“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.”
Hermione’s hand was back in the air.
“Sir—what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?”
“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice.
The class exchanged nervous looks.
“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.”
“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”
“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the thing—”
“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it—”
“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore—”
“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t—” began Dean Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough.
“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiablefact!”
And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.
“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ron told Harry and Hermione as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he started all this pure blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home…”
Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say anything. His stomach had just dropped unpleasantly.
Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before: You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that…
But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had thought desperately, Not Slytherin! and the hat had said, Oh, well, if you’re sure… better be Gryffindor…
As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevy went past.
“Hiya, Harry!”
“Hullo, Colin,” said Harry automatically.
“Harry—Harry—a boy in my class has been saying you’re—”
But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he was gone.
“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?” Hermione wondered.
“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, his stomach dropping another inch or so as he suddenly remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run away from him at lunchtime.
“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust.
The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase without difficulty.
“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?” Ron asked Hermione.
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be—well—human.”
As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message “The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened.”
“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron muttered.
They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.
“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry, dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for clues.
“Scorch marks!” he said. “Here—and here—”
“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is funny…”
Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.
“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said Hermione wonderingly.
“No,” said Harry, “have you, Ron? Ron?”
He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.
“What’s up?” said Harry.
“I—don’t—like—spiders,” said Ron tensely.
“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of times…
“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like the way they move…
Hermione giggled.
“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my—my teddy bear into a dirty great spider because I broke his toy broomstick… You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and…”
He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously still trying not to laugh. Feeling they had better get off the subject, Harry said, “Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s mopped it up.”
“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.”
He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry.
“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’ toilet.”
“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”
And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she opened the door.
It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.
Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off toward the end stall. When she reached it she said, “Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”
Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.
“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and Harry suspiciously. “They’re not girls.”
“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them how er—nice it is in here.” She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor.