There are not many of us left now who remember Tom Riddle as a schoolboy.
Plenty of people knew, or claim that they knew, the Boy Who Lived in the year when he opened the Chamber of Secrets (although most of their accounts are curiously vague as to what, exactly, he did in there, and one infers that they were not present themselves). Harry Potter's biography, when some enterprising witch or wizard gets around to writing it, seems certain to be a best-seller; it might even be truthful enough to deserve that status. But as to the only other time in living memory when Slytherin's monster had the run of Hogwarts, it isn't widely known, even now, that Riddle was the one responsible. I know it, and much else besides, only because I was there.
It seems incongruous, now: I've spent a lifetime chasing stories, but never published the one that might have been the scoop of my career. It wasn't even a matter of protecting a source; rather, of the journalist protecting herself from her source. I was quite terrified enough that the Dark Lord would catch up with me one day, without attracting his attention by tattling on his youthful indiscretions. Even after his self-extinguishment in pursuit of the infant Potter, that still left young Rubeus Hagrid, who need never have been expelled from Hogwarts, if only I had breathed what I knew into the right pair of ears. Sixty years ago, that was, and I still have nightmares in which I have to explain myself to him. At the time, of course, I was only glad to have escaped any suspicion myself. One has to be out of one's teens to truly feel shame.
That year was my fifth at Hogwarts, but the first in which I had to pay attention to much besides enjoying myself. Then as now, fifth year was O.W.L. year, and all of us felt terribly oppressed by the volume of school work, and the looming challenge -- palpable as early as the previous October -- of the final examinations. (Little did we know, in those innocent days, what a real high-pressure job was like. Some of us, at least, would discover that soon enough.) There was homework given in every class, and it was never the kind that could be dashed off in five minutes whilst waiting for a Quidditch match to start. Sooner or later, all of us learned that we had to schedule regular desk time for ourselves to get through it all. I wasn't (and never have been) very good at that, but I think I handled the stress better than most, albeit mostly by assiduous procrastination.
The attacks were another matter. They started about a week into the spring term, when a first-year Gryffindor boy named Michael O'Leary was found unconscious in a second-floor corridor with two black eyes and blood all over his face. He wasn't able to describe clearly what had happened to him, but he was adamant that no other students had been involved; he'd been alone as far as he knew.
Then came Susan Trent, a few days later, who never returned to her dormitory in Ravenclaw Tower one Saturday night. O'Leary was nobody, but Susan was a popular sixth-year, widely regarded as the front-runner to be the next Head Girl, and her friends roused the staff and insisted on a search of the Hogwarts grounds in the small hours of Sunday morning. She was eventually found by Professor Dumbledore, half-in and half-out of the icy lake, soaked to the skin, and almost passed out from the cold. None of the teachers would venture an opinion on what might have befallen her; Dumbledore only remarked, in his usual imperturbable way, that perhaps Susan had felt like a walk in the moonlight, and did the school have any Mandrake roots on hand? (I'm sure he was a lot more worried than he was letting on, but he was very good at not showing it.) Poor Susan, she never quite recovered her self-confidence, and at her own request she was not made a prefect the following year.
After a few more such incidents, someone noticed that all the unfortunates involved were Muggle-born. A wild rumour swept through the school, to the effect that a –monster†had been released from the dramatic-sounding –Chamber of Secrets†(wherever that was) by someone styling themselves the –Heir of Slytherinâ€. The victims were presumably all students that it disapproved of. Or, possibly, that the Heir disapproved of. No-one seemed to know what sort of creature the monster was, or who Slytherin's Heir might be, but the story -- such as it was -- spread regardless. I suppose it made a kind of sense: who in wizarding Britain was more concerned with blood purity than Salazar Slytherin himself? Too bad the man was a thousand years dead. As you can probably imagine, this didn't make life any happier for us in Slytherin House: none of the victims were ours, and we were generally assumed to be sheltering the invisible perpetrator.
