Chapter 40
Halloween was approaching, but Harry was in a foul mood. He felt he had been far too impulsive when he agreed to Nick's invitation.
He, Ron, and Hermione were supposed to attend the ghost's Deathday Party, yet all around him the other students were excitedly preparing for the regular Halloween feast.
The Great Hall was exquisitely decorated: fire bats fluttered beneath the ceiling, and Hagrid's giant pumpkins had been carved into lanterns so large that three people could easily sit inside.
Rumor even had it that Dumbledore had hired a skeleton dance troupe for entertainment.
All of it made Harry regret his choice. His instincts told him the feast would be far more enjoyable than a ghost party—and he wasn't wrong.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded him. "You said you'd go."
With a sigh, Harry kept his word. Apart from Slytherin, the other three houses considered honesty a virtue, after all.
Inside the classroom where the Deathday Party was held, hundreds of translucent, milky-white ghosts drifted about, waltzing to the shrill scraping of thirty musical saws. Thousands of candles floated above them, burning with an eerie blue glow.
The trio attempted to slip away to look around and nearly ran into a sobbing Moaning Myrtle. Hermione tugged them aside just in time, and they ended up at the opposite end of the chamber.
Ron let out a low exclamation: a long banquet table covered in black velvet stretched before them. As they approached, the stench hit them so hard they covered their noses at once.
Ghosts, unable to eat, could only pass through their food—so the dishes before them were revolting. Rotting meat, pitch-black cakes, and lamb tripe crawling with maggots filled the table. Harry and Ron suspected the menu had been reused for many years.
Soon Peeves swooped by, tormenting Myrtle until she burst into louder wails. After exchanging a few words with Nick, the trio could no longer stand the cold, dreary atmosphere. Harry was starving, and Ron's teeth chattered nonstop.
"I keep feeling like something's wrong," Harry murmured. "Like someone's watching me. At first I thought it was a ghost, but now… There's no one here."
"You're imagining things," Ron said. "You're just hungry. Come on—let's get back to the feast. The pudding might still be there!"
They started toward the stairs—
—and then Harry heard it.
Tear you apart… tear you apart… kill you…
The same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart's office.
Lockhart frequently summoned him to answer fan mail, and several times Harry had heard whispers like this—chilling and full of malice. He was certain now that the speaker was not the same presence that had been watching him earlier.
He stopped abruptly, bracing himself against the stone wall, listening hard.
"Harry, what are you—?"
But Harry was already moving, following the voice. It was growing fainter, yet every word dripped with bloodlust.
"He's going to kill someone!" Harry gasped, a knot of fear and adrenaline twisting in him. He sprinted down the third-floor corridor, Ron and Hermione struggling to keep up.
They didn't stop until they rounded a corner into an empty passageway.
Something gleamed on the wall ahead.
They approached, squinting to make out the letters in the torchlight.
The Chamber is Opened.
Enemies of the Heir, Beware.
"What's that—hanging there?" Ron whispered.
A puddle of water spread across the floor. Harry nearly slipped, Ron and Hermione grabbing him in time. Inch by inch, they drew closer, eyes fixed on the dark shape beneath the writing.
They all recognized it at once and leapt back, splashing water everywhere.
Mrs. Norris—Filch's cat—hung stiffly from a torch bracket, petrified, her eyes wide and glassy.
For several long seconds, none of them spoke. Finally Ron croaked, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try to—" Harry began weakly.
"Listen," Ron cut him off. "We really, really don't want to be found here."
But it was too late. A low rumble—like distant thunder—signaled the end of the feast. Voices and footsteps approached from both ends of the corridor. In moments, students were pouring into the passage.
When the first students saw the hanging cat, the noise died instantly. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone in the center as the crowd pressed forward, staring in horrified silence.
Harry's mouth felt dry. He stared at the petrified cat, unable to think of a single explanation. With only the three of them present, anything they said would sound flimsy.
Then he saw Filch striding toward them.
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Meanwhile, under the effects of the Disillusionment Charm, Malfoy watched from a distance.
"Three suspects eliminated," he muttered to himself. He had followed the trio through the ghost party, hoping to reach the scene before them—but maintaining the spell had slowed him down far more than he expected. And it took extra effort to avoid Peeves.
"Time to go," he decided, slipping back toward the ghost-filled classroom. He wasn't confident the spell would hold if he stayed among so many people—especially with Dumbledore around.
With so many students, simple elimination was a terrible strategy. The diary housed a fragment of Voldemort's soul—the most powerful Dark wizard of the age—and dealing with it required every ounce of caution. Ginny's behavior alone showed how deeply the diary could infiltrate someone's mind. Voldemort, even as a student, had an uncanny ability to see through people and earn their trust with the slightest nudge.
Malfoy had hoped to catch a clue by shadowing the trio, knowing Mrs. Norris was the first victim. But a miscalculation in maintaining the charm had made him miss the first crucial moment.
"Still… at least they're eliminated," he reasoned.
The butterfly effect was already spreading. He couldn't afford to overlook anyone suspicious. And when it came to emotional vulnerability, the trio had plenty.
Harry had lost his parents young and grown up under abuse. Now he was hailed as a "savior," despite being painfully aware he was just an ordinary boy—his magic talent average at best. The pressure was crushing, and part of him deeply resented the expectations he couldn't live up to. A diary offering guidance and power… yes, that could tempt him.
Ron, the youngest brother in a large family, constantly overshadowed. Like Ginny, he lived off hand-me-downs. Poverty chipped away at one's confidence. Despite appearances, Harry had money—enough to buy anything in the Hogwarts Express trolley without hesitation. Ron must have felt jealousy at times. The Mirror of Erised had exposed his deepest desire: recognition. A diary whispering to those insecurities might easily take root.
Humans were fragile—and strong. Harry and Ron could adjust their emotions, which was why they remained brave despite everything.
Hermione, a Muggle-born, must have felt fear entering the magical world. But once she realized she surpassed most wizard-born students academically, awe replaced fear. Even so, she wrestled with balancing friendships and rules. Her earnestness often alienated others unintentionally. And now, she had her own adolescent struggles to contend with.
Malfoy sighed. At times he wondered if it would have been easier to simply follow the original timeline—grow up arrogant, hate Potter, call Hermione a mudblood. History would stay on course; he'd suffer through sixth and seventh year, Voldemort would eventually be defeated, and he could live in peace afterward.
But that was only wishful thinking. Malfoy shook his head, laughing softly at himself as his thoughts drifted onward.
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