After the term began, everyone assumed the Slytherin second-years would keep teasing Harry and Weasley for a while. But another topic swept up all the attention—inconveniently, that topic was… me.
Naturally, it was Quidditch, with the season approaching. My father bought Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin team and even wrote the captain, Marcus Flint, instructing him to make me Seeker. That goes beyond doting; it borders on madness.
I couldn't just become Seeker on my father's connections—bad for both my reputation and the position. I told Flint, at length, how excellent last year's Seeker, Terence Higgs, was, and how inferior I am on a broom.
Quidditch is a flawed game: even if everyone rides a Nimbus 2001, if the Seeker is useless, you're finished. Why on earth would I volunteer to shoulder the blame for a loss?
In the end, Higgs stayed Seeker, and I became one of four Chasers, reserves included. Higgs thanked me for stepping aside, but someone who'd been in line for Chaser was unquestionably bumped off the starting squad because of me. None of this was "the right thing." It made me want to cry.
I wrote to Father and told him I'd actually always wanted to be a Chaser. If he accepted that in one go, I wish he'd also accept me not being a player at all.
"I'm a rigged first-place anyway, and a nepotism Chaser…"
At dinner the day Father's reply arrived, I sulked in the Great Hall.
One more unwanted infamy to add to the list. I'd love some credit for getting myself demoted from Seeker to reserve Chaser. I didn't take a tryout, true. Still, if anyone benefits, it's the other three Houses—one more dud for the opposition to exploit. At least it isn't "Slytherin favoritism."
Pansy, as usual, skewered me mercilessly. Her teasing is a big part of what keeps me from drifting apart inside Slytherin. This time she reenacted my pitiful plea to Flint and loudly broadcast just how unwilling a player I'd become.
Gryffindor's trio also seemed to find it amusing. Weasley didn't say anything directly to me, but he laughed along with the crowd. Harry couldn't believe I'd passed up the "cool" Seeker position and questioned my sanity, while Granger—continuing her year-end stance—mocked me half in exasperation, half in glee for gaining status by connections—well, not just "apparently"; that's literally what happened.
Slytherin answered by going all-in on imitating that Gryffindor first-year—the boy with the camera who'd been tailing Harry since term began. They looked like a ring of convention photographers mobbing a cosplayer. Children.
Still, Harry was genuinely delighted when the boy got too embarrassed to come near him. He's got a better nature than he lets on.
So, unlike the other years, the new crop of Gryffindor and Slytherin second-years were settling—not into "friendliness," but into a relationship of trading jabs and teasing within friendly bounds. No one harbored actual friendship for the other; it was more like discovering the other side could be… mildly entertaining to talk to. A threadbare goodwill, and no more.
The other years weren't like that. As for last year's House Cup, the second-years (helped by the points I'd earned) had mostly settled into "Dumbledore is annoying, but whatever." Many upper-years, though, re-recognized the enemy—Gryffindor—through Dumbledore. Even if things hadn't worsened, that persistent, un-student-like factionalism was sad.
On Saturday morning, Flint called me to the Quidditch pitch. First practice at last. Though they had nothing to do with the team, the usual Slytherin crowd all tagged along to heckle me. They have too much free time. True, there isn't much to do at the start of term.
But someone was already there: the Gryffindor team. In these collisions, Slytherin never seems to have the right. Sure enough, our "reservation" turned out to be Professor Snape's high-handed override.
Still, Slytherin never accepts an outcome that doesn't serve Slytherin's interests, especially in a situation with rules loose enough to allow double bookings. Please just split it—half and half. No such luck; the dispute over who had usage rights flared hot.
Flint wore a nasty look and squinted at Gryffindor captain Oliver Wood.
"We've got to train a rookie Chaser. If you can't show proof of your booking, you can clear out."
Wood frowned, scanning the Slytherin team.
"A new Chaser, huh? Where?"
I wanted to stay in the back, but Higgs prodded me forward, and I stepped out toward Gryffindor. Curious looks pricked me from their side. Naturally, Harry was there, wearing a face like, "This just got annoying." Carefree, are we?
"Isn't that Lucius Malfoy's son," one of the Weasley twins said, scowling. The line brought the bookshop brawl back to mind. Every Hogwarts Weasley had been there, as I recall. The twins had egged it on; of course they didn't think well of Malfoy.
"Funny coincidence to bring up Draco's father," Flint said smugly. On this Slytherin team, Father was a patron without equal. Several teammates curled their lips in satisfaction. Must we flaunt wealth so crassly? These kids are meant to be from the upper crust.
"Let's show them the generous gift he gave the Slytherin team."
