Halloween was drawing near, but Harry's spirits were low. He regretted having so quickly accepted Nearly Headless Nick's invitation. He, Ron, and Hermione had promised to attend the ghosts' deathday party, yet now, seeing the rest of the school happily preparing for the Halloween feast, he felt he had made a mistake.
The Great Hall looked magnificent. Fire bats fluttered under the enchanted ceiling, and Hagrid's enormous pumpkins had been carved into lanterns big enough for three people to sit inside. Rumor had it that Dumbledore had even hired a skeleton dance troupe for the occasion. All of it sounded far more exciting than a party full of ghosts.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded him firmly. "You said you'd go."
In Gryffindor—and indeed, in all houses except Slytherin—honesty and trustworthiness were held as virtues. So, although he would rather have joined the feast, Harry kept his word.
The deathday party was unlike anything he had ever seen. Hundreds of pearly-white ghosts drifted through the room, waltzing to the shrill, haunting screech of thirty musical saws. A chandelier hung above, its candles emitting a dim, eerie blue light.
After wandering among the spectral guests, the three decided to explore another part of the dungeon. They almost collided with Moaning Myrtle, but Hermione's warning saved them just in time. At the other end of the underground hall, Ron suddenly exclaimed in excitement. There stood a long table draped in black velvet—but as they approached, all three immediately covered their noses.
No one could expect the ghosts' food to be normal, for ghosts couldn't actually eat. Instead, they floated through their dishes, savoring the smell—or what was left of it. The table was piled high with rotting meat, burned-black cakes, and haggis crawling with maggots. The trio guessed this "banquet" had been reused many times over.
Before long, Peeves appeared to stir up trouble again, making Myrtle wail miserably. After a few brief words with Nearly Headless Nick, the three could stand the chill no longer. Harry was starving, and Ron's teeth were chattering.
"I don't like this," Harry muttered. "It feels like someone's watching us. I thought it was a ghost before, but… now I'm sure it's not. There isn't a single ghost nearby."
"Don't worry, Harry," Ron said. "You're just imagining things because you're hungry. Let's get back to the feast before the pudding's gone."
Ron led the way toward the stairs, but then Harry froze.
"…Tear you… Rip you… Kill you…"
It was that voice again—the cold, murderous whisper he had first heard in Lockhart's office. Lockhart had a habit of summoning Harry to help reply to his admirers' letters, and more than once, Harry had heard that same dreadful voice during those visits. It chilled him to the bone. His instincts told him that whoever owned this voice was not the same person—or thing—that had been watching him earlier.
He stumbled to a halt, one hand against the stone wall, listening hard. His green eyes scanned the dim corridor for any sign of movement.
"Harry, what are you—?"
He didn't wait for Hermione to finish. Following the sound, his expression grew dark. Even those few words carried a hunger for blood that made his stomach twist.
"He's going to kill someone!" Harry gasped, a mix of fear and adrenaline surging through him. He broke into a run, with Ron and Hermione scrambling to keep up. They raced through the corridors, turning corner after corner, until they reached a deserted passage on the third floor.
Something gleamed on the wall ahead.
They slowed their steps, squinting in the flickering torchlight. Between two windows, just above the ground, glowing letters were scrawled across the stones—letters that shimmered wetly in the light.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Enemies of the heir, beware.
"What's that… hanging underneath?" Ron whispered, his voice trembling.
They crept closer. A puddle of water spread across the floor, and Harry nearly slipped. Hermione and Ron caught him, and together they edged toward the writing. Then they saw what dangled beneath it—and all three jumped back, splashing through the water.
Hanging by her tail from a torch bracket was Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat. Her body was rigid, her eyes wide open, frozen in a glassy stare.
For several seconds, none of them spoke.
"Let's get out of here," Ron said at last, his voice shaking.
"Shouldn't we—shouldn't we try to help her?" Harry stammered.
"Listen to me," Ron said quickly. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was already too late. A low rumble, like distant thunder, rolled through the corridors—the sound of hundreds of students leaving the Great Hall. Laughter and footsteps echoed from both ends of the hallway. Within moments, the crowd appeared, and the noise died away as everyone saw the horrifying scene before them.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone in the middle of the corridor. The other students pressed forward silently, staring at the petrified cat hanging beneath the sinister message.
