Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

"Hermione, how long is the Potions essay supposed to be? Two feet? Or was it three?"

"Five feet," Hermione replied without even lifting her head.

Harold's hand went limp around his quill. His wrist felt like it might fall off.

The most overwhelming part of the Easter holidays was undoubtedly the mountain of homework piled up like a miniature castle.

For two whole weeks, Harold had been spending at least eight hours a day in the library, already breaking three quills and emptying two bottles of ink. Even so, on the last day before term resumed, he still had an eight-foot-long essay left to write.

Compared to him, Harry and Ron seemed a lot more relaxed. With Hermione's contradictory but ever-reliable help, they only needed to sit in the library for five hours each day to meet their daily goals.

After that, they would slip off together, whispering mysteriously about something Harold hadn't figured out.

"I'm never going to finish this…" Neville despaired after knocking over his ink bottle again, staring helplessly at the ink-soaked parchment.

He was spending even more time in the library than Harold, yet still had a third of his assignments unfinished. There was no way he could complete them all before the next morning.

"Start with the Potions essay," Harold suggested. "Find a few good books and copy some content straight from them. Just get it done. Snape's not likely to read yours anyway."

Since the day Neville's cauldron had vanished under a Scouring Charm—along with his botched potion—Snape had changed his attitude toward him.

He no longer ridiculed him. He simply ignored him. As if keeping Neville alive during class was good enough.

So chances were, Snape wouldn't waste time reading Neville's essay. As long as he handed something in, there was at least a fifty-percent chance of getting by.

"Then copy that same essay again, change the name, and use it for History of Magic," Harold added. "Two birds, one stone."

"No—I can't…" Neville groaned.

"Relax. Everyone does it," Harold said. "You really think a ghost is going to grade your work?"

Only Peeves could physically interact with objects. The other Hogwarts ghosts couldn't even hold parchment, let alone correct essays.

"No, that's not it…" Neville looked even more miserable. "The first thing I finished… was the History of Magic essay. I did the whole thing."

Harold had no idea what to say to that. He just patted Neville's shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile.

…

Around midday, sunlight streamed through the library windows, and Harold couldn't help glancing outside.

Hogwarts in summer felt more alive than ever. The Whomping Willow had sprouted fresh green leaves, and both the sky and lake shimmered with a pale, violet-tinged blue.

Then he saw Hagrid crossing the grounds with Fang trotting at his side—and next to them, unmistakable red and black hair.

There were a lot of redheads at Hogwarts, but only one pair of red and black like that: Ron and Harry.

They seemed to be talking to Hagrid, and suddenly Hagrid picked up speed. Fang had to break into a jog to keep up.

Now that was odd. Hagrid trying to shake them off?

Harold blinked the thought away and got back to his essay. By late afternoon, he had finally reached the five-foot mark.

He unrolled the parchment, measured it again with a ruler, and nodded in satisfaction. Only then did he roll it up with care.

Terrifying. One essay took up an entire roll of parchment. If this continued, he wouldn't have time for anything else.

After dinner, Harold returned to the Gryffindor common room and saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together whispering again.

He immediately recalled what he'd seen at lunchtime.

But as soon as he approached, they all fell silent, pretending to chat about the weather like nothing had happened.

If they didn't want to talk, Harold wasn't going to press. At that moment, the last sliver of sunlight disappeared, and the moon rose high in the sky.

Sunset already?

"Oh no…" Harold suddenly remembered something, turned on his heel, and dashed up the stairs.

"Harold, wait—" Harry called after him, but Harold was already out of earshot.

"Is Harold mad at us?" Harry asked nervously, glancing up the staircase.

"Maybe we shouldn't have kept this from him," Hermione said. "He probably knows more about the Chamber of Secrets than any of us. Don't forget that Daily Prophet article."

"Forget about that," Ron said. "Fred and George already said the article was a joke. They didn't even know where the Chamber is."

"He does," Harry said. "Harold told me once—he knows where the Chamber is. The professors know too. They just can't get in."

"Really?" Hermione sat up straight, wide-eyed.

Harry nodded. "That's what he said."

"Then maybe we should just ask him."

"Won't work. He's just like the professors. Won't say a word," Ron sighed. "His lips are tighter than Hagrid's."

"But this time is different," Harry insisted. "Lockhart wants to open the Chamber—to stage a grand event for the front page. We have to stop him."

"You're sure you heard right?" Hermione frowned. "Lockhart, of all people—how could he even think of doing something like that?"

"I'm sure, Hermione," Harry said solemnly. "I swear I heard it. In his office. He said it himself."

"But…"

"If you still don't believe me, we can investigate on our own," Ron snapped.

"I…" Hermione looked torn.

She really wanted to believe Professor Lockhart wouldn't do anything dangerous—but she also didn't think Harry was lying.

The three fell into a heavy silence.

Before the mood got any worse, Harry quickly changed the subject. "Should we tell Harold about this?"

"Would he even believe you?" Ron said. "Believe you just happened to overhear Lockhart plotting something big? Don't forget how McGonagall reacted—she didn't believe us either. She said the headmaster's magic was unbreakable."

"Harold said something like that too," Harry added, trying to remember their last conversation. "He mentioned that only some special power of Salazar Slytherin could open the Chamber."

"So he probably thinks it's just as safe as McGonagall does," Ron muttered. "Same as last year—remember how they said the defenses protecting the Philosopher's Stone were foolproof? Then Quirrell strolled right in."

Hermione didn't answer. She just stared at Harry. "Why didn't you mention any of this earlier?"

"I only just remembered," Harry admitted, ruffling his hair sheepishly. "And besides, we still don't know where the entrance even is. Knowing this doesn't really help."

"Better to be prepared," Hermione said as she stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"The library. There's still two hours before curfew. I want to research Salazar Slytherin's special abilities."

She was conflicted—she didn't want to think Lockhart could endanger students, but she also didn't believe Harry was lying.

So she needed a distraction. Looking into Slytherin's legend seemed like a good one. Even if it turned out to be useless, she'd at least learn more about a famous wizard.

Just as she reached the portrait hole, she turned back. "Harry, if you have time, go back to Lockhart's office a few more times."

"Why do you still trust him?"

"Because he was attacked too," Hermione snapped. "We should understand the situation before jumping to conclusions and accusing a professor!"

Ron opened his mouth but didn't argue.

Harry didn't want to go back to Lockhart's office. Last time, he'd forgotten something and had to return—and that was when he overheard Lockhart's plan…

To open the Chamber of Secrets, release the creature inside, and create chaos—then swoop in and save the day.

After the duel club fiasco, Harry seriously doubted Lockhart could defeat any monster. But Lockhart himself seemed very confident.

(End of Chapter)