The team brandished their Nimbus 2001s. Even Gryffindor seemed stunned by the lavish spending. I get it. Flint launched into a sermon on how superb these brooms were, putting down the opposition's models by comparison. It was excruciating for me.
It looked like Harry had brought friends; Weasley and Granger came onto the pitch, unable to watch in silence.
"What's going on? Why aren't you practicing? And why is Slytherin here?" Weasley asked—kickstarting another chorus praising the 2001s. Granger cut in.
"Well, Gryffindor players aren't bought."
Harry and Weasley smirked, no doubt recalling my fiasco a few days earlier. I saw Pansy snort beside me—easy to enjoy when it's not your problem. The others, however, were not amused.
Hearing a remark that could be taken as an insult to me, the upper-year Slytherins' mood hardened at once. Higgs stepped forward and glared at Granger.
"No one asked for your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."
Gryffindor erupted in shouts. The hot-blooded Weasley twins lunged at Higgs, and I had to jump between them.
Ron Weasley was incandescent. "Take this, Higgs!" he yelled, trying to cast a curse. But his wand was half-broken, and the spell was advanced. As expected, it misfired; the flash blasted Ron in the stomach instead.
Gryffindors swarmed around him in worry; through the gaps I saw slugs spewing from his mouth. Brutal.
Higgs and Flint were delighted, laughing themselves sick. I could only stare, helpless, as Harry and Granger slung Ron by the arms and dragged him toward the gamekeeper's hut.
Higgs noticed me, wiped tears of laughter, and clapped my shoulder.
"No need to care what a Mudblood says, right?"
He thought he was comforting me. I could only force a vague smile.
The thing I'd avoided thinking about since starting school was shoved into my face in the worst way: the most fundamental issue dividing Slytherin and the other Houses—blood purity.
Since that "Mudblood" incident, I hadn't spoken with the trio. They seemed busy as classes ramped up, and I was frantic with unfamiliar Quidditch and babysitting Lockhart.
There was also work I'd decided took priority: investigating signs of this year's incident. Last year, I only realized something was wrong with the Halloween troll. But from what Harry said, Voldemort's moves had started in July with a Gringotts break-in—targeting the vault with the Philosopher's Stone.
I do recall such an article, but I didn't even realize until nearly the end of term that the Stone was at Hogwarts. Picking out a meaningful connection from the rest of the news would have been almost impossible.
So this year I wanted to predict what might happen in advance… and that whiffed. Or rather, there were too many partial hits to process. The wizarding world is absurd; suspicious things are endless, and none looks decisively dire. The biggest supposed lead—Lockhart, our Defense professor—showed no signs of anything.
Granted, all this also doubled as an excuse for not speaking to them after the "Mudblood" affair. In the end, I did nothing for Granger—slurred to her face—and nothing for Weasley, suffering from his backfired spell. With the Lockhart situation, I didn't want to upset relations with senior students in my House, and anyway… I'd resigned myself to the idea that saying something wouldn't touch the root of the problem.
I was ashamed and couldn't face them. I'm nowhere near a Gryffindor.
And then Halloween came in a flash—the anniversary of Harry's parents' deaths. In the Great Hall that evening, worried for him, I glanced at Gryffindor's table, but the trio was entirely absent. Last Halloween featured a troll, so their absence felt ominous. I hesitated, then decided this might be my chance. I ate quickly and got up to look for them.
I had no leads. I stepped into the Entrance Hall—and ran smack into the trio coming up the stairs.
Harry saw me and said only, "Come on—follow me!" then bolted up the staircase. What on earth—
Weasley and Granger, apparently equally uninformed, chased after him, baffled.
I hurried after them. "What is it?" I asked Weasley.
"No idea," he panted. "He says he hears a voice or something."
On the second floor, Harry suddenly stopped and motioned for silence. He strained to listen. A heartbeat later, he shouted, "It's going to kill someone!" and sprinted upward again. I heard nothing. It was downright eerie—and if someone really was about to kill, we absolutely shouldn't be running toward it.
Before I could stop him, we reached the third floor. Harry started searching around as if following a trail. After a long run, he finally halted.
"Harry, what is going on?" Weasley asked, confusion unhidden, breath ragged.
"I didn't hear a—"
Granger cut him off.
"Look!"
Something was gleaming on the far wall. Too dark to make out. I lit my wand.
There were letters written in something red:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
And beneath it hung Filch's cat, rigid and unmoving.
We couldn't move. Footsteps sounded in the distance—the party was over. Students were streaming toward their dorms. Before we could leave, we were seen by a crowd—and immediately became the obvious suspects under a forest of suspicious stares.
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