Chapter 95

June 1993, this exam-free month, was the happiest time Harry had ever spent at Hogwarts; teachers no longer needed to assign review homework.

Even Cho Chang, who claimed to have been “born for O’s,” no longer spent her days buried in the library; instead, she went with Harry to visit Hagrid, scavenged for snacks in the kitchen, and played and laughed on the grass, firing greenish prank spells at each other.

Hagrid quickly accepted the fact that the spiders had been wiped out, and even comforted Aragog, telling him not to dwell on his disobedient offspring. He was more grateful to Harry for saving Aragog than saddened by the loss of the spiders.

The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have joined the celebration too; they now served far better treats to “lost students” than ever before, and even allowed children to cook. Cho finally made Harry a bowl of beef noodle soup—the exotic flavor warmed him from within, and he gladly looked forward to having another before the next Quidditch match.

Aside from Neville, who still tirelessly searched for the Chamber’s entrance, even Hermione, the second-year’s top student, no longer buried her head in her assignments. Harry spotted her several times having picnics with Professor Fontroy on the lawn. But whenever he tried to approach and greet them, he found them deep in advanced magical theory—so he always chose to stay far away.

Not long after, Mr. Carson sent them three custom-made single-pane glass goggles; Harry’s pair even came with corrective lenses, replacing his regular glasses.

“We’re fully prepared now,” Harry handed the goggles to Ron and Neville. “The only question is: where’s the real entrance to the Chamber?”

“I’ve searched every corner of the castle,” Neville said, troubled. “Or rather, every corner I could reach.”

“Then the entrance must be in the corners you couldn’t search,” Ron said.

“Given that the Basilisk likely still moves through pipes, I think the Prefects’ Bathroom is the most likely,” Neville said. “But it could also be a regular washroom—or even Professor Slytherin’s office.”

“Snape’s office?” Harry scratched his head in frustration. “Think this way: since the attacker is a student, the Chamber’s entrance must be somewhere students can reach.”

“Aragog said a girl died in the washroom fifty years ago,” Neville counted on his fingers. “That means back then, the Basilisk actually stuck its head out of a pipe and made direct eye contact with someone.”

“So that’s why you’ve been searching everywhere connected to pipes,” Harry nodded. “I don’t think it’s the Prefects’ Bathroom—if the Chamber were found, the one who opened it would immediately expose themselves.”

“Slytherin himself knew the Chamber was despised by the other three houses—he wouldn’t risk his own Prefect, would he?” Ron agreed.

“So it’s likely the entrance is in one of the girls’ washrooms…” Neville looked troubled.

“Ask a girl to investigate?” Ron mused. “Maybe we could get Cho to help—you won’t have to keep agonizing between Hermione and Hannah anymore.”

“Wait—the girl who died in the washroom,” Harry suddenly realized. “What if she never left the bathroom? What if she’s still there?”

“You don’t mean… Moaning Myrtle?” Neville’s eyes lit up.

“Either way, we have to go take a look.” Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak, and the three slipped quietly back to the site of the first attack.

As Harry turned the doorknob through the Invisibility Cloak, he wondered: if Ignotus Peverell knew his descendant was using the Deathly Hallows to sneak into a girls’ bathroom, he’d rise from the grave in fury.

Myrtle sat atop the tank of the last stall.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do you want this time?”

“Tell us how you died,” Harry asked.

Myrtle’s demeanor changed instantly; she looked smug—perhaps the only subject on which she felt absolute confidence.

“Oh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It happened right here. I died in this little room. I remember it clearly. I hid because they always mocked my glasses. I locked myself in and cried, when I heard someone come in—they spoke in strange words. I guessed it was a foreign language. Anyway, what caught my attention was a boy’s voice. So I opened the door and told him to leave the girls’ bathroom—and then—” Myrtle emphasized with radiant pride, “I died.”

“How did you die?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” Myrtle said in a dreamy tone. “I only remember seeing a pair of enormous yellow eyes. My whole body felt lifted, then I floated away…” She gazed at Harry as if in a trance. “Then I came back. I decided to haunt those who mocked me—I’d make them regret it.”

