And well… I know Harry shouldn't have hit him. And Harry knows that too, sir," Ron began. "But… I guess he hasn't told you, and I just thought you should know that that's not… that wasn't why he hit the Hufflepuff boy."
"I can assure you, Mr Weasley, that your Head of House clearly articulated your friend's motive to me," Snape told him evenly. "And I have it on good authority that he did indeed hit Mr Smith in response to a comment made about his… father."
The redhead was nodding now, which only served to irritate the potions master a little more.
"He did, sir. It's just… the thing Smith said… it wasn't about James Potter. That wasn't who he was defending," Ron told him, softly. "He was defending you."
The noise of a pin dropping would likely have been heard in the potions classroom right then, and for a moment, Snape simply stared at the child in front of him, wordlessly.
Finally, apparently unable to bear the discomfort a moment longer, the Weasley boy shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"I just thought you ought to know, sir. I'm going to uh… go to dinner now. I'll… see you," he stammered.
And with that, Ron turned on his heel and scarpered.
The potions master remained at his desk for some time after that, however, as the boy's words registered with him.
There had been more to it. And whilst that didn't excuse Harry's behaviour, it felt…
Had he jumped to conclusions? Done the boy a disservice?
"You never listen to me!"
Exhaling, Severus Snape leaned heavily against the desk, resting his head in his hands.
Oh, Harry. And then Filch had appeared, jogging right down the centre of the great hall and whispering something in Dumbledore's ear. The headmaster had promptly dismissed all of the students back to their common room, and whilst the prefects had led the way, Harry noticed all of the Head of Houses hurrying after Dumbledore.
Of course, they had been headed in the direction of the hospital wing – sometime later, Professor McGonagall dropped by the tower to give them all the news that there had been another attack. This time, it was a first year Ravenclaw student – a muggle-born girl by the name of Elara Quinn. Harry didn't know her very well at all, but the news was still sobering.
After that, his dorm-mates had spent hours discussing the Chamber of Secrets, and who might have petrified poor Elara. There were many theories, each as unlikely as the next.
Truth be told, he wasn't feeling a little unsettled and he wasn't sure why – he could only put it down to the fact that he'd spent the last few nights in his bed in Snape's quarters, and it felt strange to be back in the tower again.
He'd been sat at the table for a while now, staring at his Charms homework, which was due in two days' time, and was still nothing more than a three line introduction. His heart wasn't in it.
Harry glanced across the table, dimly lit by the small lantern to his left, and his eyes fell upon the leather-bound book he had taken from Snape's classroom.
Picking it up, he flicked through the empty pages – it really was just an empty notebook, and an ancient one at that. Harry remembered back to when he was seven or eight years old, and he and Dudley had both come home from school with a project. He couldn't remember what, exactly, but it had been something medieval and there had been a prize for the picture that looked the most authentic. Harry recalled his Aunt Petunia spending hours, smearing Dudley's paper with a used teabag, and it looked exactly like the pages of this notebook at the end of it.
Aunt Petunia hadn't bothered to smear Harry's paper with a used teabag.
It was just an old notebook.
So why did he feel so drawn to it? So compelled to write in it?
Turning it over, he frowned, noticing a name inscribed at the bottom of the cover.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.
Somebody's diary?
It wasn't a name he recognised – certainly not a current student at the school, anyway.
Harry opened the diary, dipped his quill into the inkwell and thought about what he wanted to write. Whilst he deliberated, the ink dripped onto the page. And then, it disappeared.
Harry hesitated. He knew there was something about this notebook.
With that, he dipped his quill into the inkwell once more, and began to write.
My name is Harry Potter.
Not the most creative thing he might've come up with – but he wasn't feeling particularly creative tonight.
Harry watched the words on the page for a moment, and sure enough they disappeared.
And then, right beneath where they had been, in cursive handwriting far more elegant than his own, another message appeared.
Hello Harry Potter, my name is Tom Riddle.
His mind going back to his friends' earlier topic of discussion, Harry wrote his next message, hoping the book might offer some answers.
Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?
He waited.
Yes.
His breath caught in his throat and a nervous excitement washed over him as he scrambled to write again.
Can you tell me?
A pause.
That depends – came the response, and then another line appeared beneath it: What do you want to know?
For a moment, Harry sat stock still – could it really be that all of the answers – answers that Dumbledore himself didn't seem to have – had been sitting in a cupboard in the potions classroom all along?
Can you tell me who opened it?
Harry waited, and several seconds passed by, though it felt like much longer to him.
No.
Frustrated, he sighed, putting down his quill.
And then…
But I can show you.
The pages of the book began to turn by themselves then, faster and faster, and Harry gripped the book in his hands as it began to emit a bright light from its centre.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in one of the castle's stone corridors.
He recognised the archways and intricate stonework as Hogwarts, yet his surrounding seemed to take on a green hue, much like they had in nightmare on Christmas Eve, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he had fallen asleep.
Taking a few cautious steps forward, he tried to get his bearings.
Somewhere close by, he heard footsteps – slow and steady. They weren't coming towards him.
Peering around the corner, Harry frowned, seeing a scene he had almost certainly come across before – an empty corridor, its floor covered in an inch of water. And on the wall, large, red letters.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, enemies of the heir beware.
It was almost exactly as it had been that evening.
And then the footsteps were right behind him and Harry flinched as Severus Snape moved past him, brushing against his shoulder.
"Sir?" Harry breathed, caught off guard.
But Snape ignored him, treading carefully through the water and surveying the message on the wall silently.
"D- Professor Snape?" Harry called.
Still, his guardian didn't react.
And then it dawned on Harry – he wasn't really there. This was a memory, though it wasn't his.
He watched as Snape moved closer to the wall, pressing his hands against the stone first, and then an ear. Finally, the man took out his wand, muttering an incantation that Harry couldn't quite hear. Nothing happened.
And then Harry felt a pull, and the world seemed to disappear around him, and he was in the great hall, watching himself duelling with Malfoy.
"Serpensortia!" Malfoy cried, releasing the snake from his wand.
Behind him, Harry saw a subtle, yet cruel smile on Snape's lips.
Another pull, and he was in the man's potions lab.
There stood Snape, bottling a bright yellow liquid into glass vials and secreting them into the pocket of his robes.
Another pull, and he was standing on the corridor outside his guardian's quarters.
Snape stood in the corridor, talking to somebody, but Harry couldn't make out who it was, couldn't seem to focus on their form.
"…To lure the boy here…" Snape was saying, quietly.
Harry couldn't hear what the other person was saying, but Snape waved them off impatiently.
"….No… I do not require your help… I will handle it… there are very little of them… after recent events…"
More muffled speech from the other person.
"In your opinion… some might say, that is all he deserves…"
Another pull, and Harry is standing in the library. His eyes widen.
Snape is standing over somebody much smaller than him, somebody who is sitting in a chair.
Hermione.