honest, she wouldn't have minded getting something to eat herself. But the moment they reached the table, it became clear: the feast was not meant for the living. The food was rotten, mouldy, and charred — the stench was so strong that all three of them felt sick.
One of the ghosts drifted through the table, as if grabbing at the "treats" with its mouth as it passed.
"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" Harry asked.
"Almost," the ghost replied, then drifted away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," Hermione said quickly.
She had been thinking about it for a couple of minutes and didn't want anyone to say it before her. After all, there was no way here to raise your hand and answer the teacher first. But her friends clearly weren't about to compete with her guesses.
"Can we move? I feel sick," Ron said grimly, glancing towards the exit.
Hermione was about to argue, but then Peeves appeared — loud, obnoxious, and always looking for someone to annoy. Soon he dragged Moaning Myrtle along with him, whom Hermione hadn't got along with since their clash on Halloween last year. That was enough to kill any desire she had to stay. So the three of them said their goodbyes, hurried out of the dungeons, and rushed upstairs — hoping to make it back in time for at least dessert in the Great Hall.
They were hurrying up the stairs when Harry suddenly stumbled and leaned against the wall.
"Harry, what're you —?" Ron asked, alarmed.
"It's that voice again — shut up a minute —" Harry snapped.
It was clearly the same voice he had heard during detention with Lockhart. Back then, he had said the voice was calling for someone to kill. Hermione hadn't believed him — she had put it down to Harry being tired. But now, after her talk with Terry Foster, she wasn't feeling sceptical anymore. He had said outright that there was a danger at Hogwarts, something threatening her friends. What if that strange voice was somehow connected to that danger?
"Listen!" Harry said.
Hermione froze, straining to listen, but heard nothing. Suddenly, Harry bolted up the stairs.
"This way!"
"Harry, what're we —" Hermione shouted back.
She wanted to tell him that running towards a voice that might belong to something deadly was pure recklessness. But Ron was already sprinting after him, and she had no choice but to follow.
They reached the third floor, then turned into one of the corridors. Hermione ran after them, glancing around in alarm. Then something flickered ahead. She stopped short, her chest tightening with fear, and her voice broke into a cry.
"Look!" She pointed at the wall with a shaking hand.
Right in front of them, huge red letters had been scrawled across the wall:
"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE"
Hanging beneath the message was Mrs Norris — Mr Filch's cat. She looked completely dead, dangling by her tail from a torch bracket.
Despite the shock, Hermione understood at once that this was bad. They needed to get away as fast as possible, before someone — especially Filch — caught them standing next to the cat. Ron seemed to think the same, because he said in a shaking voice, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try and help —" Harry began.
"Trust me," Ron cut him off. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was already too late. The feast was clearly over — crowds of students were pouring into the corridors. Laughter and cheerful voices echoed all around, but as soon as the first of them came into the passage and saw the scene, a dead silence fell.
It was cut through by a sharp voice:
"Enemies of the heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
It was Draco Malfoy. He pushed his way through the crowd and now stood there, staring straight at Hermione with a mocking grin.
'He really does fit the role of the Smiting Hand best,' she thought, not taking her eyes off the Slytherin. 'The League of Light wouldn't even have to persuade him — he practically breathes hatred for me.'
They didn't go to bed for a long time. First Filch burst in and, beside himself with rage, immediately accused them of killing his cat. Then the professors arrived, led by Dumbledore, and escorted them to his office. No one took Filch's accusations seriously, of course, but they still had to endure a few unpleasant minutes. Only when Dumbledore had carefully examined Mrs Norris did he finally say, "She's not dead. She has been Petrified. No second year could have done this."
At last, after more questioning, they were sent back to their rooms, and soon Hermione was lying in bed. It was past midnight, and she fell asleep quickly.
She woke suddenly — in complete darkness. At first, Hermione couldn't tell what had woken her. Everything was as usual: Nora's quiet breathing came from behind the canopy, the wind creaked softly outside the window. But somewhere deep in her mind, an unpleasant feeling burned — something was wrong.
She lay there for a minute, listening, then turned onto her other side, trying to get comfortable… and suddenly heard a strange sound. A nasty, muffled chuckle. That was what tore her out of sleep.
Hermione froze, instinctively pulling the blanket up to her chin, as if that could protect her. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Then the sound came again. It was clearly closer — right at the foot of her bed.
Hermione's breath caught, and at that moment something yanked at her blanket. She grabbed it, trying to hold on, but someone — much stronger — kept pulling it towards themselves, forcing it from her grip. A cold, sticky terror locked her body in place.
'Don't give in to fear,' a thought flashed through her mind.
Gathering her courage, Hermione sat up sharply and threw back the canopy.
In the darkness, something stood before her. At first she saw only two burning red eyes. Then the outline of a head took shape — a pumpkin, grinning with a toothless mouth. Below that, a sheet formed thin arms, clutching at her blanket. The figure froze for a second, then rasped,
"Retribution is inevitable!"
The sheet-arms lunged for her throat. The red eyes flared brighter, and Hermione, her chest tightening with terror, let out a shrill scream…