Arthur was still reeling.
The Polyjuice incident with the impostors, Harry and Weasley, had left him irritated, not because they'd been caught—but because of how easily they'd slipped in. They were bold. Desperate, even.
But why?
He couldn't shake the unease. The attacks. The whispers. The petrified victims. He'd suspected something serpentine before. The rooster's cryptic suicide made it clearer. And now, everything was starting to fall into place—except the how.
If he was right, the beast was a Basilisk.
But basilisks didn't just roam about without notice.
They were large. Lethal. Impossible to hide.
He needed confirmation.
And so, while most of the school cheered in the stands at the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match, Arthur slipped away unnoticed. The halls were nearly empty—perfect.
The library was practically deserted.
Of course it was. The entire school was crowded into the stands for the match. That was exactly why Arthur was there.
His footsteps echoed softly across the polished floor as he moved toward the back—towards the section he remembered all too well. The same place he'd found that book before. The same book that had been tugging at his thoughts since the attacks started again.
As he turned the corner, he halted.
Someone was already there—shoulders tense, head down, one hand gripping a familiar dusty volume while the other—
Rrrrrip.
"Tearing pages now, Theo?" Arthur said dryly.
Theo jumped slightly, eyes wide and shadowed. He looked worse than Arthur had ever seen him. Pale. Wrinkled shirt. His eyes had that half-haunted, half-manic gleam of someone running on caffeine, nerves, and sheer desperation.
Then his shoulders relaxed. "Arthur," he breathed. "Just the person I was going to see."
Arthur stepped closer, curious now. "What are you doing?"
Without a word, Theo handed him the torn page.
Arthur glanced at the title.
"Basilisk."
Their eyes met.
Arthur gave a small nod. "That's it."
Theo just exhaled, like he'd been holding that breath for days.
Arthur began reading.
"Basilisk: a serpentine creature birthed from a chicken's egg hatched beneath a toad. Its gaze is instantly fatal. The venom of the basilisk is among the most potent known to wizardkind."
Arthur's brow tightened as he read on.
More than the details of its creation or killing power—it was the implications. Everything clicked too perfectly. Too clearly.
He glanced up again.
"The plumbing," he said.
Theo blinked, then nodded rapidly. "It has to be. There's no other way it could get around unseen. Pipes run through the castle walls."
Arthur stared at the page. "But no one's died."
Theo was ready for that. "Because no one has looked directly at it. They've only seen reflections."
Arthur's mind raced as he began to piece it all together. "Mrs Norris—the water. Colin—his camera. Dean—blocked by Nearly Headless Nick."
It was all there. Hiding in plain sight. The basilisk was real. It was moving through the plumbing. And the attacks weren't random—they were accidents. Near misses.
Meanwhile, Theo had started glancing around the aisles, muttering. "If people are starting to carry mirrors to avoid it, we've got a problem—"
He stopped suddenly. "There," he whispered.
Penelope Clearwater. Walking slowly between rows, holding a small compact mirror in front of her like a shield.
Theo moved to intercept her.
"Theo, wait—" Arthur's voice rose.
Then he felt it.
Not saw—felt.
Like a change in pressure, in air, in instinct. His skin prickled. His stomach clenched.
A flash of yellow sparked at the edge of his vision.
His body moved faster than his mind. Eyes slammed shut.
Then—a voice.
Not spoken aloud.
It hissed. Whispered. Slithered.
"Noisy… warm-blooded… always in my way… the next one… soon…"
Arthur stood frozen.
It wasn't English.
But he understood it.
Parseltongue.
His knees felt weak. His chest tightened. His skin ran cold.
He was terrified.
He felt it move past—something massive and heavy and ancient. Each scrape and rustle of scale on stone echoed in his skull. A tremor passed through his bones.
Silence.
His breath hitched. He remained still, clenching his eyes shut.
Then…
Gone.
Only then did he let his knees relax.
He realized his hair was longer now—hanging forward.
White.
He didn't need a mirror to know.
Arthur slowly opened his eyes.
The library was eerily quiet.
Theo was frozen in place, wide-eyed and rigid. Penelope Clearwater stood just a few feet away, equally petrified, her face pale and expressionless.
Arthur's heart pounded in his chest, but something else stirred inside him.
A cold whisper in the back of his mind, dark and relentless, slipping past his usual calm.
"They will pay…
All of them…"
Arthur's breath caught. His body tensed. The hair at his temples, already white and red from fear and anger moments ago, began to darken, shifting to a deep, stormy grey — a color that felt like it was settling permanently.
The grey spread like smoke through his hair, marking the change. Not just physical, but something deeper.
His voice barely a whisper, he muttered under his breath, "This ends. No more hiding. No more mercy."
His usual emotionless mask cracked, replaced by a fierce fire burning in his eyes.
The dark side he'd kept locked away was awake again — sharper, angrier, fueled by the helplessness he'd just felt.
Arthur clenched his fists, feeling the power and rage swell inside him.
"Whoever sent that monster—whoever thinks they can terrorize us—
I'll find them. I'll make the regret ever crossing us."
