Chapter 120: Yes, I Did It All

On Christmas Day, snow had been falling since dawn. The poor owls were exhausted after delivering gifts through the storm all night and finally got to rest a little after sunrise. When Harold woke up, he found one delivery owl fast asleep in his dorm, a long parcel still tied to its leg. Harold glanced at the address. It was a Christmas present from his grandfather, sent all the way from Romania. With such a long journey, combined with the snowstorm, no wonder the owl was wiped out. He found an empty box, filled it with some of Tom's snacks and water, and set it beside the owl so it could eat when it woke up. Then he took the package and unwrapped it—inside were several pieces of dragon blood tree wood, all different lengths. Of course. A package from Romania—it had to be this. Harold grinned as he stored them away. These dragon blood tree branches arrived at just the right time. Hagrid had given him a large bag of wand cores, and now he had wood to pair with them. Speaking of Hagrid, his gift was a large bundle of homemade treacle toffee. The taste wasn't bad, just overly sweet and terribly sticky. When Harold made it to the common room, he found Hermione, Harry, and the others opening their presents by the fireplace. "Merry Christmas." Hermione handed Harold a beautifully wrapped box—inside was a book titled Transfiguration of Objects: Risks and Responses. "You've been reading a lot of Transfiguration books. The clerk at Flourish and Blotts recommended this one." Ron's gift was a Quidditch photo album, with moving pictures. When Harold flipped to the first page, he saw a player diving on a broom, pulling up just before hitting the ground. A line of golden text appeared: The Wronski Feint—used to fake out the opposing Seeker and gain advantage. Looked like a collection of iconic Quidditch maneuvers. Harry's gift was a set of tools—carving knives, drills, and the like. "Thanks," Harold said, handing them each his own gifts—wand stickers made from their photos. Each set had seven stickers, specially enchanted not to peel for at least two months. "This is amazing!" Hermione immediately stuck one on her wand, right next to the golden Lockhart sticker. As a devoted Lockhart fan, Hermione naturally owned a copy of Magical Me, complete with the rare golden sticker insert. Harry and Ron loved theirs too. Stickers were all the rage at Hogwarts now—but everyone else had generic ones of professors or magical creatures. Having a personalized sticker? That was something special. Like finding your own chocolate frog card. Granted, Harold's stickers weren't as famous as chocolate frog cards, but the sentiment was the same. It was a real status symbol. "If you sign one, Ginny or Colin might pay big money for it," Harold teased Harry. "No way." Harry shook his head, studying the sticker of himself holding his wand. "Was this taken during the dueling club?" "Yep, all of them were," Harold said. "After Lockhart got carried off, I borrowed the camera and snapped a few photos." "Colin Creevey's camera. I still owe him a signed Harry sticker, but he hasn't come to claim it." "That's because Colin's not into me anymore," Harry said, a hint of relief in his voice. "Haven't seen him on my way to class for weeks. Guess he finally realized the Chosen One's a fraud and gave up." "You're not a fraud," Ron said. "Everyone knows you defeated You-Know-Who. That's a fact." "Everyone knows... except me." Harry smiled faintly. "I don't even know how I beat Voldemort—" "Merlin, don't say that name!" Ron jumped, nearly dropping his wand. "Sorry," Harry muttered. It had slipped out. "If you knew what he's done, you'd be just as scared," Ron told Hermione. "It's terrifying. Most people don't even dare say his name. They just call him You-Know-Who." Hermione frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn't argue. As odd as it seemed, even some professors refused to say the name. Only a rare few exceptions—like Harry and Harold—seemed unaffected. "Speaking of, where are Fred and George?" Harold looked around. "They went off earlier," Ron said. "Said they were preparing a surprise for the Christmas feast. Probably up to no good." He pulled out a wizard chess set. "Fancy a game?" "No thanks." Harold declined, settling into another armchair and getting to work on the branches he'd collected. By the time he had roughly shaped them into wand shafts, evening had arrived. Fewer people were celebrating at school this year—students and staff combined barely filled half a table. But the Great Hall still brimmed with holiday spirit. Frosted trees lined the walls. Mistletoe and holly garlands hung from the ceiling. Magical snow drifted down—warm and dry despite the chill. Even Hagrid had come to the feast for once. He sat at the staff table, casting worried glances at Harold. When Dumbledore entered the hall, Hagrid stood up immediately. "Professor Dumbledore! The paper's spouting rubbish—Harold's a Gryffindor! How could he be Slytherin's heir?" "Calm down, Hagrid. I trust young Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore said, gesturing for him to sit. He gave Harold a glance. But Harold wasn't looking at them. His gaze was fixed on a copy of the Daily Prophet spread on the table. The front page photo was a clear image of Lockhart after he'd been found—still, pale, the bloody words on his robes stark and ominous. "Hogwarts' Murderous Chamber Revealed—What Is Dumbledore Hiding?" Strange happenings at Hogwarts continue. Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Gilderoy Lockhart apparently discovered the truth, but was mysteriously attacked after contacting this paper. According to insiders, the so-called "Chamber of Secrets" may be Salazar Slytherin's secret weapon, meant to purge the school of those unworthy of magic—namely, Muggle-borns. But Hogwarts seems to be covering up this shocking truth. ... Hermione had brought the paper earlier and marked the important sections with quill ink. According to sources, the attacks may be linked to a boy from a famed wandmaking family—one with suspicious ties to the legend of the Chamber... "We're too scared to go back," sobbed one young wizard. "He told us to shut up and said we'd never get a wand again!" Is he the one who opened the Chamber? Did he kill Lockhart? Will he kill again? "Dumbledore knows all this and still does nothing!" a furious parent declared. "He's not fit to be headmaster!" ... Harold glanced at the byline—Rita Skeeter. After being chased off by Tom, she'd vanished. Now she'd returned with this. And somehow, she believed Harold had opened the Chamber. "Harold, we'll clear this up," Hermione said. "You're a Gryffindor. There's no way you're Slytherin's heir." "Yeah, and you were the first one attacked," Harry added. "The paper didn't mention that, but the professors know. You wouldn't release a monster to attack yourself." "That bit about purging Muggle-borns is complete rubbish," Ron growled, biting into his pudding. "If even Ollivander's unworthy of magic, then Hogwarts might as well shut down." Everyone agreed—there was no way Harold had opened the Chamber. The article was pure garbage. Harold didn't reply. He stared again at the photo—clear, perfectly framed, revealing every word scrawled in blood. Obviously taken by a Hogwarts student and sent to the press during break. "Harold, what if we sent our own letter to the Prophet?" Hermione suggested. "We could clear things up!" "No. No need to clarify." Harold stopped her, tapping the photo. "Who knows, maybe I really can open Slytherin's Chamber?" "What are you talking about?" Hermione frowned. "This isn't the time for jokes." "A Gryffindor opening the Chamber of Secrets?" Fred burst out laughing from across the table. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard." "Then why not let more people hear it?" Harold grinned. "Alright, I'll come clean. I'm Slytherin's heir." Fred and George doubled over with laughter, drawing stares from the whole hall. "So do you know where the Chamber is?" George asked, deadpan. "Of course I do," Harold said. "And I know the secret method to enter it—a power only Salazar and his heir can wield." "What kind of power?" Fred played along. "Doesn't matter," Harold said smoothly. "Because Salazar was wrong. Every wizard deserves to learn magic—not just purebloods. "So I've decided—before term starts, I'll destroy the Chamber." "As Gryffindor's heirs," Fred and George said solemnly, trying not to laugh, "We'd be honored to help." "If you want," Harold said. "But first, jot this all down and send it to the Daily Prophet for me." "No problem." "Leave it to us!" Fred and George eagerly pulled out parchment and quills, writing away between their pudding and pies. "Wait, hold on..." Hermione finally caught up, looking alarmed. "You guys aren't serious, are you?" "What else would we be?" Harold raised an eyebrow. "You were the one who suggested writing to the Prophet." "That's not what I meant!" Hermione protested. "This isn't a joke. What if you can't keep that promise? "Finding and destroying the Chamber before term starts? Even the professors can't do it! You'll become a laughingstock." "So what?" Harold said calmly. "Only joke magazines would put Skeeter's article on the front page. If I tell a joke in a joke magazine, what's wrong with that?" "Joke magazine? But it's the Daily Prophet—" Ron blinked, then realized—Harold was calling the Daily Prophet a joke. "Exactly. Just a joke," Fred and George said gleefully, abandoning dessert and racing out of the castle. They needed to figure out how best to play the part of "a well-informed, anonymous source."