"What?!" Hermione Granger jumped to her feet, hands on her hips, glaring at the dejected Harry. "You lost it?"
"And Scabbers is missing too!" Ron cried from beside them.
"Keep your voice down, Hermione. Percy's watching." They were in the Gryffindor common room, and Harry cast a nervous glance around at the other students, afraid that the nosy prefect would hear something and come over to give him a piece of his mind.
Hermione quickly lowered her voice. "How could it simply be lost?"
"I'd also like to know why anyone would want to steal Scabbers..." Ron said miserably.
"Our dormitory was ransacked," Harry said, his expression grim.
"But — only Gryffindors could have taken it. No one else knows our password." Hermione paused, the implication dawning on her.
"Exactly," Harry said. It was one of the reasons his thoughts had been in such turmoil — he suspected there was a traitor within Gryffindor.
"Oh, do shut up about the rat, Ron!" Hermione snapped, unable to contain herself any longer. "It probably slipped out to forage — rats do that. The diary is what matters!"
Her voice had risen slightly, and Ginny Weasley, who was sitting nearby with her back to them, seemed to catch the outburst. She turned her head briefly, a flash of something like panic crossing her face, then quickly looked back down at her homework.
Ron fell sullen, muttering resentfully under his breath.
"You must tell Dumbledore at once, Harry. This is no joke," Hermione said.
"Hermione, without evidence, do you think Dumbledore will simply take my word for it? Half the school thinks I'm the Heir of Slytherin. Whatever I say will just sound like sophistry to them," Harry said, frustrated. "Besides, I'm more worried about Hagrid. Any mention of the diary drags up his past, and I don't want him caught up in this."
"This has gone well beyond Hagrid," Hermione said sharply. "If what Hagrid told us is true — that Tom Riddle is Voldemort, that the diary is a trap — then it's very likely Voldemort himself opened the Chamber of Secrets."
"All right, all right. You don't need to be as dire about it as Draco." Harry held up his hands. "I'll go to Dumbledore as soon as I can."
Only once he'd given his assurance did Hermione seem satisfied.
During Potions on Thursday afternoon, she made a point of partnering with Draco and, while grinding her ingredients, relayed the devastating news in a low voice.
"Stolen?" Draco asked, eyeing the white root flesh sceptically. "The timing is too convenient. You were on the verge of handing it to Dumbledore, and now it's gone?"
"Exactly," Hermione said. "We think it was someone inside Gryffindor."
Draco was quiet for a moment, then asked, "How is the research on those lists coming along?"
"I've narrowed it down to a few suspects — Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, Zacharias Smith of Hufflepuff, Graham Montague and Theodore Nott from your house. They were all punished by Filch shortly before Mrs. Norris's attack, they've all expressed pure-blood sympathies, and they've all mocked Colin to varying degrees." She hesitated. "But when I cross-reference with the timeline in the diary, they're all ruled out. None of them are Gryffindors."
"What about Gryffindor itself?" Draco asked. "Any suspects there?"
"Cormac McLaggen," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "An older boy. Neither Harry nor Ron can stand him — he lords it over everyone in the common room and never misses a chance to boast about his family. He's been punished by Filch, he's mocked Colin, and he has a very… sorted view of people."
"I know that name," Draco said evenly. "His uncle has some influence at the Ministry. That sort tends toward arrogance."
"The problem is his alibi. The night Mrs. Norris was attacked, he was at the Gryffindor table — Lavender saw him. She said he ate an entire roast chicken and licked the bones clean. It was apparently vivid enough to stick in her memory." Hermione carefully tipped the ground herbs into her cauldron. "I think we need to rethink our entire approach."
"Have you considered looking further back?" Draco said. "Don't limit yourself to the days just before Mrs. Norris's incident. The Weasley twins already knew Filch was a Squib well in advance. There are probably plenty of older students who know as well."
"What makes you say that?" Hermione asked.
Draco explained how the twins had once tricked Filch by fabricating a Kwikspell correspondence course in his name.
"Oh no," Hermione said, going quite still. "Then we have to reconsider everything. The culprit could be anyone with a longstanding grudge against Filch — and at Hogwarts, that's practically half the school!" She set down her pestle with a frustrated clatter. "How are we possibly meant to investigate this?"
"At least we can rule out you, Harry, and Ron," Draco said, feeding a handful of lacewings into the bottom of his cauldron. He almost smirked. "Three eliminated in under a second."
"This is not funny." She shot him a withering look and picked up a bundle of dried nettles. "I'll have to speak to people one by one — subtly, carefully. Talking to people is far harder than reading a book."
"Not everyone would agree with you on that," Draco said. "You ought to learn to make use of the people around you rather than trying to handle everything yourself. Give Harry and Ron something to do — get Ron focused on something other than that rat, and stop letting Harry brood over the diary."
