The Chamber's passage is hidden among the pipes, with the entrance in the third-floor girls' bathroom.
The third copper faucet, engraved with a snake pattern on its side.
Speak "Open" in Parseltongue.
I'm sorry, but I can't reveal details about the Chamber's interior for now.
These words were scrawled in an old diary. Riddle's voice came through again: "Dear Melvin, you're clever, gifted. Perhaps we could strike a deal."
At the desk, Melvin transcribed the useful bits onto parchment—just a few lines. Once his identity was exposed, the trust between pen pals evaporated. Tom Riddle, realizing he could no longer deceive Melvin, tried to leverage this information for a partnership.
Melvin felt a twinge of regret. Over the past two months, Riddle's tutoring in dark magic had been invaluable. The unicorn's gift had been fully tapped, and he'd nearly mastered the three Unforgivable Curses—lacking only real-world practice.
As Melvin copied the notes, the diary's old ink faded, and Riddle kept pleading, his tone earnest and persuasive.
"We've shared unforgettable moments. Trust me, I'd never scheme to harm you. Our friendship will endure. Beyond the Unforgivables, I know many powerful, wondrous spells."
"I'm just a diary now. I won't claim any treasure from Slytherin's Chamber. All I ask is a deal—no, a favor between friends."
"What do you say, dear Melvin?"
Melvin watched the words ripple across the page, his expression unmoved.
The sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle was exceptionally gifted, but that was all. The soul fragment in the diary wasn't yet the Dark Lord—his ideas were still half-formed. After two months, Melvin had wrung out all its value.
He picked up his quill and calmly wrote in the diary: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Before it could respond, he added below: I AM Voldemort.
The diary's cover shuddered, pages trembling and rustling as if a flood of ink was about to spill forth.
Bang—
Melvin snapped the diary shut, cutting off his pen pal for now. Shaking his head with a smile, he sealed it in a wooden box.
Let Riddle stew in his own pages.
---
November crept in, and the weather turned chilly.
A week into directing the school play, Neville had adapted to Marietta's slow, timid work style. With a few tweaks, they made tangible progress.
Script preparation and casting were handled separately.
Neville took on the script, consulting Nearly Headless Nick in his spare time. The ghost, with centuries of Hogwarts performances under his belt, was a pro. Within a week, he'd convinced Neville to stage an original play—a dazzling mix of mime, drama, and opera based on real events, sure to stun the school.
Marietta's main task was recruitment. A theater troupe couldn't run on just two people. Her roommate Cho Chang and a few close friends were the first to join, but it wasn't enough. On the prefect's advice, they posted a notice on the bulletin board:
"Professor Lewent is reviving the Drama Society. Interested students, contact Ravenclaw's Marietta Edgecombe."
---
Lunchtime in the Great Hall.
Ron, mouth stuffed with roast chicken drumstick, sneaked over to George and Fred's spot. While they bickered, he swiped two porcelain plates of limited-edition fruit pudding.
The house-elves in the kitchens prepared food based on demand. Main dishes like steak and bread were plentiful, but desserts were rationed.
Ron tiptoed back to his seat, unnoticed by the still-squabbling twins.
At the nearby Hufflepuff table, Seamus and a few others chatted noisily, joined by Justin, Hannah, and the smug Ernie Macmillan, who was always pestering Ginny.
Oddly, Ron didn't hear Ernie's voice today—probably choked on his food and ended up in the hospital wing.
He tucked away the stolen puddings and dug back into his drumstick.
A group of Hufflepuffs approached, some sitting next to Justin. Ernie was back, muttering complaints to his friends. "No idea what Professor Lewent was thinking, putting Edgecombe in charge of something this big."
Justin raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"They posted that recruitment notice, so we went to sign up with Edgecombe, but she was all mumbly, couldn't explain the process clearly."
"What happened then?"
Ernie scoffed. "Cho Chang saw she was about to cry and told us to come back with application forms. Interviews are Friday afternoon in the Muggle Studies classroom."
Ron snickered to himself. Smug Ernie deserved that. Always bothering Ginny.
Justin pressed, "Are you still joining?"
"Of course! Why wouldn't I?"
Seamus, Dean, and Justin—always active in student clubs like Wizard Chess, Gobstones, and Colin's new Harry Potter Fan Club—weren't particularly drawn to the Drama Society. Why was Ernie so eager?
Seamus leaned over. "You into plays? Never pegged you for it."
"Nope," Ernie said.
"Then why the rush to join?"
Ernie tilted his chin smugly. "You don't get it. Who's the faculty advisor for the Drama Society?"
"The notice said Professor Lewent," Hannah replied, puzzled. "So?"
"Ever heard of Lewent's Mirror Club?"
The group exchanged thoughtful looks. Ron's mind raced, and Justin caught on, exclaiming, "You mean the Drama Society isn't just performing for the school—it'll be shown on Invisibility Mirrors nationwide!"
"Oh!" The eavesdroppers gasped, suddenly interested.
Savoring his pilfered pudding, Ron mentally planned to fill out an application.
After two bites, he froze, eyes wide, and frantically slapped Harry's shoulder.