My friend Lavinia Bell had a theory that the Heir of Slytherin was actually the Head of Slytherin, Professor Horace Slughorn. She explained it all to me one day as we sat in the back row of double Transfiguration with the Gryffindors. It wasn't quite the most implausible load of tripe I'd ever heard -- though it came close -- but it was at least easier to follow than most of the material Professor Dumbledore was droning on about.
–Today we will be transforming pincushions into geraniums,†he'd begun. –But this is not the kind of straightforward Transfiguration spell you all mastered in first year -- quite the contrary, indeed.†He smiled at us over his half-moon spectacles; Dumbledore never looked happier than when he was explaining some complicated piece of magic. –You will need to pay close attention to several of the multifarious possible effects,†he went on. –Those of you who have studied Arithmancy†-- which ruled out both Lavinia and me -- –may perceive at once that both the number and the arrangement of the pins in the pincushion will have a bearing on the technique required. Now, who can tell me why this is so?â€
I couldn't have told him, not to save my life, but it turned out that someone could. The same someone -- her name escapes me, after all these years -- knew that there were 481 species of geranium, including 69 varieties with magical properties; just as well Dumbledore didn't ask her to name them all. Instead, he lectured us on the theory for another twenty minutes or so, then divided the class into pairs to try the spell out. We were supposed to keep notes on how variations in wand movement, incantation, and the intended colour of the flower petals affected the outcome, but I soon discovered that Lavinia couldn't get the same result twice running even if she tried to, which was rather discouraging. Professor Dumbledore, meanwhile, was busy inviting some of the more capable students in the class to turn their geraniums back into pincushions, and to ponder why they always ended up with more pins than they'd had to start with. (–This is really a N.E.W.T. level question, but it won't hurt to stretch you a little.â€) Needless to say, neither of us were in that league, and we soon reverted to discussing Lavinia's theory about the Heir of Slytherin.
–But Susan was one of Slughorn's favourites!†I told her exasperatedly. –She went to the Slug Club Christmas party with Cyril Hughes, remember?â€
–Exactly!†Lavinia replied. –With Hughes -- another Muggle-born! Slughorn could overlook her blood status, but the two of them getting together was too much for him! He probably imagined them married and having double-Muggle-born children, and decided to sic his monster on her in a fit of rage. If I were Cyril, I'd be dead scared now...â€
There was more in this vein, but it was cut short by Professor Dumbledore announcing that we should spend the last ten minutes of the period preparing a written summary of our notes, which he would be collecting at the end of the class. This occasioned a minor panic among those of us who had yet to make any notes worth summarizing. I was left with no choice but to shoulder-tap my cousin Bernard, who was sitting in the row in front of me; fortunately, Bernard was in a generous mood and willing to share. He turned sideways, allowing both Lavinia and I to see what he had written, and I carefully paraphrased his words so that it would not be obvious that his work and mine had the same primary source. I would usually have done the same for Lavinia -- she wasn't as good at that sort of thing -- but there was no time; I had to just hope she'd get away with it.
–Avery!†Dumbledore warned from the front of the room. Bernard and I both looked up guiltily, to see him striding forcefully down the aisle towards us, arms swinging. The classroom turned the rest of its heads in our direction. Dumbledore had a curious way of signalling trouble without actually raising his voice; if he sounded mildly disappointed, you knew you were in the soup. –Yes, you too, Beatrice. And Miss Bell, as well. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you copying another student's work?â€
There was no answer to that. It did seem, on reflection, to have been a remarkably foolish and desperate thing to have tried, because very few things evaded Dumbledore's notice.