“Where did you see those eyes?” Harry asked.

“Somewhere over there,” Myrtle said vaguely, pointing toward the sink.

It looked like an ordinary sink. Harry and his companions examined every inch—inside, outside, even the pipes beneath—until Neville spotted a tiny snake carved into the side of the brass faucet. He quickly called Harry over.

“That faucet’s never opened,” Myrtle said cheerfully as Harry tried to turn it.

“Harry,” Ron reminded him, “say something—try Parseltongue.”

“But—” Harry thought. Every time he’d successfully spoken Parseltongue, it was when he’d encountered a real snake. He stared at the tiny snake carving, trying to imagine it alive.

“Open,” he said.

He looked at Ron, who shook his head.

“That’s English,” he said.

“Try this,” Neville pulled out his wand. “Serpensortia.”

A thin black snake slithered from his wand tip. Harry was certain he was about to speak to this little creature. He stared at the snake and whispered, “Open.”

Ron and Neville didn’t hear the word—they noticed Harry’s mouth producing a strange hissing sound. Instantly, the faucet glowed brilliant white and began to rotate; the sink followed, sliding aside. Soon, the sink sank, revealing a pipe wide enough for a person to slide through.

Harry heard Neville gasp and looked up.

“I’m going down,” he said, pulling on his goggles.

“Wait, Neville,” Harry said in English. “We need to prepare—down there could be a vicious Basilisk.”

“Right, I need to go put on Gao Wen’s armor. You should bring Gryffindor’s Sword,” Ron added.

“And Hagrid’s rooster and my pistol,” Harry stared again at the dark hole. “Let’s close it first—so no one stumbles in by accident.”

Harry sealed the Chamber, went to Hagrid’s hut, and pretended he hadn’t eaten lunch, asking for a live rooster. Hagrid insisted on giving them some rock cakes; Ron thought they could serve as throwing weapons.

Then the three returned to their dormitory, each armed, helping Ron don his armor. Since the armor’s enhancement peaked between three and six p.m., they waited in the dorm until exactly three, then set out.

Ron walked first, armored and confident he could handle most threats. Harry followed close behind, his pistol holstered at his waist, left hand gripping the rooster the Basilisk feared. Neville brought up the rear, wand in one hand, sword in the other, alert.

The pipe was filthy, pitch-black, and seemed endless. He saw many branching and connecting pipes—but none as vast as theirs.

Twisting, spiraling, steeply descending. Harry knew he had slid far deeper than even the school dungeons. Ahead, Ron’s armor clanked steadily.

Just as he began to wonder what would happen when they landed, the pipe leveled out—and he shot out with a thud, landing on the damp stone floor of an underground tunnel. The tunnel was tall enough to walk upright, utterly dark.

“We must be miles from the school,” Harry’s voice echoed in the darkness.

“Maybe under the lake,” Ron said, examining the black, slimy walls around him.

All three stared into the darkness ahead.

“Lumos,” Harry muttered to his wand, and they moved forward, their footsteps unnaturally loud.

The passage was too long—they could only see a short stretch ahead. In the wand’s glow, their shadows loomed on the walls, terrifyingly distorted.

“Walk quieter,” Harry whispered as they marched. “The Basilisk senses vibrations.”

Under their careful steps, the underground was as silent as a grave—until the first unexpected sound: Ron crushed a rat’s skull beneath his boot. Harry lowered his wand to the floor and saw scattered bones of small animals.

“Careful…” Ron raised his magical sword, slowly approaching the large, curved shape lying motionless around the corner.

“Maybe it’s asleep,” Ron glanced back at the others.

“Good—it’s just a shed skin,” Harry raised his glowing wand, inspecting the serpent skin, at least twenty feet long.

“Wait—there’s a sound ahead,” Neville covered Harry’s wand, extinguishing its light.

Far off, they heard the faint sobbing of a girl.