The Tenth Weasley - CH - 69

The return to Hogwarts was colder than usual, not just in weather, but in atmosphere. As Harry stepped back into the castle with the rest of the returning students, snowflakes dusted off his cloak, and the familiar high-ceilinged grandeur of the Entrance Hall greeted him. The castle smelled faintly of pine and warm stone, and yet, something immediately felt… off.

His eyes drifted to the massive hourglasses that recorded the House Points—glittering emeralds for Slytherin, sapphires for Ravenclaw, yellow topaz for Hufflepuff, and the shining rubies of Gryffindor.

Only this time, there were barely any rubies left.

Harry blinked in confusion. Gryffindor, which had been leading the last time he checked, had plummeted to the bottom. From well over three hundred points, it had dropped to barely over a hundred.

“What in Merlin’s name happened over the break?” he muttered to himself.

Harry returned to the Slytherin common room, the cozy green-lit dungeons welcoming after the snowy exterior. The long couches were filled with returning students unwrapping parcels, exchanging stories, and enjoying the calm before classes resumed.

He spotted one of the older Slytherin prefects—Nathan Vaisey—sitting near the fire and nursing a steaming mug of tea.

“Vaisey,” Harry said, dropping onto the leather armchair beside him. “What happened to Gryffindor’s points? They were leading before the holidays.”

Vaisey gave him a crooked smile. “You haven’t heard? Oh, this is good. Potter and your brother—Ron, right?—decided to sneak into the Slytherin common room during the break.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Used Polyjuice potion. Thought they could disguise themselves and slip in unnoticed. Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t work,” Harry muttered, already rubbing his temple. “You’re telling me Charlie and Ron brewed an illegal potion, disguised themselves as Slytherins, and tried to infiltrate the common room?”

“Right on the nose,” Vaisey said cheerfully. “Got caught by Snape himself. Right outside the dorm entrance, arguing about the password.”

Harry let out a long, frustrated sigh and slumped in his seat. “Sweet Merlin… I can already tell whose idea it was to brew the potion.”

“Hermione Granger,” Vaisey guessed, raising an eyebrow. “Though she wasn’t with them when they were caught.”

Harry nodded, more to himself. “That explains it. They were trying to find the heir of Slytherin. And thought they’d interrogate people while disguised.”

Vaisey chuckled. “Interrogate Slytherins, during a time when half the school thinks you’re trying to kill Muggle-borns? Bright bunch.”

“And they lost two hundred points for Gryffindor,” Harry said flatly. “A hundred each.”

“Snape was... thorough,” Vaisey said with a glint in his eye. “Gave them detention every evening for the rest of the month. Scrubbing cauldrons, scraping Flobberworm slime, repickling organs. Without magic.”

Harry covered his face with one hand. “And I’m going to get blamed for this somehow, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” Vaisey said dryly. “But cheer up. Slytherin’s back in the lead.”

Later that evening, as Harry sat in his room with Blaise and Daphne, the fire crackling low and parchment spread out before him, he recounted what he’d heard.

Daphne shook her head. “That’s the most Gryffindor thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I knew they were cooking up something,” Blaise said. “But I didn’t think even Potter was that stupid.”

“They told the professors they brewed the potion themselves,” Harry said. “Took the blame to protect Hermione, obviously. But come on—Snape must know who brewed it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Blaise said. “They’re lucky they weren’t expelled. Brewing Polyjuice potion as second years? That’s restricted NEWT-level stuff.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Harry said, leaning back. “They really thought sneaking into Slytherin would solve the problem?”

“They’re Gryffindors,” Daphne said with a sigh. “They think bravery and breaking rules can fix everything.”

“And now,” Harry muttered, “they’ve just made everything worse. Great.”

He stared into the flickering firelight, frustration simmering low in his chest.

He’d spent the holiday fighting off dark wizards. His name was still being whispered in corridors with suspicion. And now, thanks to his own brothers’ idiocy, tension between the Houses was higher than ever.

“Next time,” Harry murmured, “I’m brewing the bloody potion.”

Blaise and Daphne snorted in unison.