He shook his head sadly, making his splendid auburn beard swing back and forth like a pendulum. –Ten points from Gryffindor for you, Miss Bell, and twenty from Slytherin for you, Avery and Avery. And three detentions. I suggest you use the remaining time to formulate some brief notes of your own on today's work. It needn't be an epistle; something short and lucid will do me nicely.â€
Dumbledore held us back after class, to tell us that our detentions would be on the following Saturday. –Mr. Ogg has been looking for someone to harvest his Chinese nettle patch for him,†he explained, –he'd much rather not have to do it himself. He'll be delighted that you three have volunteered. Don't forget your dragon-hide gloves.†Bernard was a real brick about it; didn't blame us at all, which cheered us up a little. After all, we assured each other as we left the classroom, it was the sort of thing that could happen four or five times to anybody.
Albus Dumbledore, of course, had quite a lot on his plate just then. The rest of the Hogwarts staff would almost certainly have been looking to him -- brilliant and fearless wizard, twelve uses of dragon's blood, etc, etc -- to do something about the mysterious attacks on Muggle-borns. One can only imagine the sense of frustration engendered by his complete inability to do so. As if that were not enough, there was also ever-increasing pressure on him to confront the monstrous Gellert Grindelwald, then at the very height of his appalling powers in Europe. In hindsight, I'm not surprised that the first streaks of silver began to appear in Dumbledore's beard around that time. The real wonder, perhaps, is where he found the energy to teach us anything at all.
However, the only thing getting through to me, self-centred child that I was, was that the great man had dealt rather harshly with a minor classroom infraction. A whole morning's detention, for accepting a little bit of non-magical help from another student? Unprecedented, and unnecessarily severe, I thought as I dressed for the ordeal.
Heavy canvas overalls: two pair, inner and outer. Thick walking boots. (If ever you need a thankless –no comment†from the sort of misanthropic witch or wizard that puts an Anti-Apparition Jinx on their back-of-beyond mountaintop abode, I have an old pair going cheap.) Dragon-hide gloves. I practiced the Bubble-Head Charm in front of the bathroom mirror, and a plain sort of face stared blurrily back at me. Brown eyes and hair (the latter threatening to escape from beneath a tight-fitting leather cap); tolerable skin; nose too long. A practical witch in a practical outfit with a job to do.
The worst of it wasn't having to pick Chinese nettles, which to be honest I didn't mind all that much, but losing half a day's study time. I was badly behind on homework and O.W.L. preparation, and had been relying on that weekend for a chance to make some headway. I supposed I would just have to make it up later on.
–Is this all of you?â€, Mr. Ogg asked gruffly, when he opened the door of his hut in response to Lavinia's tentative knock. He was a squat, middle-aged wizard who wore hobnailed boots (even indoors) and a cloth cap over his coarse grey hair. –Right then, the nettles are round the back. Do I have to give you the safety talk, or have you done all this before?â€
We assured him that we'd done Chinese nettles in Herbology.
–Good,†he said shortly. –Cut 'em with these copper sickles†-- he produced them -- –and put the leaves in the basket I've left for you. Don't try to rush the job, or you'll spoil 'em and put yourselves in the hospital wing besides. Take reg'lar breaks, and don't forget to renew your Bubble-Head Charms.â€
It was slow, fiddly work; the nettles grew in a great mass of thin stems which had to be individually severed. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, we began to get rather hot in our layers of protective clothing; Ogg had, naturally enough, planted his herb garden on the sunny side of his hut. I wished I'd brought a mug, or could remember how to transfigure a mushroom or something into one. Given a vessel, I could have managed a charm to fill it with potable water -- but that got me halfway to nowhere, as my mother would have said.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking noise from the far side of the hut, shortly followed by the sound of Ogg opening his front door and admitting visitors. The three of us looked at each other and, by tacit agreement, stopped work to listen.
–Good of you to host us here, Mr. Ogg,†came the thin, reedy voice of the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, faintly through an open window. –We'd have met in my office, but...†He trailed off.
–But we cannot be completely sure what may be hiding in our walls, at present,†Professor Dumbledore finished for him firmly.