Harry and Hermione turned, confused.
Ron, panicking, opened his mouth—and barked like a dog.
---
In just a few days, the Drama Society's revival became the hottest topic at Hogwarts. Word spread that Professor Lewent's stage wasn't just for the school but for witches and wizards worldwide via Invisibility Mirrors.
Whether acting or working behind the scenes, it was a shot at fame in the wizarding world, like Harry and his friends last year.
Marietta and Neville were seen as lucky but underqualified—slow, awkward, and clearly suited for minor roles. Their struggles with recruitment were obvious, and the scriptwriting was swayed by a ghost's advice.
Many young witches and wizards were eager, certain that once talented students like themselves joined and caught Professor Lewent's eye, they'd shine on the Mirrors.
Marietta knew what they thought but wasn't angry or anxious. She was fine with it—let capable students take over. She'd follow their lead and handle simple, mindless tasks.
Her first fourteen years had been like that. Her mother told her to study, so she studied. To learn etiquette, so she learned. Her mother disliked bright clothes, so Marietta dressed conservatively.
It was fine. Her parents wouldn't steer her wrong.
At Hogwarts, life was even easier. Everyone wore similar uniforms, took similar classes, and practiced similar spells. She just followed Cho Chang's lead—Cho was brilliant, kind, and wouldn't harm her.
Quidditch? Most students weren't players, so she skipped it.
The Drama Society? Most weren't chosen as leads, so she could've skipped that too.
Marietta exhaled deeply, clutching a thick stack of applications, and knocked on the office door. "Professor Lewent, I'm here to report on the play's progress."
"Come in," came his calm voice.
She pushed open the door, carrying the applications, and saw Professor Lewent grading papers. Dark hair, dark eyes, upright posture, white shirt with a brown vest—young and handsome.
If only he didn't make things so hard.
Melvin looked up, smiling softly. "You're less timid now. A bit of pressure was the right call. When something's weighing you down, standing still makes it hard to breathe. Moving forward brings relief.
"When you can move ahead without being pushed or swayed by others' will, that's when you've truly grown."
Marietta didn't know how to respond. She stood stiffly, setting the applications on the desk and sliding them over. "Professor, these are the applicants for the troupe and future Drama Society members. Please decide who to accept or reject."
Melvin set his quill in the ink bottle, shaking his head. "I appointed you as the lead. These decisions are yours. During our Wednesday updates, I only want progress reports, not to interfere."
Marietta froze. "But, Professor… I…"
Melvin shifted topics. "Do you know why your mother made a deal with me?"
Marietta shook her head. She'd written home, but her mother's reply was vague.
"In the Ministry, the Department of Magical Transportation is low on the totem pole, overshadowed by departments like Law Enforcement or International Affairs," Melvin said, tidying a stack of fourth-year essays without grading them. "Your mother's a mid-level official, unwilling to climb through flattery. The Edgecombe family lacks influence, so she pours everything into perfect work for scraps of recognition."
Marietta stood silently, absorbing his words.
"Barring surprises, she won't reach department head before you graduate. Decades of grinding might not even earn her a Wizengamot seat." Melvin flipped through the applications without reading them. "When I proposed a deal—wealth, position, power—she didn't bite."
"…"
Marietta stayed quiet.
Her mother was like that—strictly bound by rules in work and life, almost to a fault. Marietta had grown used to it, following her guidelines, avoiding her boundaries.
No need to think or worry.
"Not until I mentioned you," Melvin said, studying the pretty young witch. "I told her she'd brought her work habits home, her domineering style stifling your personality, shaping you into who you are now. That's when she agreed to the deal—not for wealth or power, but for you to grow normally."
Marietta stood frozen as he pushed the applications back to her.
"Rebuilding the Drama Society is also about rebuilding you. That's not just my hope—it's your mother's too."
"…"
Marietta stood by the desk for a long time. Coming to, she saw the professor still grading essays. Silently, she took the applications and left.
---
Another weekend, in the Muggle Studies office.
Melvin was reviewing supplemental class essays. Harry and Hermione had swapped arguments, writing in each other's style about combat. The content, paired with their expressions, was amusing.
Harry looked numb. His fourteen-inch essay, stretched to the limit with oversized handwriting, included nearly ten dueling case studies. Copying them alone nearly gave him hand cramps, with no analysis of fighting styles.
Hermione's face was pained. Her three-inch essay, stripped of case studies or references, was pared down to maintain logic and structure—a torturous process.
"We'll talk essays later," Melvin said, setting them aside. "What's the update on Hagrid?"
Hermione's gaze lingered on her paper, reluctant.
"Don't get me started," Harry muttered. "Hagrid avoids us now. Professor Flitwick says he's quit drinking. We asked Moaning Myrtle about her death—she only saw two yellow, lantern-like eyes before passing out. When we pressed, we nearly got drenched by toilet water."
He shuddered at the memory.
Hermione added, "I found Tom Riddle's Special Services Award in the trophy room, but no other clues. He vanished after graduation."
She pursed her lips, sneaking a glance at the professor.
She still suspected that footage was tied to Professor Lewent.