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Chapter 46
The Dueling Club carried on for a bit longer. Hermione deliberately held back against Pansy so she could get close enough to snag what she needed. After some careful maneuvering, she managed to pluck a few strands of Pansy's hair. With that, every ingredient for the Polyjuice Potion was finally complete.
Afterward, the three of them hurried back to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
But Hermione didn't look nearly as triumphant as she'd imagined. If anything, she seemed uneasy—almost afraid of what they might discover. Harry and Ron, however, were practically buzzing. They felt the mystery was finally close to unraveling.
"But have you thought about this?" Hermione asked, staring at the Polyjuice Potion simmering in the cauldron. "What if he isn't the one who opened the Chamber?"
"Even if he didn't, he'll know something," Ron said. Though the moment he spoke, his expression faltered. But he forced a shrug. "He has to know something."
"All right…" Hermione sighed. "Then have you considered how we're going to get Pansy out of the way? I don't want her coming back suddenly while I'm questioning Malfoy."
"Don't worry about that. We've got it sorted, right, Harry?" Ron said confidently, thumping his chest.
"Yeah." Harry nodded.
"What exactly are you going to do?" Hermione asked, already bracing for some violation of school rules.
"Er—just a little accident," Ron said. "Harry and I will 'accidentally' get dirt all over her robes. She'll go storming off to Snape to complain, and that'll keep us tied up for at least half the afternoon."
"And since it's Christmas," Harry added with a grin, "Snape probably can't take any house points."
Hermione stared at them with a mix of pity and exasperation. "Honestly, the two of you… You're going to get scolded by Snape on Christmas."
"That's nothing compared to what you're doing," Ron said lightly. "Turning into someone else—it's a bit revolting if you think about it."
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After the Dueling Club incident, Malfoy had gotten exactly what he'd wanted—some actual Parseltongue sounds. Most of the phrases he'd caught were variations of "open" or "unlock," enough to give him real confidence in his plan to access the Chamber.
But then there was that bizarre duel. It wasn't just odd—it was impossible to explain away. Malfoy flatly refused to believe that some clueless fraud who only knew Memory Charms could truly defeat Snape. The answer was obvious.
Lockhart was the prisoner, and he had the diary.
Malfoy replayed the scene from Flourish and Blotts in his mind. Lockhart trying—and failing—to break up the fight. Lockhart passing right by him and his father. Lockhart brushing past the bookshelf. Combined with his utterly unnatural performance at the Dueling Club… He fit every criterion.
"That's not even all," Malfoy muttered to himself, piecing together more. "He also can't stand the sound of roosters crowing." A shiver ran down his spine. Young Riddle, it seemed, had Talents Voldemort lacked. When Voldemort lost his nose, he'd relied on brute magical power and little else. But young Tom Riddle? He exploited people's admiration. He hid behind elegance and charm.
Replacing a crude Howler with a beautifully crafted amulet—perfectly in keeping with Lockhart's aesthetic—would arouse no suspicion whatsoever. A flawless disguise.
Realizing this, Malfoy smacked himself on the forehead. His imagination was too open. He'd even entertained the idea that Potter himself might be involved. Who would've thought the diary would tempt a grown wizard?
"Oh, Lockhart, pull yourself together," Malfoy thought bitterly. Then a mischievous idea flicked through his mind. "If you manage to survive this, you could actually write a book for once—The Years I Was Bewitched: My Life With the Diary."
But even knowing all this changed nothing. His instincts told him Lockhart wasn't handling things half as well as Ginny did in the original timeline. Ginny had thrown the diary away the instant she realized something was wrong. Malfoy suspected Lockhart wasn't suspicious of the diary at all. No—he'd probably latched onto it like a gift from the heavens.
"Well. Then I need to prepare early," Malfoy murmured. He gathered his thoughts, pulled out parchment, and began scribbling diagrams and notes.
The following morning, shocking news tore through the Gryffindor common room:
Someone else had been petrified.
This time, it wasn't a Muggle-born or an animal.
It was a pure-blood wizard—and a ghost.
Ron had been petrified. And Nearly Headless Nick was struck down as well.
Panic exploded across all four houses. Slytherin suffered the worst of it. Most of them were pure-bloods, and just days before, after Professor Binns' lecture, some had even boasted smugly, "See? Only our house is safe. Mudbloods deserve it." Their delusion shattered instantly.
The Basilisk didn't only want to kill Muggle-borns.
It was going after pure-bloods too.
The Weasley twins' rooster talismans sold out again. Previously, Slytherins had acted invincible and ignored them. But reality was stronger than pride—they had no choice now.
Despite making a small fortune, Fred and George couldn't bring themselves to smile. Their brother had been petrified. Teasing Ron was one thing—but family was family, and their pranks were harmless. A murderous monster was something else entirely.
In the hospital wing, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione visited Ron whenever they could. Though he couldn't speak, Ron's face was frozen in terror, mouth open as though mid-scream.
"I should've gone back with you," Harry whispered, guilt gnawing at him.
Earlier that day, they were on their way to McGonagall's Transfiguration class. Ron had forgotten his textbook. Harry offered to go with him, but Ron insisted, "It's better for one of us to be late than both." Then he ran off.
Those were the last words Harry had heard from him.
"Harry, it isn't your fault," Hermione said gently. "Maybe you would've been petrified too if you'd gone. You can't blame yourself for everything."
"Her—how long until the potion is ready?" Harry asked abruptly. He caught himself before saying Polyjuice. Ginny was standing right beside them. His eyes burned with anger.
"Christmas," Hermione said after glancing at Ginny. Her emotions were tangled. One of her best friends had been petrified. She wanted answers desperately—but she also didn't want those answers to come from that person. The conflict made her tense and restless. She worried she'd be too nervous to speak when the moment came and ruin everything.
"Good." Harry clenched his fists. "Whoever did this—they're going to pay."
Meanwhile, the Slytherin common room was a nest of fear and paranoia. Students whispered in tight clusters. Ron might be a disgrace in their eyes, but he wasn't a Muggle-born. If he could be attacked, then anyone could. Even clutching several rooster talismans apiece did nothing to calm them.
Malfoy believed he'd already figured it out.
Riddle had targeted Ron because his brothers were selling the protective charms. A simple, efficient motive. And why hadn't he come after Harry or Hermione directly? Again—simple. One victim was easier than two. Ron was younger, easier to corner, and the attack sent a clearer message.
Malfoy exhaled quietly. Only his father, obsessed with power, would try to chase Dumbledore out of Hogwarts. Without Dumbledore, what made Hogwarts the safest magical school in Europe? It was absurd—putting the cart before the Thestral.
If Hogwarts were a publicly traded company, Malfoy thought grimly, its stock price would crash the instant Dumbledore left. And Lucius would be the first to lose his investment.
Another headache throbbed behind his eyes. He still hadn't found a perfect solution. Every method he knew risked tipping off the enemy.
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