Chapter 146: Master of Deduction
Night swallowed the castle whole. Outside, the rainstorm showed no signs of mercy, escalating into a violent tempest. Heavy droplets lashed against the thick glass of the Gryffindor common room windows, cracking like a dozen leather whips in the dark.
Harry and Ron were crammed into a faded armchair in the darkest corner of the room. The firelight barely reached them, casting long, grim shadows across their pale faces.
"The professors won't say a bloody thing," Harry muttered. He dragged a hand through his perpetually messy hair, tugging at the roots in sheer frustration. His voice was a tight, hushed whisper. "Professor McGonagall only told us to stay put. We have absolutely no idea what's actually happening out there."
Ron shifted uncomfortably, the springs of the armchair groaning under his weight. "Maybe we should just... listen to Tamara?" he offered, his tone laced with hesitation. "She might be right, mate. We'd probably only be in the way if we went snooping. I mean... if even Dumbledore can't stop this..."
Harry snapped his head up. The flickering hearth fire caught in his green eyes, igniting a stubborn, reckless spark. "If we just sit here and do nothing, then we really are just useless burdens."
He turned his gaze toward the window. Through the distorted, rain-streaked glass, the pitch-black grounds stretched out like an abyss. Far in the distance, a single, faint amber light flickered against the gloom. Hagrid's hut.
"Let's go find Hagrid." Harry made up his mind in a split second. He reached into his robes and pulled out the shimmering, fluid fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. "He's been at Hogwarts forever. If anyone knows something the teachers aren't saying, it's him."
Trekking across the saturated lawn under the cloak was an absolute nightmare. The mud sucked greedily at their shoes, and the freezing rain managed to slice through the gaps in the magical fabric. By the time they finally reached the heavy oak door of the gamekeeper's hut, both boys were soaked to the bone, their teeth chattering violently in their skulls.
Harry raised a trembling fist and knocked.
"Who's there?!"
A deep, booming voice roared from inside, instantly followed by the vicious, low growl of Fang the boarhound. Then came the heavy, metallic clack of a massive crossbow being loaded.
Harry flinched. "It's us! Hagrid, it's us! Harry and Ron!"
The heavy door flew open. Hagrid stood in the threshold, towering over them, his massive hands gripping a lethal-looking crossbow. His wild, shaggy beard framed a face deeply etched with raw anxiety and exhaustion. The moment his beetle-black eyes landed on the two shivering boys, the tension drained from his massive shoulders. He let out a ragged sigh, reached out with one massive hand, and yanked them inside by their collars, slamming the door shut and shoving the heavy iron bolt into place.
"You shouldn't have come here!" Hagrid scolded, his voice a harsh, rumbling whisper like a startled bear. "It's too dangerous outside right now! If you're here about those attacks..."
"We need to know the truth, Hagrid." Harry didn't even bother wiping the freezing rain from his glasses. He stared straight up into the half-giant's face, refusing to back down. "You know about the Chamber of Secrets, don't you?"
Hagrid froze.
The massive copper kettle in his hand gave a violent jerk. Boiling water sloshed over the spout, hissing angrily as it pooled across the wooden table.
"I... I don't..." Hagrid stammered, his eyes darting toward the corners of the ceiling, desperately trying to avoid the question. But Harry didn't blink. He kept his burning, persistent gaze locked on the gamekeeper. Defeated by the sheer weight of that stare, the massive man finally slumped into an oversized wooden chair, which groaned under his weight.
"That's... a very bad memory." Hagrid buried his face in his massive, calloused hands. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, thick with the heavy grit of a decades-old pain. "The Chamber of Secrets was opened once before. Fifty years ago."
He took a shaky breath. "I was caught up in it too... someone reported me. I was expelled. My wand was snapped in half." His head shot up, eyes wide and pleading. "But I'm innocent! I swear it! Aragog never killed anyone!"
"Then who reported you?" Ron interjected, seizing on the crucial detail with a rare, sharp flash of cleverness.
Hagrid fell into a suffocating silence. Outside, thunder tore across the sky. The sudden flash of lightning bled through the windows, illuminating the deep, conflicting emotions warring on the half-giant's face—raw fear, lingering anger, and a heavy, crushing guilt.
"It was a student," Hagrid finally rasped, his throat sounding as dry as sandpaper. "He was a prefect back then. A model student. All the professors doted on him... everyone took his word as gospel. No one was gonna believe a clumsy, big oaf like me over him."
He swallowed hard. "His name was... Tom Riddle."
Another jagged bolt of lightning split the heavens, bathing the cramped hut in a stark, ghostly white glare.
Harry's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Tom Riddle?" Harry asked, his mouth suddenly completely dry. "You mean... Riddle?"
Ron's jaw dropped. "The exact same surname as Tamara?"
Hagrid slowly nodded, his beetle-black eyes swimming with deep regret. "That's why... when I first laid eyes on her last year... I acted so jumpy."
