The Dueling Club carried on for a while after the chaos. Hermione, for her part, had a very specific goal in mind. During her match with Pansy Parkinson, she deliberately lost, seizing the chance to get close enough for her real purpose. In the scuffle that followed, she managed to tug out a few strands of Pansy's hair — the final ingredient she needed for the Polyjuice Potion.
When the dueling practice ended, Hermione, Harry, and Ron hurried back to the girls' bathroom where their secret brewing operation was underway.
But as they returned, Hermione wasn't nearly as cheerful as she had expected to be. Instead of triumph, a faint anxiety clung to her. The truth, she realized, could be more terrifying than the mystery itself. Harry and Ron, however, were brimming with excitement — convinced that they were on the verge of uncovering who had opened the Chamber of Secrets.
"But have you two really thought this through?" Hermione asked, staring blankly at the potion simmering in the cauldron. "What if he isn't the one who opened the Chamber?"
Ron hesitated, his grin faltering. "Either way, he's bound to know something," he said after a moment, trying to sound confident.
Hermione sighed. "All right. Then have you at least figured out how to distract Pansy while we talk to him? I don't want her walking in suddenly and ruining everything."
"Don't worry about that," Ron said, thumping his chest in exaggerated assurance. "We've got a plan. Right, Harry?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Hermione frowned suspiciously. "What kind of plan?"
Ron hesitated for a heartbeat, clearly expecting disapproval. "Just… a little accident. We'll 'accidentally' spill something on her robes. She'll go running to Snape to complain, and that should keep her occupied for hours."
"And since it's the holidays," Harry added with a grin, "Snape probably won't deduct any points."
Hermione looked at them pityingly. "You two really are hopeless. Getting lectured by Snape over Christmas — how festive."
Ron shrugged. "Not as big a sacrifice as yours. Honestly, Hermione, the thought of turning into someone else — especially her — is disgusting."
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin common room, Draco Malfoy was deep in thought. The dueling club had been more informative than expected. He had managed to pick up several Parseltongue phrases — words that seemed to mean open or unlock — and that knowledge gave him new confidence.
But the rest of the evening had been bizarre. The entire duel between Lockhart and Snape was absurd — almost unbelievable. There was no way a bumbling celebrity like Lockhart could defeat Snape, even accidentally. The conclusion was obvious: something unnatural was at play.
"The culprit is Lockhart," Draco muttered, pacing before the fireplace.
The memory of that day in Flourish and Blotts resurfaced — the scuffle between his father and Potter, the chaos, and Lockhart's useless attempt to intervene. Draco recalled how Lockhart had brushed past the shelves, how close he'd come to his father and him. Looking back now, it all seemed too coincidental. His sudden "genius" in the Dueling Club fit the pattern perfectly. The most suspicious person had to be Lockhart.
And then there was the matter of the howlers — or, rather, the lack of them. Lockhart hated the Weasley twins' rooster crowing letters, always complaining about them in class. Draco shuddered as the pieces clicked together.
Riddle — young, ambitious, and manipulative — had been far subtler than Voldemort. Where the Dark Lord ruled through fear, Riddle had ruled through charm. He would never rely on crude spells when a carefully crafted trinket could do the same job without suspicion.
A perfect disguise, Draco realized. The diary could hide itself as easily as Riddle had hidden his intentions.
"Honestly, Lockhart," Draco muttered with a bitter laugh, "can't you be reliable for once? If you survive this, maybe you can write your next bestseller — 'The Years I Was Bewitched: My Days with the Diary.'"
But even as the thought amused him, he knew it was pointless. Lockhart was probably in deeper trouble than anyone realized. Ginny Weasley had been smarter in comparison — at least she'd tried to throw the diary away. Lockhart, on the other hand, seemed the type to treat it as a golden gift from fate.
"Then I'd better prepare early," Draco decided. He pulled out a parchment and began to sketch rough notes and plans, lines of contingency filling the page.
The next morning, the castle erupted in panic. A new attack had occurred.
Another student — and this time, not a Muggle-born.
The victims were a pure-blood wizard and a ghost. Ron Weasley and Nearly Headless Nick had been petrified.