–Quite,†Dippet continued. –Besides, it seems only appropriate that we should come to you, as it is your idea we intend to discuss.â€
–No trouble, Professor,†Ogg assured him. –Make yourselves at home. Can I offer you a cup o'tea?â€
There followed the gurgle of hot water being poured, and the clinking of spoons in cups. Outside, we put down our sickles and tried to find positions from which we could hear clearly without being seen. Well, it wasn't every day we got to eavesdrop on the Hogwarts staff.
–Now then,†Dippet continued eventually, –we have a problem, and we all know what it is. What are we going to do about it?â€
–You know what I think, Armando.†Did Dumbledore sound the tiniest bit regretful? –The only responsible course is to close the school. We do not know what we are facing, although I have one or two shrewd guesses, and every day we delay risks some dreadful tragedy. We must swallow our pride, and send the students home as soon as possible.â€
–Yes, Albus, I know, but the school's governors are of the view -- and I must say I concur -- that the most elegant solution would be to identify and neutralise the threat without disruption to teaching or the upcoming examinations.â€
–Muggins' chance o' that,†put in Ogg. –Even the house-elves have given up searching -- and if they're stumped, so am I.â€
–Is the whereabouts of this Chamber of Secrets truly quite unknown?†asked Dippet plaintively. –Surely there must be some record of what the school used it for, or of its original construction?â€
–Records get lost,†replied Dumbledore, –over the centuries. Some of Hogwarts' secrets, admittedly, are so well-known as to be scarcely secret at all. But many others are in the possession of just a few, or perhaps one person alone. Others still must be secrets indeed, not being known to anyone.â€
–Someone knows,†growled Ogg darkly. –Monsters don't let 'emselves out.â€
–But has no-one ever looked?†Dippet pleaded. –I know, students go exploring all the time -- we did it in my day, too -- but surely some competent adult wizard, at some time, has made a systematic search for the Chamber?â€
–To the best of my knowledge,†Dumbledore began at once, –the last was Jeremiah Hipkins, who was sent up by the Ministry of Magic for just that purpose in 1807. Apparently the Muggle authorities believed him to be a French spy, and the Ministry didn't want him wandering around London causing trouble. Alas, he died of dragon pox before discovering anything.â€
–Well, that doesn't help us,†sighed Dippet. –Let us turn to Mr. Ogg's proposal.â€
There was a meaningful silence, followed by the sound of Ogg clearing his throat.
–My brother-in-law,†he began hesitantly, –once knew a foreign bloke who specialised in this type o'thing. Getting rid of magical beasts that weren't wanted. There's a whole order of 'em, a kind of guild, if you know what I mean.â€
–I do know,†Dumbledore reassured him thoughtfully. –Yes, that might be worth a try... it would rankle to admit defeat, of course... but there is no shame in allowing others to apply skills we lack... â€
–But, Mr. Ogg,†Dippet responded, sounding uneasy, –if you mean what I think you do, might there not be considerable danger in allowing such a person into Hogwarts? There are well-known cases where the application of these arts has led to most unfortunate outcomes. In a school, of all places; is this wise?â€
–Folk tales,†replied Dumbledore decisively, and I could tell that he, at least, had made up his mind on the spot. –We are not the foolish and venal types one finds caricatured in Beedle; we are capable wizards, all of us. There is no magic we cannot cope with, if only it will show itself.â€
Speak for yourself, I thought glumly, and by the sound of it Dippet and Ogg were trying tactfully to express similar sentiments. But Dumbledore knew his ground: he first reassured Ogg that his idea was a sound one, and then the two of them united to win over the Headmaster.
After the two visitors left, we hastily went back to cutting nettles in case Ogg should decide to check on us.
–What was all that about?†Lavinia asked in a low voice. –Getting someone in to find Slytherin's monster? Who could they possibly get that would be better than Dumbledore?â€
–I don't know,†Bernard replied slowly. –But I do know someone I'll have to tell about this.â€
–Who?†I challenged him at once.
–Tom Riddle.â€