There was a knock on the office door.
“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice.
A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect's
badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had
“Ah, Riddle,” said the Headmaster.
“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle. He looked nervous.
“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I've just been reading the letter you sent me.
“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.
“My dear boy,” said Dipper kindly, “I cannot possibly let you stay at school
over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?”
“No,” said Riddle at once. “Id much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that—to
“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?” said Dippet
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.
“You are Muggle-born?”
“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.”
“And are both your parents -?”
“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she
lived just long enough to name me—Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather.”
Dipper clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “Special arrangements might have been made for
you, but in the current circumstances...”
“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and Harry's heart leapt, and
he moved closer, scared of missing anything.
“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would
be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light
of the recent tragedy... the death of that poor little girl... You will be safer
by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now
talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the er—source of all
Riddle's eyes had widened.
“Sir—if the person was caught—if it all stopped—”
“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his
chair. “Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?”
“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly.
But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that he himself had given Dumbledore.
Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.
“You may go, Tom ..”
Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him.
Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in
the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could
tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead
Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harry gliding
noiselessly behind him. They didn't see another person until they reached the entrance
hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle
from the marble staircase.
“What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?”
Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-yearyounger Dumbledore.
“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle.
“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind of
penetrating stare Harry knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these days.
Not since .. .”
He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched him
walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps
to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.
But to Harry's disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or
a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with Snape. The
torches hadn't been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could
only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.
It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an hour. All he could see
was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a
statue. And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started
wishing he could return to the present, he heard something move beyond the door.
Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard whoever it was pass the dungeon
where he and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged through the door
and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind him, forgetting that he couldn't be heard.
For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly,
his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak open,
and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.
“C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here... C'mon now... in the box...”
There was something familiar about that voice.
Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry stepped out behind him. He could
see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a
very large box next to it.
“Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply.
The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.
“What yer doin' down here, Tom?”
Riddle stepped closer.
“It's all over,” he said. “I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're
talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop.”
“I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I
suppose you just let it out for exercise and—”
“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing against the closed door.
From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking.
“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. “The dead girl's parents will
be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed
their daughter is slaughtered...”
“It wasn't him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark passage. “He wouldn'!
“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand.
His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large
boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of
it came something that made Harry let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone
A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes
and a pair of razor-sharp pincers—Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late.
The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of
sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the
huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, “NOOOOOOO!”
The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself falling and,
with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory,
Riddle's diary lying open on his stomach.
Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door opened and Ron
“There you are,” he said.
Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.
“What's up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern.
“It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that Hagrid had an unfortunate liking
for large and monstrous creatures. During their first year at Hogwarts he had tried
to raise a dragon in his little wooden house, and it would be a long time before
they forgot the giant, threeheaded dog he'd christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a boy,
Hagrid had heard that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, Harry was sure
he'd have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. He'd probably thought it was
a shame that the monster had been cooped up so long, and thought it deserved the
chance to stretch its many legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old
Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But he was equally certain that Hagrid
would never have meant to kill anybody.
Harry half wished he hadn't found out how to work Riddle's diary. Again and again
Ron and Hermione made him recount what
he'd seen, until he was heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long, circular
conversations that followed.
“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said Hermione. “Maybe it was some other
monster that was attacking people...”
“How many monsters d'you think this place can hold?” Ron asked dully.
“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said Harry miserably. “And the attacks
must've stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle wouldn't have got
Ron tried a different tack.
“Riddle does sound like Percy—who asked him to squeal on Hagrid, anyway?”
“But the monster had killed someone, Ron,” said Hermione.
“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they closed Hogwarts,”
said Harry. “I don't blame him for wanting to stay here...”
“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn't you, Harry?”
“He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” said Harry quickly.
The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione voiced the knottiest
question of all in a hesitant voice.
“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?”
“That'd be a cheerful visit,” said Ron. “'Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been
setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?"'
In the end, they decided that they would not say anything to Hagrid unless there
was another attack, and as more and more days went by with no whisper from the disembodied
voice, they became hopeful that they would never need to talk to him about why he
had been expelled. It was now nearly four months since Justin and Nearly Headless
Nick had been Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that the attacker,
whoever it was, had retired for good. Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter,
you rotter” song, Ernie Macmillan asked Harry quite politely to pass a bucket of
leaping toadstools in Herbology one day, and in March several of the Mandrakes threw
a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very happy.
“The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know they're
fully mature,” she told Harry. “Then we'll be able to revive those poor people in
the hospital wing.”
The second years were given something new to think about during their Easter
holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year, a matter
that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.
“it could affect our whole future,” she told Harry and Ron as they pored over
lists of new subjects, marking them with checks.
“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry.
“We can't,” said Ron gloomily. “We keep all our old subjects, or I'd've ditched
Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“But that's very important!” said Hermione, shocked.
“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ron. “I haven't learned anything from
him except not to set pixies loose.”
Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the witches and wizards in
his family, all giving him different advice on what to choose. Confused and worried,
he sat reading the subject lists with his tongue poking out, asking people whether
they thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the study of Ancient Runes.
Dean Thomas, who, like Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing his eyes
and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking the subjects it landed on. Hermione
took nobody's advice but signed up for everything.
Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia
would say if he tried to discuss his career in wizardry with them. Not that he didn't
get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager to share his experience.
“Depends where you want to go, Harry,” he said. “It's never too early to think
about the future, so Id recommend Divination. People say Muggle Studies is a soft
option, but I personally think wizards should have a thorough understanding of the
non-magical community, particularly if they're thinking of working in close contact
with them—look at my father, he has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My
brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type, so he went for Care of Magical
Creatures. Play to your strengths, Harry.”
But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at was Quidditch. In the end,
he chose the same new subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was lousy at them, at
least he'd have someone friendly to help him.
Gryffindor's next Quidditch match would be against Hufflepuff. Wood was insisting
on team practices every night after dinner, so that Harry barely had time for anything
but Quidditch and homework. However, the training sessions were getting better,
or at least drier, and the evening before Saturday's match he went up to his dormitory
to drop off his broomstick feeling Gryffindor's chances for the Quidditch cup had
never been better.
But his cheerful mood didn't last long. At the top of the stairs to the dormitory,
he met Neville Longbottom, who was looking frantic.
“Harry—I don't know who did it—I just found—”
Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the door.
The contents of Harry's trunk had been thrown everywhere. His cloak lay ripped
on the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the drawer
had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet, the contents strewn over the mattress.
Harry walked over to the bed, open-mouthed, treading on a few loose pages of
Travels with Trolls. As he and Neville pulled the blankets back onto his bed, Ron,
Dean, and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly.
“What happened, Harry?”
“No idea,” said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry's robes. All the pockets were
“Someone's been looking for something,” said Ron. “Is there anything missing?”
Harry started to pick up all his things and throw them into his trunk. It was
only as he threw the last of the Lockhart books back into it that he realized what