"What's wrong, Ron?"
Harry saw that his best friend seemed to want to say something, but after opening his mouth several times, no sound came out. He couldn't help but ask.
"Um, actually, that day—" Ron struggled, but he couldn't get the words out.
To be honest, Ron was a boy who valued friendship, and to him, Marcel was indeed a man of few words, but a true friend worth having.
After all, letting him copy his homework was a true act of brotherhood! He didn't want to suspect Marcel at all.
Although he had indeed seen Marcel's retreating back at that corner that day. It was only for a moment, but he was too familiar with the outer robe that Marcel always wore, which hid many things. It was impossible to be mistaken.
"...No, it's nothing. I just think they'll believe anything! To actually suspect you, Harry," Ron paused, his tone shifting from its previous dullness.
The crowd gradually thinned, and they were finally able to climb the stairs without difficulty.
"Do you really think there's a Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked, turning to Hermione.
"I don't know," she said, frowning. "Dumbledore couldn't cure Mrs. Norris, which makes me think that whatever attacked her probably wasn't—well—human."
As they spoke, they walked past the corner and found themselves in the corridor where the attack had taken place.
Then, they saw about twenty spiders scurrying frantically across the windowsill, seeming eager to escape through a small crack in the glass. A long, silver thread hung down like a rope, and it looked like they had used it to hastily climb up and flee to the outside.
Ron was startled. He had always hated spiders, especially the way they scuttled quickly.
Hermione giggled.
"What's so funny," Ron said angrily. "You know, when I was three, Fred turned my—my teddy bear into a great big, ugly spider because I broke his toy broomstick. You wouldn't like them either if you'd had my experience. If you're holding your teddy bear and suddenly it sprouts a lot of legs and..."
He shuddered and couldn't go on. Hermione was clearly still trying not to laugh.
Harry thought it was best they didn't talk about this topic. He quickly said, "Remember that puddle of water on the floor? Where did it come from? Someone had mopped the floor."
They walked over, looked at the floor, and then at the door next to it.
"Can't go in there," Ron said, his hand getting burned by the doorknob. "It's a girls' lavatory."
"Oh, Ron, there won't be anyone in there," said Hermione. She stood up straight and walked over. "This is Moaning Myrtle's place. Come on, let's go have a look."
She ignored the large "OUT OF ORDER" sign and pushed the door open.
Myrtle was a ghost, and not a very popular one. She had a bad temper, always hid in this lavatory crying, and had even thrown cold water on girls who had accidentally wandered in.
But overall, it was just because of an inexplicable sense of inferiority.
Harry and the others went in and asked a few questions, but Myrtle clearly didn't want to talk much. After a series of non-answers, she slipped into the toilet, splashing them with water.
Unfortunately, just as they were backing out of the girls' lavatory, they ran into Ron's older brother, Percy.
Unlike Ron, Percy's academic performance was excellent, and he always liked to show off his prefect badge to his brothers. At school, he was always very serious—he believed he should not show favoritism.
For example, he just deducted 5 points from Gryffindor.
That evening in the common room, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat as far away from Percy as possible. Ron had been in a bad mood lately. While doing his Charms homework, he kept spilling ink on his paper.
When he absent-mindedly took out his wand to try and clean up the smudges, he accidentally set the parchment on fire. Ron, his anger flaring, slammed his copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut.
To Harry's surprise, Hermione also slammed her book shut with force.
"But who could it be?" she whispered. "Who'd want to get all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?"
"Let's think," said Ron, "who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?"
He lowered his head, his eyes hidden. Hermione looked at him, and although she was somewhat skeptical, she secretly agreed.
"You mean—"
"Of course! You heard him—'You'll be next, Mudbloods!' Come on, you've only got to look at his foul rat-face to know it's him—"
Hearing this, Harry also closed his book.
"Look at his family," said Harry. "The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; he's always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin's descendants. His father's definitely evil enough."
"They could have had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!" said Ron. "Handing it down, father to son..."
"Well," said Hermione cautiously, "I suppose it's possible..."
"But how do we prove it?" said Harry glumly.
"There might be a way," said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice a little and glancing across at Percy, who was sitting at the other end of the room. "Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect—"
"What is it?" Ron asked impatiently.
"All right," said Hermione coolly. "What we'd need to do is get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it's us."
"That's impossible," said Harry, while Ron looked annoyed.
"No, it's not," said Hermione. "All we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion."
"What's that?" said Ron and Harry in unison.
"Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago—"
Hermione paused, hesitated, and then continued, "And even earlier than that, last term... I saw it in Marcel's Potions notebook..."
Her voice grew smaller and smaller, until it was almost inaudible.
"Oh, Marcel..." Ron repeated, but said no more.
Harry said cautiously, "Really... I mean, should we really not ask Marcel? Putting aside the Chamber of Secrets, just for this—um—Polyjuice Potion, it would be better to ask Marcel for help, right?"
He waited for a while, but seeing that neither of them spoke, the confusion on his face deepened.
"You guys... what's really wrong with Marcel?" Harry couldn't help but ask directly.
"No, it's nothing. I just think... has Marcel been a bit too reclusive lately..." Ron said hesitantly.
Hermione pursed her lips, glanced at Ron, and stammered, "Harry, don't ask for now. About the Polyjuice Potion, I'll go ask Marcel about it tomorrow..."
But in the days that followed, Hermione never found a chance—she rarely even saw Marcel.
In the end, they had to go to Lockhart to get a signed note to borrow a book from the Restricted Section. In fact, Lockhart was willing to sign his name anywhere.
"So, Harry," said Lockhart, as Hermione clumsily folded the note and put it in her bag. "First Quidditch match of the season tomorrow, eh? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it?"
"Heard you've been doing well in training. I was a Seeker myself, you know. They asked me to play for the National Squad, but I preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces... Still, if you ever feel the need for a few pointers, don't hesitate to ask. I'm always happy to pass on my experience to less able players!"
Harry muttered something indistinctly in his throat and hurried away with Ron and Hermione.
"I can't believe it," Harry said, as the three of them studied the signature on the note. "He didn't even look at the book we wanted!"
"Because he's a brainless git," said Ron. "But who cares, we've got what we wanted."
"He is not a brainless git," said Hermione, frowning as they hurried towards the library.
If it weren't for Marcel, Hermione's attitude would definitely not be like this; perhaps she would be even more fervent. After all, she was one of Lockhart's admirers. But right now, she really didn't have the time to care so much. She just said one sentence and left it at that.
There had been a lot of annoying things lately.
Soon, they ran to the library and borrowed a book called Moste Potente Potions, and then hurried to Moaning Myrtle's girls' lavatory.
…
At eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match began.
At this moment, Marcel was also sitting in the stands. He hadn't originally wanted to come, but Luna seemed very interested in Quidditch—she had insisted on dragging Marcel to the Ravenclaw stands.
He looked at Luna's enthusiastic expression, and in his heart, which should have been devoid of any remaining emotion, he inexplicably felt that it was quite nice to accompany her for once.
It was a hot and humid day. Thunder rumbled in the sky, making everyone feel that it would definitely rain later.
Before long, the match began.
Malfoy, straddling his brand-new Nimbus 2001, weaved back and forth below Harry, seemingly showing off the speed of his broom.
But it wasn't long before a heavy black Bludger suddenly flew towards him!
Harry narrowly dodged it by a hair's breadth. He even felt the ball stir his hair as it flew past.
Marcel took out his wand, pointed it at his own eyes, and muttered a few words. Instantly, his vision was rapidly zoomed in and magnified. He could clearly see the situation Harry was facing.
"Is it... that house-elf?" Marcel thought to himself.
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