The Weight of Secrets

Olivia Middleton's POV

I don't tell Hermione about the kiss... or about how bad my hand still hurts. She doesn't need that right now—not with everything going on after the Chamber incident. She's already worried sick, and honestly, I can barely keep my own thoughts straight.

I toss and turn all night. For the love of Merlin, I swear I get maybe twenty solid minutes of sleep, if that. Every little sound wakes me—the rustling leaves, the wind clawing at the windows, the occasional screech of some bird at dawn. My mind won't rest. My heart definitely won't.

When morning finally comes, I feel like I've been hit by a Hippogriff. My whole body aches, especially my forearm, and my eyes sting from exhaustion.

First class of the day? Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Of course. Just my luck. I hate Transfiguration. Over the summer, while I stayed at Hogwarts, it was the only subject that never clicked for me. I can hex, jinx, disarm, even mend bones—but for the life of me, I can't transform myself into anything. 

It's like there's a wall in my magic, and that wall's name is Transfiguration.

I'm half-asleep, sitting next to Hermione. Ron and Harry are across from us. Malfoy's behind them with Goyle and Crabbe, probably plotting new ways to get under my skin. "Could I have your attention, please?" Professor McGonagall says, her voice cutting through the haze in my brain like cold water.

I blink, trying to focus, but everything's heavy. My body, my head, even my eyelids. "Today," she continues, "we're going to transform animals into water goblets." I stare blankly at the front of the class. That sounds... miserable.

"Miss Middleton," McGonagall says suddenly, and Hermione lightly squeezes my thigh to snap me out of it. "Would you like to demonstrate?" My heart skips. "Yes, Professor?" I say, trying to sound present, even though I've absolutely no idea what I just agreed to.

"Would you like to show us how to transform an animal into a goblet?"

Right. That.

"Yes," I repeat more firmly, standing up and walking to the front with Nyra perched gently on my forearm. I can feel everyone watching me. I know what they're thinking—how does she know so much already? Why is she demonstrating? And I can't answer them. I don't even fully know myself. Not yet.

I swallow down the nerves and pretend I'm fine. I can't afford to look weak—not today.

"The spell is Vera Verto," I say, calm and clear. I hold my wand over Nyra, tap once, twice, three times. "Vera Verto." In a swirl of soft light, Nyra shifts seamlessly into a sleek, transparent goblet. The kind that would belong in the Great Hall.

I exhale, relieved.

"Well done, Olivia," McGonagall says, patting my back. She knows how hard I worked at this over the summer. How much it frustrated me. How many times I nearly gave up.

I walk back to my seat with the goblet in hand and a quiet smirk on my lips. Hermione eyes me curiously, and I can practically feel the questions buzzing in her head. But for now, I just let myself enjoy the win.

The minute I sit down beside Hermione, she immediately raises her hand. She's always got a question, even on days when I wish she wouldn't. "Yes, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall says, her voice clipped but calm. "Professor, I was wondering if you could tell us about the Chamber of Secrets?"

My entire body tenses. Just the mention of it sends a chill down my spine. My mind flashes back to last night—those words in blood, Mrs. Norris hanging like some cursed warning. Dead. Or close enough to it.

I glance toward Draco before I even realize it. He's stiff too, but unlike me, he's got a handle on his expression. Cold. Controlled. He doesn't meet my eyes—he sees me looking, but he doesn't flinch. Just keeps his gaze fixed on McGonagall.

She takes a long look at us—second years, barely older than kids, now all wide-eyed and whispering. And then she starts to explain. About Salazar Slytherin. About how he believed magical education should be kept within magical families—pure-bloods only. About how he created a hidden chamber deep in the castle, sealed it, and declared that only his true heir could open it again.

As she talks, I barely hear her. My mind drifts. To him.

To Malfoy.

To the way he thinks. How he talks about Muggle-borns, like we're dirt under his shoes. How he yanked me away from that horror last night like he knew what was coming. How he got sorted into Slytherin without the Sorting Hat even touching his head. How that Hat paused when it was on mine—telling me I had traits of a Slytherin too.

Could he be the heir?

Could I have been in his place?

We're walking to our next class when Ron blurts out, "Do you think it's true? The Chamber of Secrets?"

"Didn't you see McGonagall's face?" Hermione replies. "She's worried. They all are."

I barely hear them. My thoughts are still racing, looping. The Sorting Hat wanted to place me in Slytherin. Me—a Muggle-born. That doesn't make sense. How can someone like me belong in a house that's meant for pure-bloods? Unless...

Unless I don't know everything about myself yet.

Before I can spiral further, a shoulder slams into mine—hard. My books scatter across the stone floor, and I stumble back. Draco Malfoy. Of course. Ron's already kneeling to help me pick up my things, muttering under his breath and reaching for his wand. I stop him with a hand on his arm.

"Don't," I whisper. I don't want to make a scene. Not with him. Not when I don't know what he's truly capable of. Harry hands me the last of my books, concern in his eyes. "Are you okay, Liv?"

"Yeah," I lie. "Perfectly fine."

I'm not.

"So," Ron says, like nothing just happened, "what do you think of our idea?"

"Brilliant!" I answer automatically, having no clue what idea he's talking about.

I decide I'm going to spend the rest of the day in my dorm, curled up with a novel, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. Food doesn't tempt me—I've already skipped breakfast and lunch, and dinner's going to be no different. Appetite? Gone. Replaced by a dull ache I can't explain.