Harry's mouth felt dry. He didn't know what to say, what excuse to offer. There were only three of them here—alone with the evidence. Any words would sound hollow.
Then came the sharp, quick steps of Argus Filch.
Meanwhile, hidden by a Disillusionment Charm, Draco Malfoy watched from the shadows.
"Three suspects eliminated," he muttered under his breath, consoling himself. He had followed the trio all evening, slipping unseen through the ghosts' party. He had intended to arrive before them, but his spellwork had taken more effort than expected. Keeping the charm active had been difficult—especially around so many magical beings. Even Peeves had nearly spotted him.
"Time to go," he thought, glancing once more at the commotion. If he lingered much longer, Dumbledore might sense the concealed magic. Retreating silently, he made his way back toward the ghostly ballroom, mind racing.
"So many students," he mused. "Elimination isn't an option now."
The situation was more complicated than he'd hoped. Voldemort's soul fragment resided within an object—an artifact crafted by the most dangerous dark wizard in history. Handling it required constant vigilance. From Ginny's behavior alone, Malfoy had seen how seductive the diary's magic could be, preying on weakness and loneliness. Tom Riddle, even as a student, had been a master of manipulation. With a few gentle words, he could open anyone's heart, twisting their emotions until they obeyed him willingly.
Mrs. Norris had been the first victim—that much Malfoy remembered from the original timeline. He had followed Harry and his friends tonight in hopes of catching a clue before the incident occurred. But he had misjudged the spell's difficulty and lost precious time. The first opportunity had slipped away.
Still, there was a small comfort in what had happened.
"At least they're no longer suspects," he murmured. "For now."
The butterfly effect had already begun to distort events. Malfoy knew that if he wanted to survive—and perhaps correct the timeline—he couldn't overlook anyone. And when it came to mental vulnerabilities, the so-called Golden Trio each had plenty.
Harry, orphaned as a baby, had been raised in an abusive household. His years with the Dursleys had left scars that no amount of magic could heal. Suddenly becoming "The Boy Who Lived" had flipped his world upside down. Everyone called him a savior, but deep down, he knew he was just an ordinary boy—his magic slightly above average at best. The constant pressure to live up to that title weighed heavily on him, and sometimes, he even resented it.
Some children hate being praised because they feel they don't deserve it. That shame drives them to prove themselves, even at great cost. Harry was one of them. If the diary had taught him clever tricks, small magical shortcuts that made him excel overnight, he might well have been tempted. Perhaps his innate sense of justice would have saved him—but who could truly say?
Then there was Ron Weasley. The youngest son in a large family, forever in the shadow of his brothers, using their old robes, wands, and books. Poverty had a way of crushing pride. Even though Harry had seemed poor at first, he was secretly wealthy, with a vault full of Galleons. Ron's jealousy, though often buried, sometimes flickered through. He wanted to be noticed, to stand apart. The Mirror of Erised had already shown his heart's desire—but wanting wasn't enough. Lacking the power to achieve it made the longing hurt all the more.
For the diary, such emotions would be easy to exploit. A little envy, a little fear—and Ron might have been lost.
Humans are fragile, yet resilient. Most learn to balance their emotions, to carry on. Harry and Ron still acted bravely most of the time, but the cracks were there.
And Hermione—bright, driven, Muggle-born Hermione—had her own struggles. When she first entered the magical world, awe and fear had mingled within her. At the start, fear had outweighed wonder. But when she realized she was more talented than many pure-bloods, her confidence grew. Still, insecurity lingered. She often found herself torn between friendship and rules, and her eagerness to do right sometimes came across as arrogance. Without meaning to, she alienated others.
Now, thanks to one person's unintentional mistake, she would soon face the usual storms of adolescence—amplified by danger and confusion.
Malfoy sighed softly. Sometimes he wondered whether it might have been easier simply to follow the path he was meant to walk: the arrogant pure-blood heir, sneering at "mudbloods," opposing Harry and his friends openly. If he had done that, the story might have unfolded as before—two bitter school years, a painful redemption, and then, after Voldemort's fall, a comfortable, unremarkable life.
He gave a faint, self-mocking laugh at the thought. The idea seemed almost comforting in its simplicity.
Still hidden, he turned back down the dark corridor, his thoughts wandering once again.
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