"Regardless of the truth, I can't let them down."
Hermione's fingers tightened, her knuckles turning white.
She walked slowly toward Malfoy's seat and sat beside him, trying to appear casual.
"Huh?" Malfoy turned his head, catching the movement. His eyes lingered on her longer than she liked.
Hermione's heart seized. Did I slip up somewhere? Her whole body tensed.
"Well, the Headmaster really is amazing—you can't even tell this robe was stained with ink," Malfoy said, studying her sleeve. "By the way, didn't Potter come back with you?"
"He's still being lectured by Professor S—" Hermione stopped herself just in time. That was close. She forced a small smile. "Still being lectured by a professor."
"Our Headmaster is so caring toward Potter," Malfoy said, smiling faintly. He remembered the BL fantasies from his past life's fandoms and felt a shudder crawl up his spine. He himself had been a victim of those absurd imaginings once.
"Anyway," he said, trying to shake off the thought, "you probably don't feel like eating anymore. Want to go back to the common room?"
Hermione hesitated only briefly. "All right." The fewer people around, the better—it would be easier to get information from him alone.
Malfoy felt his head buzzing. Maybe he needed to relax a bit. "Disciplining" Pansy would be a good distraction, he thought with a smirk. Time to check on her "progress."
Their departure went unnoticed. Most students were still absorbed in their meals, chatting loudly and paying no attention to the pair who slipped away through the corridors.
They wound through several passages until they reached a damp, bare stone wall.
"Pure-blood," Malfoy said.
The wall split open, revealing a stone door. He stepped through confidently, Hermione following close behind.
It was Hermione's first time in the Slytherin common room—and perhaps the last. The space was long, narrow, and low-ceilinged, its rough stone walls lit by green lamps that hung from chains. Fire crackled in a carved fireplace, casting shifting reflections of Malfoy and Hermione across the walls. The room was empty; most students were still at dinner.
"Same as usual," Malfoy said, moving closer.
Hermione froze. What does he mean by that? Her face flamed red. Only then did she remember Malfoy's rumored closeness with Pansy Parkinson. The thought made her chest ache unexpectedly.
"Hmm, your face is red. Do you have a fever?" Malfoy reached out, brushing his fingers against her forehead. "No, your temperature's normal." His eyes narrowed. "Trying to fake being sick? That won't work on me. I take this kind of thing seriously."
Hermione's mind raced. Is he—? No, surely he wouldn't... Her heart pounded painfully. Teenage imagination, fueled by fear, can conjure the wildest scenarios.
But Malfoy withdrew his hand suddenly. "Oh right, you didn't bring your wand." He turned, picked up an abandoned one—probably Crabbe's or Goyle's—and tossed it to her. "Make do with this."
Hermione caught it clumsily, stunned.
"What are you waiting for?" Malfoy snapped impatiently.
"Expelliarmus!"
A flash of red light burst from his wand, streaking toward her.
"Protego!" Hermione reacted instinctively. Her shield charm deflected the spell, which ricocheted into the fireplace and vanished in a spark of flame.
"Not bad." Malfoy's frown melted into a satisfied grin. "You've improved."
Hermione exhaled shakily. So that was all he meant. Relief washed over her—along with embarrassment at her earlier thoughts.
This might be my chance to steer the conversation.
She feigned a sigh. "Even so, none of this would help if we ran into a basilisk."
Her heart pounded. She half-feared he might respond, It's fine, I control it anyway.
Instead, Malfoy gave her a puzzled look. "You're worried about the basilisk? I thought you said with me and Dumbledore around, you had nothing to fear."
Hermione mentally kicked herself. Too direct again. Her pulse quickened, terrified she'd aroused suspicion.
But Malfoy only shrugged. "You're right, though. Against a basilisk, none of these spells matter. Its skin's probably like dragon hide—reflective to most magic. Only its eyes and mouth would be weak points." He sighed. "Much as I hate to admit it, wizards might only hurt it through physical attacks. Weaker spells could even bounce back."
He smirked slightly. "But don't worry—the basilisk only targets non–pure-bloods. You're perfectly safe."
Hermione's heart twisted. Relief—he didn't sound like the one behind it—but also disappointment. She was no closer to the truth. Still, she pressed, "Then what about Ron? How did he get petrified?"
Malfoy squinted at her. "You're acting odd today. Normally you couldn't care less about these things." He shrugged again. "He must've had other reasons."
Other reasons? How would he know that? Hermione's doubts deepened. Was he hiding something even from his closest allies?