The castle is quiet, everyone's at the Great Hall by now. It's just me, my book, and the soft rustle of pages—until Nyra taps on the window with something tied to her leg.

"Hi, girl," I whisper, opening the glass and letting her in. "What have you got for me today, hmm? Whose letter do you come bearing, my sweet Nyra?" She hops onto my bed, and I untie the parchment from her leg. I sit back against the pillows, open it—and feel my whole world tilt sideways.

Olivia,

You have a little sibling now, a brother if you may. Actually, you may not. We don't know how to tell you this, but we don't care as much—we're not your real parents. We never were. You were left on our doorstep by that old hag of a headmaster of yours, Dumbledore.

I didn't want to let you in, but Rose insisted on taking in a poor little child left out in the cold. I was ready to let you freeze. She took you in. And what did we get? Years of fighting, stress, disappointment. You were the start of all of it.

I'm glad I got to beat the shit out of you when she wasn't home. That was the only way I could deal with the rage, the disgust, the shame of having you in my house.

I always wanted a boy—and now I have one. So don't come back. We'll be sending your things.

—Austin Ainsworth

I stare at the letter, my hands trembling. My chest feels like it's caving in. They're not my parents. He's not my father. He beat me. He left bruises I had to hide, cuts I learned to dress myself. And now he admits it—just like that. Like it's a joke. Like it's a gift, this confession wrapped in cruelty.

My heart... it shatters. Not quietly, not cleanly. It bursts into a thousand jagged pieces, and even if someone were to find every last shard and try to piece them back together, it would never be whole again. Never.

I drop the letter. I can't breathe. The sobs come like waves—loud, ugly, raw. I curl up at the edge of my bed, knees to chest, head buried. The room is dim except for the silver glow of moonlight slipping in through the window. Nyra is quiet on the bedpost, sensing something she can't fix.

My forearm throbs. Old pain, old scars. I buried those memories so deep, covered them with smiles, with jokes, with pretending everything was normal. But they never went away. Not really.

I glance up again and see the name that set it all off—Dumbledore. That numbness inside me? It burns away. Becomes heartbreak. And then, in the space of a breath, it morphs into rage.

I look at the clock. Dinner's over. They'll be back soon—Harry, Hermione, all of them. I can't let them see me like this. Hermione is all I've got now, and she can't see me break. Not yet. Not until I understand why this happened. Not until I get the truth.

And there's only one person who can give it to me.

I bolt out of the dorm. I don't even register the common room—I'm already running. Feet pounding against the stone floors, heart slamming in my chest, rage carrying me faster than my legs know how to move.

I'm going to Dumbledore's office. And I'm not leaving until I get answers.

I'm stomping through the empty halls, barely seeing where I'm going. My fists are clenched, the letter crumpled in one hand, my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I don't care who sees me—I need answers. I need the truth.

Then, out of nowhere, Draco steps out from behind a wall.

"Look who's here, break—"

"Not. Now. Malfoy."

I don't let him finish. I throw a hand out, not touching him, not even thinking—and he slams back into the stone wall like I shoved him with full force. Except... I didn't. I didn't use a wand. I didn't say a spell. 

His eyes widen in shock, but I don't stop. I don't have time to process what he would think. I just storm past him, toward Dumbledore's office, every step fueled by betrayal and rage.

Behind me, I hear nothing.

Good.

The door seals shut, the world outside vanishes, and I finally face the man who ruined everything.

"You knew!" I scream the moment I barge into Dumbledore's office, "Colloportus!" Then, with a flick of my wand and a tremble in my voice, "Muffliato." Silence drops like a curtain around us. No one outside will hear this.

He's not alone. Every professor is in the room—McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout... and Snape. They're all sitting around some table like it's any other evening. Like I haven't just had my entire life ripped out from under me.

"I trusted you," I spit, locking eyes with Dumbledore, "and you left me with them. You knew exactly who they were. You knew they didn't care about me, and you still—still—you let them raise me like some filthy secret!"

My voice breaks. I don't even care. I don't care that I'm shouting, that my hands are shaking. I don't care that they're all staring.

Professor McGonagall moves to my side gently, and it's only then I realize the letter is no longer in my hand. She must've taken it. I don't fight her. I can't take my eyes off him. Dumbledore.

And then I see him—Snape. Sitting at the edge of the room, watching everything like he already knew what I was about to say. And by the look on his face, he did.

"You knew too," I snap, my voice cold and ragged. "You said you knew my mother. You said she was your friend. And you—" I can't even finish the sentence. My voice dies in my throat.

I drop to my knees, the weight of it all finally catching up to me. The betrayal, the memories, the letter... the years. I stare at the floor, but I'm not really seeing anything. It's just a blur through the tears.

"She knows, Albus," McGonagall says quietly, handing the letter to Snape.

He reads it. And in that moment, something changes in his face. Rage. A kind of fury I've never seen from him. Not in class, not even when he was humiliating Gryffindors. This is personal.

He crouches beside me and places a hand on my shoulder, his voice low, broken in a way I didn't expect. "My child... I am so sorry—"

"Don't," I cut him off sharply. I stand, yanking the letter back from his hand, unwilling to let it stay in anyone else's grasp for even a second longer.

Dumbledore still hasn't said a word.

"I'd like to be excused from classes for the time being," I say, loud and clear. Not a request. I don't even look at them when I speak. I just turn, unlock the door, and run.

And this time, no one tries to stop me.