"That does make sense," Hermione admitted. "Though Harry said he was going to see Professor Dumbledore days ago, and there's still been no word. Dumbledore hasn't been at the staff table for two days now. Professor McGonagall mentioned she hasn't had a chance to catch him either."
"Not surprising," Draco said. "Ministry officials and members of the Board of Governors have been in and out of the castle constantly. It's all to do with the Chamber of Secrets."
Even if Harry and his friends hadn't made a fuss, the Ministry and the school board had long memories: someone had dug up a fifty-year-old case, and the finger pointed squarely at Hagrid.
Draco had received a letter from his father. Lucius wrote that Minister Cornelius Fudge, bowing to mounting pressure, was in discussions with his advisors about whether to have Hagrid — with his criminal record — transferred to Azkaban.
Despite Lucius's reluctance, despite Narcissa's urging — Draco had written several letters to his mother detailing the school's deteriorating situation and the risks of the Malfoy name being tied to the Chamber of Secrets — the other school governors were already buzzing with talk of accountability. Someone had to answer for the string of attacks at Hogwarts. Hagrid, the powerless and dispensable gamekeeper, made for a convenient scapegoat.
Meanwhile, the true architect behind the locked chamber — Lucius Malfoy himself — was preoccupied with a different concern entirely: how Draco had come to know that the diary originated from the Malfoy family.
Lucius had never intended to involve his son. He had said nothing to the boy about it, precisely to prevent him from knowing too much and arousing suspicion. He could not fathom how Draco had pieced together so much.
What startled him most was that Draco also knew the diary was connected to the Dark Lord. That secret, Lucius had shared with no one — not even Narcissa.
"This is indeed a relic from the Dark Lord's era," Lucius had written. "As for its precise function, I cannot say with certainty — only that it is a dangerous Dark artefact with some connection to the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts. With the Ministry conducting raids, I was forced to find a more suitable arrangement for it. I will say no more on the matter."
Even in the middle of a crisis, the Malfoy patriarch clung to his characteristic secrecy, retreating behind that familiar wall of composure. Draco sighed and set the letter down.
He had hoped his father might inadvertently reveal something about how the diary had ended up at Hogwarts — something that might point to whoever had set the Chamber in motion. But Lucius was tight-lipped, and Draco was no closer to an answer.
His father had always been this way. So long as the fire didn't reach his own doorstep, it was nothing to do with him. He felt no particular regret that Hagrid might be made a scapegoat on his behalf; if anything, he seemed quietly pleased at having slipped free of any blame.
He even seemed to regard the diary as a trifle — a nuisance he had conveniently offloaded.
Draco sighed inwardly.
Father. That cleverness of yours has well and truly backfired, hasn't it?
Hogwarts was hardly a suitable vault for Dark artefacts. No doubt the Dark Lord had come to the same conclusion — which would explain the fury that had apparently followed.
The diary, it seemed, mattered greatly to the Dark Lord. It contained his thoughts, after all. Draco felt a pang of belated regret. He should have sought the diary sooner, instead of keeping his distance for the sake of appearances.
It seemed every Malfoy man was destined to make a fool of himself when it came to that wretched book.
And now the diary was gone — stolen. It might have been reclaimed by a student who had previously possessed it, or it might be somewhere in the shadows, waiting to ensnare the next unsuspecting victim.
"Hermione," he said quietly to the girl bent over her cauldron, "be careful when you're gathering information. Don't let on what you're looking for."
"Are you worried I'll end up Petrified again?" She wrinkled her nose. "If your concern is about my Muggle heritage—"
"That's not it," Draco said. "But I can't speak for the culprit."
"Fair point," she said, with a small shrug. "Though have you considered — if it's the Dark Lord's diary driving all this, Harry's the one in the most danger. They're the real adversaries here, aren't they?"
"We can't assume that." Thinking of what he remembered from his past life, Draco remained uneasy. "Nothing has happened in two months, but I think that's precisely what makes it dangerous. The calm before the storm. Whoever is behind this will strike again. You and Harry are both at risk."
The situation had become unpredictable in ways that unsettled him deeply.
He knew the danger existed — he simply didn't know from which direction it would come.
He knew the general shape of the future, but he could not know how much his presence had already altered it. Hermione Granger had once been Petrified in the corridor outside the library. Whether that would happen again — whether it might be prevented, or whether something worse might take its place — were questions he didn't dare to linger on.
Most troubling of all was this: Draco had no way of knowing how Harry had ultimately dealt with the diary in his previous life, or whether it had ever been stolen then. The details of the process — as opposed to the outcome — remained entirely opaque to him.
He knew the ending. He had no map to get there.
Still, he could not simply stand aside and wait for Harry and Ron to stumble towards the answer.
Some days later, the Weasley twins appeared before him, beaming, clutching the dazed rat between them.
