Chapter 136: The Chamber Under Surveillance

“Hermione, how long is the Potions essay—two feet or three?”

“Five feet,” Hermione said without looking up.

Silven gripped his quill, feeling his wrist ache even more.

The most unavoidable thing about the Easter break was the mountain of homework piled together.

During the two-week holiday, Silven spent at least eight hours a day in the library, snapping three quills and using up two bottles of ink… yet even so, on the day before term resumed, he still had one eight-foot-long essay unfinished.

Compared to him, Harry and Ron were far more relaxed; with Hermione’s half-hearted help, they only needed to sit in the library five hours a day to finish their daily quota.

Afterward, they would mysteriously leave the library, off to do something unknown.

“I can’t finish it… I just can’t…” Neville stared helplessly at the parchment soaked through after knocking over another ink bottle.

He spent more time in the library each day than Silven, yet had even more homework left—about a third remaining, impossible to complete before classes resumed the next day.

“I suggest you start with the Potions essay—just copy content straight from a few books. At least get Snape to accept it; he probably won’t even read your work.” Silven offered him advice.

Since Neville’s cauldron and potion had vanished under a cleaning charm last time, Snape’s attitude toward him had changed.

Previously, he’d mocked and sneered; now he simply ignored him, as if Neville’s mere survival through classes counted as success.

So Snape likely wouldn’t waste time reading Neville’s Potions essay—just turning it in gave him at least a fifty percent chance of slipping through.

“Then copy your Potions essay, change the name, and call it History of Magic homework,” Silven continued. “Solves two subjects at once.”

“No, I can’t…” Neville’s face fell.

“It’s fine—everyone does it,” Silven said. “Do you expect a ghost to grade your homework?”

Only Peeves could touch things in Hogwarts; other ghosts couldn’t even lift parchment, let alone grade assignments.

“No,” Neville looked even more miserable. “I… I wrote the History of Magic essay first. I finished it all.”

Silven didn’t know what to say, so he just patted his shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile.

…

At noon, sunlight streamed through the library windows, and Silven couldn’t help glancing outside.

Hogwarts in summer seemed more lively than ever—the Whomping Willow had sprouted fresh green leaves, and the sky and lake alike had turned a pale blue tinged with violet.

Silven spotted Hagrid striding across the grounds with Fang, accompanied by two others—he immediately recognized the unmistakable red hair.

Hogwarts had many Weasleys with red hair, but with a black-haired boy beside them, it had to be Harry and Ron.

They seemed to be talking to Hagrid; whatever they said made him suddenly quicken his pace. Fang couldn’t keep up—he had to trot to follow.

That was odd—why was Hagrid trying to shake them off?

After a brief distraction, Silven returned to his essay and finally reached five feet by evening.

He spread out the parchment, measured it again with a ruler, confirmed the length was correct, then nodded and rolled it back up.

It was terrifying—a single essay had used up a whole scroll of parchment. If this kept up, he’d have no time for anything else.

After dinner, back in the common room, Silven saw Harry and the other two huddled together, whispering urgently.

It instantly reminded him of what he’d seen at noon.

But as Silven approached, the three fell silent at once, pretending everything was normal, nothing had happened.

He didn’t press them—they didn’t want to talk. Besides, the last glow of sunset had faded; the sun had vanished beyond the horizon, leaving only the moon hanging high.

Sunset already?

“Oh, damn…” Silven suddenly remembered something. He didn’t speak to Harry again—he bolted for the dormitory.

“Silven, you—” Harry started to say something, but Silven was already upstairs, out of earshot.

“Did Silven get angry?” Harry glanced nervously up the stairs.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have kept it from him,” Hermione said. “Silven knows a lot about the Chamber—don’t forget that article in the Daily Prophet.”

“Forget that,” Ron said. “Fred and George already said that Daily Prophet article was a joke—they have no idea where the Chamber is.”

“He knows,” Harry said. “Silven told me—he knows where the Chamber is. The professors know too, but none of them can get in.”

“Really?” Hermione sat up straight.

Harry nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“Maybe we should just ask him directly.”

“Don’t bother,” Ron sighed. “He’s just like the professors—he won’t tell us. His mouth is tighter than Hagrid’s.”

“But this is different,” Harry said. “Lockhart wants to open the Chamber, stage a big event for the front page—we have to stop him.”

“Are you sure you didn’t mishear?” Hermione frowned. “Professor Lockhart… how could he possibly do something like that?”

“Absolutely certain, Hermione,” Harry said seriously. “I swear—I heard it with my own ears, right in his office.”

“But…”

“If you still won’t believe us, we can investigate ourselves,” Ron said bluntly.

“I…” Hermione looked torn.

She wanted to believe in Professor Lockhart, but now that she thought about it, he had seemed different since returning to school.

All three fell silent. As the tension grew, Harry quickly changed the subject. “Maybe we should just tell Silven.”

“Do you think he’ll believe you? That you overheard Lockhart planning something big?” Ron asked. “Remember when we told Professor McGonagall yesterday? She didn’t believe us—said the Headmaster’s enchantments were unbreakable.”

“Yeah, Silven said something similar,” Harry struggled to recall. “He said only Salazar Slytherin’s special abilities could open the Chamber’s entrance.”

“So he thinks the Chamber’s safe, just like McGonagall,” Ron muttered. “Last year they said the protections on the Philosopher’s Stone were foolproof—and look how Quirrell got through.”

Hermione ignored him, staring at Harry. “Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?”

“I just remembered,” Harry sheepishly scratched his head. “Besides, we don’t even know where the entrance is—knowing this won’t help.”

“Better to prepare ahead,” Hermione stood up and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“The library,” Hermione said. “We have two hours before curfew—I need to find out what Salazar Slytherin’s special abilities were.”

She was torn—she didn’t want to believe Lockhart would harm students, yet she also couldn’t believe Harry was lying.

So she desperately needed something else to focus on—researching Salazar Slytherin was perfect, a way to distract herself.

And even if the information proved useless later, learning more about famous wizards was always worthwhile.

As Hermione reached the door, she suddenly turned back. “If you’re free these next few days, go to Professor Lockhart’s office again.”

“Why are you still trusting him?”

“Because Professor Lockhart was attacked too,” Hermione snapped. “We need to find out the truth—not just suspect a professor without reason!”

Ron opened his mouth but said nothing.

Harry didn’t want to go back to Lockhart’s office—he’d only returned once before because he’d forgotten his things.

That one visit was how he’d accidentally overheard Lockhart’s plan: open the Chamber, release the monster to cause chaos, then step in to “save” everyone.

From his performance in the Dueling Club, Harry didn’t believe Lockhart had the ability to handle the creature—but Lockhart himself seemed utterly confident he could defeat it.

…

(End of Chapter)