He raised a trembling hand, gesturing vaguely in the air, a shadow of lingering dread creeping into his tone. "She looks so much like him, Harry. That pitch-black hair, that pale skin, that freezing cold stare... when I first saw her, my heart stopped. I thought Tom had come back."
Hagrid sniffed loudly. "I thought she was just like him... just another cold-blooded Slytherin."
He pulled a massive, polka-dotted handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose with the sound of a honking goose, wiping at his damp eyes. "But I was wrong."
A gentle, fond warmth replaced the fear in his voice. "She's a good kid... truly, she is." Hagrid stared into the hearth, lost in the memory. "She didn't just comfort me. She told me what happened back then wasn't my fault. And she helped me settle Norbert, didn't she? Honestly... she's not like any of those other Slytherins. She's got a good heart."
Harry sat frozen, utterly stunned.
He remembered that day vividly. Back in their first year, the very first time they had dragged Tamara down to meet Hagrid, she had spoken in these quiet, ambiguous riddles that had somehow moved the massive man to absolute tears.
Looking back on it now, with this new piece of the puzzle...
"She knew all along," Harry murmured to himself. A tragic, heartbreaking narrative began to weave itself together in his mind.
"She knew the truth about what happened fifty years ago. She knew that Tom Riddle framed Hagrid." Harry's eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. "That's why she went out of her way to comfort him... she was trying to atone for the sins of that bastard who shares her name."
A powerful, overwhelming wave of empathy crashed into Harry's chest.
He thought of his own life. Bearing the suffocating title of "The Boy Who Lived." Everywhere he went, people pointed, whispered, and stared. Everyone expected something grand from him, projecting their own desires onto a scar he hadn't even asked for. He knew better than anyone in the world what it felt like to be crushed under the weight of a name, swept up by a fate he couldn't control.
And Tamara?
She carried the surname "Riddle." She walked through the halls of Hogwarts dragging the dark, heavy shadow of a name that had ruined an innocent man's life. She had to face Hagrid's initial prejudice, the constant suspicion of the other houses, the suffocating, toxic darkness of Slytherin itself...
"No wonder..." Harry clenched his fists in his lap, his fingernails biting painfully into his palms. "No wonder she was so furious when she saw Hermione petrified in the hospital wing."
"No wonder she wanted to handle this entire mess alone."
"Because she feels it's her responsibility."
In his mind, Harry had perfectly closed the logical loop.
Tamara wasn't cold or aloof. She was just incredibly proud—proud enough to want to clean up the horrific mess left behind by her cursed bloodline all by herself. She pushed everyone away because she didn't want anyone to see her bleed.
"She must be so exhausted," Harry whispered, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth. His green eyes softened with a deep, complex mixture of pity and respect.
The suffocating silence stretched on, heavy and mournful.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp, authoritative raps struck the wooden door, shattering the quiet of the hut like a dropped glass.
"Quick! Hide!" Hagrid's face drained of color. He lunged forward, grabbed Harry and Ron by their shoulders, shoved them roughly into the darkest corner of the room, and threw the Invisibility Cloak over their heads.
The door creaked open.
It wasn't a monster from the forest that stepped over the threshold. It was Albus Dumbledore, his usually twinkling eyes grave and solemn, accompanied by a frantic, sweating Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.
"Bad business, Hagrid. Very bad business," Fudge babbled the moment he entered. He paced nervously, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the towering gamekeeper. "The attacks have caused far too much of a stir. The Ministry simply must be seen doing something... the Board of Governors has applied immense pressure, you understand... I have to take you away."
"Take me away?" Hagrid croaked, his voice cracking with raw terror. "Where? Not... not Azkaban?"
"It's purely a precaution!" Fudge insisted, twisting his lime-green bowler hat in his hands.
"But I didn't do it! I'm innocent!"
"It's standard procedure, Hagrid... you'll be released the moment the real culprit is caught..."
Just as Hagrid opened his mouth to argue, the heavy oak door was pushed wide open once more.
The man who stepped inside made Harry, hidden safely beneath the cloak, grind his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
Lucius Malfoy.
The aristocratic wizard was draped in a luxurious, heavy black traveling cloak. A cold, utterly triumphant smirk played across his pale, pointed features.
"I believe it is time for you to be on your way, Hagrid," Lucius drawled, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. He didn't even wait for a response before turning his pale eyes onto the Headmaster. Reaching into his robes, he produced a long, tightly coiled roll of parchment.
"And as for you, Dumbledore." Lucius unrolled the parchment with a crisp snap. "This is an Order of Suspension from the Board of Governors. All twelve school governors have signed it. We feel you have entirely lost control of the situation."
He took a step forward, his smirk widening into something venomous. "Since you cannot seem to stop these unfortunate attacks... perhaps it is time for someone far more capable to run this school."