He had thought that after the festivities, perhaps things would ease. Perhaps Ron and Charlie would be back to joking and laughing, and maybe, somehow, the heavy suspicion that clung to Harry would lift.

He had been wrong.

Harry sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, picking at his breakfast with little interest. Across the room, he could see Ron and Charlie sitting stiffly among the Gryffindors, a vast empty space around them like a wound that refused to heal. The rest of the Gryffindors glared at them openly, muttering under their breath.

Ron caught Harry’s gaze once — a brief, accidental meeting of eyes — and quickly looked away, his face a mask of guilt and anger.

Harry sighed and pushed his plate away. He didn’t know how to approach them anymore. Ron... Ron had once been his brother in all but blood. Now, Ron barely looked at him.

Maybe he thinks I've changed, Harry thought bitterly. Maybe he thinks Slytherin turned me into something he should fear.

Charlie wasn’t much better. Though Charlie hadn’t shown any open anger, the way he kept his distance spoke volumes. Harry knew Charlie was trying to protect what little standing he had left among his housemates. Gryffindors were already blaming him for the loss of two hundred points. Hanging around a Slytherin, especially one whispered about as the Heir of Slytherin, would only make it worse.

It stung more than Harry wanted to admit.

At least Neville still talked to them, Harry noted. Neville, loyal and kind, sat awkwardly between Ron and Charlie, trying to bridge the impossible gap that had formed.

Harry’s eyes drifted further down the table and landed on Hermione.

Hermione Granger had always been a bright spark — brilliant, focused, determined to make her mark. But now she looked different. Pale. Tired. She sat alone, a small, battered black diary clutched tightly in her hands.

He watched as she wrote something furiously, her quill scratching across the yellowed pages. Whenever someone walked too close, Hermione would snap the diary shut and press it to her chest protectively, her brown eyes darting with suspicion.

Curiosity gnawed at Harry, but something deeper — concern — took root. Hermione wasn’t just tired. She looked haunted. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her usually neat hair was messier than ever, falling around her face in disheveled curls.

Harry rose from his seat, ignoring the whispers that followed him like a shadow, and crossed the hall. As he neared her, Hermione stiffened, clutching the diary even tighter.

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly, stopping a respectful distance away.

She didn’t look up immediately. When she did, her smile was strained and brief, as though offering it physically hurt.

“Hey, Harry.”

“I just wanted to check on you,” he said. “You... look tired.”

Hermione gave a small laugh, dry and humorless. “I'm fine. Just... a lot of studying. Keeping busy.”

Harry glanced at the black diary, then back to her face. “You sure? You can talk to me, you know.”

She hesitated — he saw it, a flicker of uncertainty. But then she pulled the diary closer to her chest and shook her head. “I’m fine, Harry. Really.”

He knew better than to push. Hermione Granger didn’t respond well to pressure. If she wanted to tell him, she would — in her own time.

“Alright,” he said softly. “But if you need anything... I’m around.”

She nodded without meeting his eyes, and Harry, feeling more helpless than he had in months, turned and left her alone with her diary and her secrets.

As he made his way back toward the Slytherin table, Blaise and Daphne watched him approach. Their faces were set in careful neutrality, but Harry could see the understanding in their eyes.

“Any luck?” Blaise asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. “No. She’s hiding something, but... she won’t talk.”

Daphne sighed. “Everyone’s hiding something these days. It’s easier than facing the truth.”

The three of them sat in silence, the heavy tension of Hogwarts pressing down around them.

For Harry, Hogwarts had once been a sanctuary — a place of wonder and discovery.

Now, it felt more like a battlefield.

And he was tired of being caught in the crossfire.


[ Flashback ]


The castle was quiet.

Hermione Granger, for once, was thankful for the silence. With most students still trickling in from the holidays and the others too tired or distracted to cause trouble, the corridors of Hogwarts were empty enough to allow her some breathing space. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck as she hurried through the cold, echoing hallways, her footsteps quick and determined.

She had lied to the others.

She said she was heading to the library — not an unusual excuse for her — but she had another destination in mind.

