HERMIONE REMAINED IN the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a flurry of rumours about her disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays.
Everybody, of course, were all under the impression that Hermione had been attacked.
So many students filed past the hospital wing trying to get a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her curtains again and placed them around Hermione’s bed, to spare her the shame of being seen with a furry face. Chloe and Ron went to visit her every evening. When the new term started, they brought her each day’s homework.
“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,” said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione’s bedside table one evening. “Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up.” She briskly told him.
Her spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?” She added in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear her.
“Nothing,” said Chloe, sadly. “I was so sure it was Malfoy,” said Ron, for about the hundredth time.
“What’s that?” Chloe asked, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermione’s pillow.
“Just a get well card,” said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open and read it.
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Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted. “You sleep with this under your pillow?” He questioned. But she was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine.
“Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or what?” Ron asked Chloe, as they headed up towards Gryffindor Tower. Snape had given them so much homework, Chloe thought she was likely to be in the sixth year before she finished it.
Ron was just saying how he wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.
“It's Mr. Filch,” murmured Chloe, as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
After a pause, Ron turned to Chloe. “You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” He asked, tensely.
“I think Mr. Filch would sound overjoyed if that happened.” Chloe commented. She and Ron stood still, their head’s inclined toward Mr. Filch’s voice, which sounded quite hysterical. “-even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore-" He spat, bitterly. His footsteps receded and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Mr. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Myrtle’s bathroom. Now that Mr. Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom walls.