Dumbledore calmly accepted the parchment. His piercing blue eyes scanned the signatures, showing absolutely no ripple of panic or anger.
"Since this is the unified decision of the Board, I shall, of course, step aside," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but carrying an obvious weight.
He looked up, his gaze locking onto Lucius. "However, you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me."
For a brief, electrifying second, Dumbledore's eyes flicked directly toward the dark corner where Harry and Ron stood frozen. Then, without another word, the old wizard turned and strode out into the howling, rainy night.
Hagrid was quickly ushered out by a highly anxious Fudge. Just before he crossed the threshold, the massive man turned his head and shouted desperately to the seemingly empty room:
"If anyone's looking for some stuff... follow the spiders! Just follow the spiders!"
The door slammed shut, cutting off the roar of the storm.
The sudden silence in the hut was deafening, broken only by the quiet, popping crackle of the firewood in the hearth.
Harry and Ron threw off the Invisibility Cloak. Both boys were deathly pale, their faces etched with absolute despair.
Dumbledore was gone.
Hagrid had been taken to Azkaban.
Hogwarts' final, greatest line of defense had just completely collapsed.
"We're finished..." Ron collapsed into the nearest chair, his voice trembling so badly he could barely form the words. "If even Dumbledore is gone..."
"No. It's not over yet."
Harry stared fixedly at the wooden door. His mind was racing, furiously piecing together every single fragment of information he had gathered tonight.
Tom Riddle.
The framing of an innocent man.
Tamara's quiet, desperate attempts to atone.
The Chamber of Secrets.
"Ron, I've figured it out."
Harry whipped his head around. The fear and confusion in his green eyes had completely vanished, replaced by a blazing, unmatched determination.
"Think about it. Since it was Tom Riddle who reported Hagrid fifty years ago..." Harry began, pacing the small room. "And since Tamara knew about it, and went entirely out of her way to comfort Hagrid, proving she knew he was innocent all along..."
He stopped, slamming a fist into his palm. "Then there is only one logical possibility."
Harry took a deep, steadying breath and voiced his grand, flawless deduction:
"The real culprit. The one who actually opened the Chamber of Secrets..." He paused for dramatic effect. "...is Tom Riddle!"
His declaration echoed off the walls of the cramped hut, carrying the triumphant tremor of a detective who had just cracked the impossible case.
He waited for Ron's gasp of realization.
Instead, he was met with a painfully awkward silence.
Ron sniffled loudly. He blinked at Harry, his freckled face completely blank.
"But... Harry..." Ron frowned, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion.
"Look, mate, I know I'm not exactly brilliant at math, but fifty years is a bloody long time." Ron pointed a thumb toward the window, desperately trying to inject some basic common sense into his obsessed friend's brain. "Hagrid went from being a third-year student to... well, to a giant gamekeeper with a graying beard! That Tom Riddle bloke... he graduated ages ago! He's either a wrinkly old man by now, or he's already dead!"
Ron threw his hands up. "What, is he supposed to have crawled out of a grave? Or did he travel hundreds of miles back to the school just to sneak around the pipes and open the Chamber? If he's sneaking around the castle, why hasn't a single person seen an old man wandering the corridors?"
Ron's painfully logical questions hit Harry like a bucket of ice water. The brilliant, blazing sparks of his grand deduction were instantly extinguished, leaving behind a pathetic wisp of smoke.
Right. Tom Riddle was from fifty years ago.
"Well, maybe... maybe he left something behind?" Harry argued weakly, stubbornly unwilling to let his theory die. "Like a... a dark artifact? Or some kind of delayed Black Magic curse? Or—"
"Harry," Ron interrupted, pointing a trembling hand back toward the distant silhouette of the castle. "The thing that attacked Hermione... all these petrifications... there has to be a physical monster doing it, right? A curse can't chew up a camera or petrify a ghost."
Ron looked him dead in the eye and delivered the fatal blow to the theory: "If you say this old Riddle bloke is the mastermind... then who is the one actually doing the attacking right now?"
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Countless names flashed rapidly through his mind.
Malfoy? Unlikely. Draco was a foul git, but he was too much of a coward to pull off something this massive and dangerous.
Snape? He was a nasty, greasy bat, but surely even he wasn't this evil.
Tamara?
No. Absolutely not. She might carry the Riddle name, but she was clearly trying to stop this madness. The way she had looked at Hermione in the hospital wing... that cold, quiet fury... that was genuine anger. She was a victim of her family's legacy, not the perpetrator.
Harry swallowed hard, feeling as though a stone had lodged itself in his throat.
The silence stretched out between them. Finally, Harry slumped his shoulders, the last of his adrenaline draining away.
"I don't know," he admitted softly.
He looked back at the door, his jaw tightening. "...But Hagrid said to follow the spiders. Maybe... maybe we can start there. We have to look for clues."
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