Before she could think further, footsteps echoed from the corridor—students returning from dinner. Hermione felt panic rise. The Polyjuice Potion's effects would wear off soon. She needed to leave before someone recognized her. But before she could make an excuse—
"What did you just say?" Malfoy stopped a girl who had just entered.
"I said I heard Professor Lockhart's near the girls' bathroom," the girl said eagerly. "He says he's found clues about the basilisk there!"
Malfoy frowned. "The girls' bathroom?" It was odd for a teacher to be wandering there—but Lockhart always had a flair for drama. To the starry-eyed student, though, he was a hero sacrificing his holiday for the students' safety.
Malfoy's eyes lit up. Finally.
"Riddle's making his move," he muttered. Then, turning to Hermione, he gripped her shoulder. "I've got something urgent to do. Stay here, and don't go anywhere."
Human imagination fills gaps faster than truth ever can. In Hermione's eyes, his sudden excitement looked like guilt. He's trying to hide something. Her heart constricted.
She nodded calmly. "Okay."
Malfoy rushed out, his face alight with purpose. To Hermione, that light looked ominous.
No, I have to stop him, she thought, standing abruptly. Professor Lockhart's there too…
When his footsteps faded, she slipped out of the common room, her borrowed Slytherin robes still on. She didn't dare waste time changing back. The thought of another student being attacked filled her with dread—and perhaps, quietly, with hope that she could prevent it before anyone else got hurt. Maybe then, if anyone discovered her secret, only a few would know—and she wouldn't be expelled.
The corridors were dark and damp, the walls still marked with the basilisk's chilling message. Hermione's heart hammered as she reached the entrance to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Voices drifted from inside—one of them unmistakably Malfoy's.
She froze. The words were strange, foreign—like the ones Harry had hissed on the dueling platform weeks ago. Parseltongue? Her thoughts spun wildly. No, it must be coincidence. Harry's with Snape right now.
Then the sounds stopped. Hermione gathered her courage and slipped inside.
Myrtle hovered above a toilet, trembling. Her ghostly form flickered in the dim light.
Hermione had always thought ghosts couldn't feel fear. Clearly, she was wrong.
"The third one…" Myrtle whispered weakly. "You're the third to come today." Her voice wavered like rippling water.
Hermione's pulse quickened. "Where are they now?"
Myrtle pointed a shaking finger toward one of the sinks. Hermione hurried over. It looked utterly ordinary. She ran her fingers over the basin, the knobs, even the pipes below.
"That faucet never gives water," Myrtle said suddenly, her tone turning oddly bright.
"Where did the others go?" Hermione pressed.
Fear clouded Myrtle's translucent face again. "They said something to it… words I didn't understand… and then—" She let out a piercing scream, spun in midair, and dove headfirst into the toilet. Water splashed everywhere, soaking Hermione's robes.
Hermione wiped her face, frustration and fear warring inside her. No choice but to try myself.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and recalled the strange, sibilant words she'd heard earlier. Then she whispered them aloud, mimicking the serpentine rhythm as best she could.
A blinding white light flared from the faucet. It began to twist and sink, the sink itself spiraling downward to reveal a massive, dark pipe wide enough for a person to slide through.
Gryffindors feared danger, of course—but they never let fear stop them.
Hermione hesitated only a moment before throwing herself into the opening.
The darkness swallowed her instantly. The tunnel sloped downward, slick with slime. She tried to slow herself, but gravity dragged her forward until she landed with a splash in cold, murky water.
Catching her breath, she raised her wand. "Lumos."
Light flared, revealing a long, low corridor lined with bones and the remains of small creatures. The air smelled ancient and heavy, filled with the hiss of something moving far ahead.
Hermione's hand trembled. But retreat was no longer an option.
She pressed onward, each step echoing off the damp stone. The corridor seemed endless. Then, faintly, she heard voices again—Lockhart's unmistakable bravado, and Malfoy's sharper tone. She ducked behind a pillar, peering ahead.
Her wandlight caught a glimpse of their silhouettes—Lockhart gesturing dramatically, Malfoy standing tensely beside him, and in the distance, something vast and coiled shifting in the darkness.
Hermione's breath caught. The basilisk.
Her instincts screamed at her to run, but she gritted her teeth. She had come too far to turn back. If I can learn the truth—if I can save them—
The air vibrated with a low hiss, ancient and terrible. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, heart hammering.
In that moment, she understood what courage truly was—not the absence of fear, but the strength to act despite it.
And with that thought, she raised her wand, light flickering in the darkness, and stepped forward.
End of Chapter 48: Rhetoric