The entrance to the girls’ bathroom on the second floor looked no different than it had weeks ago, when she, Ron, Neville, and Charlie had brewed their illicit Polyjuice Potion. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open, stepping into the chamber that was still thick with the smell of damp stone and disuse.

Moaning Myrtle, thankfully, wasn’t in sight. Hermione preferred it that way.

She made her way toward the hidden stall where they had set up their temporary lab. The cauldron was gone — she had taken that with her earlier — but a few scattered potion vials, torn scraps of parchment, and a stack of her class notes were still there.

As she knelt to gather the last of her belongings, something odd caught her eye.

A small, black leather-bound book was lying near the foot of the sink. Its cover was completely blank — no title, no name, no crest. It didn’t look old, but it had a strange presence, as though it had been waiting for someone to pick it up.

Hermione turned it over in her hands. It was light. Curious, she flipped open the cover — the pages were empty.

“A blank journal?” she muttered to herself.

She nearly dismissed it as someone’s discarded notebook, but something about it pulled at her curiosity. She slipped it into her satchel, not knowing just how much that simple act would change her life.

That night, in the solitude of her dormitory, Hermione opened the book again. She sat by candlelight, her roommates already asleep, her quill and ink at hand.

She dipped her quill and wrote slowly on the first page:

Hello?

Nothing.

She frowned, about to close the book, when she accidentally knocked over the ink bottle. A few droplets splashed across the page.

And then something incredible happened.

The ink disappeared.

It didn’t smudge or soak in — it faded, as if the paper had swallowed it whole. She blinked, leaning closer. Then, with a trembling hand, she dipped her quill again and wrote:

Tom Marvalo Riddle?

The ink lingered for a heartbeat — then vanished.

A moment later, new words appeared in fine, elegant script:

Hello, Hermione Granger.

She gasped, her eyes wide. The ink had formed itself into her name — how did the book know?

Who are you? she wrote.

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Hermione stared at the page, heart racing. She had never seen magic like this before — responsive, intelligent ink, forming words without spells or incantations. She didn’t even know if she was dreaming.

How do you know my name? she wrote.

I’ve been watching, from the moment you picked me up. I’m pleased to meet you, Hermione. I’m a student, like you. Or rather... I was.

You went to Hogwarts?

Yes. I was a sixth-year when I enchanted this diary. I wanted to preserve my thoughts, my experiences. I hoped that someone like you would find it one day.

Hermione paused.

What year were you in Hogwarts?

Fifty years ago. 1943.

Her eyes widened. That was the year the Chamber of Secrets had first been opened.

Heart pounding, she wrote:

Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?

The response came quickly.

I do.

What happened? Who opened it?

I can show you. But only if you want me to.

Hermione hesitated. Then, with her breath held, she wrote:

Yes. Show me.

The ink on the page began to swirl, the letters dissolving into liquid shadows. The page darkened until it looked like a pool of black water. Without thinking, Hermione leaned closer — and was pulled forward.

Suddenly, the dormitory vanished. She was standing in the middle of an older version of Hogwarts, dimly lit by oil lamps and full of a cold, tense energy. The memory was vivid, more real than any spell she had ever encountered.

She saw a younger Tom Riddle — tall, dark-haired, handsome, his eyes sharp and calculating — speaking with a teacher she didn’t recognize. Whispers followed him as he walked the corridors. Students murmured about a monster. A girl had died.

And then, she watched in horror as Riddle confronted a much-younger Hagrid, who was crying as he tried to defend a huge, hairy creature — something monstrous with many legs and glinting eyes.

She watched as Tom raised his wand, spoke a command — and the creature fled.

Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets, Tom’s voice whispered to her in the dark.

The vision dissolved, and she found herself back in her room, the candle burning low, the diary resting on her lap.

Hermione sat in stunned silence.

Could it be true?

Was Hagrid the one who opened the Chamber fifty years ago?

And if he did — what did that mean for what was happening now?

She didn’t know.

But she knew one thing:

She needed to keep writing.

And Tom Riddle — whoever he was — might be the only one who could help her understand.