The news spread through the school like wildfire. Panic was immediate — but nowhere more so than in Slytherin. Up until now, most of them had felt untouchable. They'd smugly repeated the rumors that the Chamber only targeted "Mudbloods." Professor Binns's lecture had even emboldened them.
But this time, the illusion shattered.
The basilisk didn't discriminate. It hunted anyone.
Fear rippled through the house. Suddenly, the Weasley twins' rooster letters — once mocked — were sold out again. Even Slytherins, who had once scorned them, now clutched them nervously in their pockets as protection.
Fred and George, though, felt no satisfaction from their sudden profit. Their usual grins were gone. Their younger brother lay frozen in the hospital wing, and no amount of jokes could mask their worry.
They had always teased Ron, yes — but it had always been harmless, even affectionate. Now, that bond felt fragile, almost cruel in hindsight. The basilisk's attack was no prank. It was real, deadly, and far too close to home.
In the hospital wing, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione visited Ron as often as they could.
He lay stiff and pale, his eyes wide and his mouth frozen open in silent terror.
Harry sat beside him, guilt pressing heavy on his chest. "I should've gone back with you," he murmured, his voice shaking slightly.
That morning, Ron had forgotten his Transfiguration book. Harry had been about to accompany him to fetch it, but Ron had waved him off.
"Better one of us be late than both," Ron had joked.
Now, those were the last words Harry had heard from him.
"It's not your fault, Harry," Hermione said gently. "If you'd gone with him, maybe you'd be petrified too. You can't take everything on yourself."
Harry's jaw tightened. "The potion — how much longer until it's ready?" he asked suddenly, catching himself before saying Polyjuice aloud. Ginny was sitting nearby, and he didn't want to explain too much.
"By Christmas," Hermione said softly, glancing at Ginny before answering. "That's when it should be fully brewed."
Her voice wavered. One of her dearest friends was lying motionless before her, and despite her rational mind, she couldn't shake the fear that they were running out of time. She wanted answers desperately — but part of her dreaded what those answers might reveal.
Harry's eyes burned with determination. "Good," he said through clenched teeth. "When we find out who did this, they'll pay."
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere had shifted completely. The usual smug confidence had been replaced by whispers and fear. Students gathered in clusters, speaking in hushed tones as though the monster might hear them through the walls.
Even the presence of protective trinkets and rooster letters offered little comfort. The knowledge that pure-bloods were no longer safe was enough to unravel the illusion of superiority that had defined them for years.
Draco watched the panic unfold and sighed inwardly. He believed he had already pieced the truth together.
It made too much sense. Riddle was punishing Ron because his brothers were interfering — selling protective letters that mimicked the crowing of a rooster, the basilisk's natural enemy. The motive was simple and cruel.
"Why didn't he go after the twins directly?" Draco murmured. Then he answered himself: "Because it's easier to strike at one person than two. And Ron's younger. More vulnerable. A better message."
His head ached. The situation was spiraling faster than he could manage.
He could almost hear his father's voice — cold, ambitious, short-sighted. Lucius Malfoy had always prioritized influence and status. To him, driving Dumbledore out of Hogwarts was a power move, nothing more. But Draco could see what his father could not: if Dumbledore truly left, Hogwarts would crumble.
"If Hogwarts were a listed company," Draco muttered bitterly, "Dumbledore's resignation would crash its stock overnight. Father would be ruined."
The thought made him press his fingers to his temples. He needed a plan — something that could stop the chaos before it consumed them all. But every path he imagined carried risk. Every solution seemed to tip off the wrong person.
For now, all he could do was watch, wait, and hope that when the truth surfaced, he would be ready to act.
Panic reigned across the castle. Fear shadowed every corridor and crept through every common room. Gryffindors mourned. Slytherins doubted. Hufflepuffs whispered prayers, and Ravenclaws drowned themselves in logic, desperate for reason where none existed.
The monster had struck again — and this time, no one could pretend to understand its rules.
Hermione stirred the bubbling potion one last time before extinguishing the flame. The thick, mud-colored liquid swirled lazily, nearly complete.
Christmas was coming.
And with it, the truth — whatever that might be.
End of Chapter 46 — There Is Only One Truth
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