Draco produced the Marauder's Map and spread it across the table. The name Peter Pettigrew materialised clearly beside theirs, nearly overlapping their own.
The twins exchanged a horrified glance. Without another word, they locked the bewildered rat inside a transparent glass dome that had been prepared in advance and sealed with a Stasis Charm.
The rat remained blissfully unconscious, sleeping deeply, undisturbed. Draco draped a black cloth over the dome.
"We gave it a sleeping draught—" Fred said.
"During Snape's class—" George added.
"One drop keeps a person under for three days and nights—" Fred's eyes glinted.
"We thought if the Sticking Charm wasn't enough, this would at least buy us some time." George offered a distinctly unpleasant smile.
"Well done," Draco said. "Now. Let's go and find Professor Dumbledore."
When Draco and the twins arrived outside the Headmaster's office, Harry was already there, standing before the great stone gargoyle with a helpless expression.
"I don't know the password," Harry said. "Professor McGonagall wouldn't tell me."
"Lemon Sorbet," Draco said. He'd overheard Harry mention it to Hermione in the library, some time ago.
The gargoyle sprang to life at once, and the wall behind it split open to reveal a spiral staircase, rising smoothly like an escalator.
"Shall we?" Draco said to Harry. "I imagine you have something to say to Dumbledore yourself."
He suspected it was about the diary. Harry had been putting it off for days.
Harry gave a quiet nod and stepped inside with Draco and the twins. The staircase carried them upward in slow, steady spirals until at last a gleaming oak door appeared before them.
Draco stepped forward and knocked with the griffin-shaped brass knocker.
"Come in," came a calm, aged voice from within.
They opened the door. Professor Dumbledore was seated behind his large desk, and standing before him were Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge and two hooded wizards who had the unmistakeable bearing of Ministry Aurors.
The Headmaster's office occupied one of Hogwarts' four towers, and it showed. Bookshelves held antique telescopes, orreries, star charts, and a constellation of strange magical instruments, giving the circular room an air of scholarly wonder.
Draco was in no mood to admire them. He offered a polite greeting to Fudge, who noticed the colour of his hair and smiled back.
"It seems we are to have our conversation interrupted," Professor Dumbledore said pleasantly, stroking his waist-length white beard. "I may need to change the password to this office more regularly. What a remarkable collection of visitors." His bright blue eyes moved between Harry, Draco, and the twins with evident interest. "Sherbet lemon, anyone?" He gestured toward a dish on his desk.
Draco and Harry stood still. The twins, however, wandered over with great enthusiasm, helping themselves to a handful and examining the sweets with open curiosity.
"Since you have business here, perhaps we ought to be going—" Fudge said, beginning to rise.
"Actually, Minister," Draco said, "I'd rather you stayed. I believe you'd want to witness this."
Fudge looked puzzled, but sat back down with a frown.
"This may seem an unusual request," Draco continued, stepping forward, "but I'd ask everyone present to have their wands ready." He set the glass dome carefully on the floor and drew back the black cloth. "Minister, I need you to have someone perform a Homorphus Charm on this rat."
The rat dozed on, oblivious to its impending exposure. Behind him, Harry whispered, "That's Ron's—" but the twins, stationed nearby, promptly clapped a hand over his mouth and fed him a sherbet lemon.
"There is no Animagus registered with the Ministry in rat form," Fudge said stiffly, as Harry spluttered. "This is absurd."
"Which is precisely why I suspect it's unregistered — and extremely dangerous," Draco said.
"My boy, whatever Lucius and I may have in common, this is extraordinarily impertinent behaviour! Barging into the Headmaster's office to accuse a rat—!" Fudge's face was reddening. "First the Chamber of Secrets, now this... Dumbledore, I am beginning to question your management of this institution."
Dumbledore paid no attention to Fudge's bluster. He regarded Draco steadily, gauging the seriousness in the boy's face.
Draco met his gaze without flinching.
"Fudge, I see no harm in honouring the student's request," Dumbledore said at last, raising an eyebrow. "Mr Malfoy — if you would."
Draco removed the sleeping rat from the dome and set it on the floor, then stepped back several paces, wand in hand.
Dumbledore rose from behind his desk, drew out his long, pale wand, and performed the counter-spell with a single precise motion.
A burst of blue light filled the room. Several sharp intakes of breath followed. Fudge's was loudest.
Like time-lapse footage of a seed becoming a tree, the rat swelled rapidly — a human head emerged, then limbs, then a full figure.
The two Aurors surged forward immediately, pressing the still-sleeping form firmly to the floor.
He was a small, dishevelled man — thinning hair, a wide bald patch, watery eyes, and skin that somehow managed to look both grey and unwashed. There was something unmistakeably rodent-like about his features.
It was Peter Pettigrew.