"Let me, Arthur. Let me in."
No words escaped his lips.
His fists clenched tightly as he silently swore revenge, vowing to find whoever sent the beast and make them regret ever crossing his path.
The battle within had begun again—Arthur's dark side awakened, stronger and more determined than ever.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur walked away from the library without a word.
Not a glance back.
Not a second thought.
Theo and Penelope remained behind—lifeless, petrified statues among the towering shelves of books. The real Arthur would have stayed. He would have called for help. He would have felt something.
But this... wasn't exactly Arthur anymore.
A colder presence had taken the reins—quiet, collected, but brimming with something volatile beneath the surface.
He slipped into the shadows, making his way toward the Quidditch pitch.
The match was in full swing—scarlet against yellow cheers echoing into the sky. Arthur watched from the edge, silent, arms folded, eyes distant. His hair remained an eerie storm-grey, the new color refusing to fade.
Then, about thirty minutes in—
BOOM.
A sharp crack of thunder echoed—not from the sky, but from McGonagall's magically amplified voice.
"ALL PLAYERS—DOWN. NOW."
Confused murmurs followed. Brooms began descending. Draco, Myles, Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne exchanged baffled looks as they joined the other students on the ground.
"What now?" Draco muttered, annoyed.
As they trooped off the pitch, they were met at the boundary by Professors McGonagall and Snape.
"Please," McGonagall said tightly, "come with us. Now."
Blaise arched a brow. "What's going on?"
"Has something happened?" Daphne asked, glancing nervously at the others.
"Maybe another attack," Myles whispered. "Think it's another Gryffindor?"
"No way," Pansy said. "They wouldn't call us if it was."
Speculation buzzed around them like bees.
All except Arthur—who said nothing.
His face was unreadable, mask-like. His eyes distant. He walked among them, but wasn't with them. Something in his aura had shifted—colder, darker. The others felt it, but none dared ask.
They reached the hospital wing.
McGonagall motioned to Madam Pomfrey, who nodded and gently peeled back the white covering on the far bed.
Time froze.
Theo.
Lying stiff, eyes wide open in silent horror. Penelope Clearwater beside him in the same state.
Gasps echoed around the room.
"No—" Draco whispered, voice cracking.
Myles took a step forward. "That's... Theo?"
Blaise's mouth opened but no sound came out. Daphne covered her mouth with her hand.
Even Snape looked rattled.
And Arthur... just stared.
Not a twitch. Not a sound. Not even a flicker of emotion.
It wasn't Arthur anymore.
Not exactly.
Arthur stared at Theo's frozen face.
Still. Pale. Lifeless.
He didn't hear the others calling his name. Didn't register Draco stepping closer, reaching out. Didn't see the wide eyes, the whispers, or the way even Professor Snape paused as though sensing something unnatural in the boy's silence.
He just turned.
And walked out.
No words. No explanation.
Let them think I need some time alone, he thought.
Honestly... I really do.
His footsteps echoed against the stone floor as he exited the hospital wing. No one followed him. Maybe they were too stunned. Maybe they were scared.
Either way, he didn't care.
He kept walking—past the classrooms, down the sloped lawn, and all the way to the Black Lake. It shimmered beneath the overcast sky, the water barely rippling, as if the castle itself had gone still.
The giant squid surfaced lazily, one tentacle curling upward before vanishing back beneath the waves.
Arthur sat on the edge of the stone ledge, staring into the cold water.
His thoughts circled like hawks.
It was a basilisk.
He knew it now—no hesitation. The signs were all there. The petrifications, the whispers, the reflections. The page Theo had torn out confirmed it. A serpent born from a chicken egg hatched beneath a toad. Kills with a glance. Only reflections saved the victims so far.
Then something clicked in his head—an echo of a memory.
"She never left the bathroom."
Hagrid's words. Something he overheard. The girl who died last time—the original victim—never left the bathroom.
Arthur sat up straighter, eyes narrowing.
The plumbing.
The pipes run everywhere in this castle. If the creature moves through them... then a bathroom would be the perfect place to hide. Or rather, to wait.
And if someone died there last time...
His mind darted to the one bathroom nobody ever used. The one no one wanted to visit.
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
He clenched his fist, jaw tightening.
Of course.
That's where it was. That's where it's been hiding this entire time.
And whoever was behind this... whoever was controlling it...
"They're going to regret everything," Arthur muttered to the lake, his voice low and colder than the breeze across the water.
His hair, still grey with grief and rage, rippled slightly in the wind. But his eyes burned with something else.
Clarity. Resolve. Revenge
But ...
He hadn't planned to move. Not yet. Not until he had more pieces.
But now?
Now everything was moving too fast.
Too calculated. Too desperate.
He needed to act—and he needed a distraction.
Collapsing the entrance to the Chamber would be a good start. But he needed something more.
Collateral. A scapegoat.
And he knew just the one.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
He headed back inside. Moving down the hallway toward Lockhart's office, moving silently, half in shadow. As he passed the staff room, voices drifted through the door—urgent, tense.
Curious, Arthur paused.
"…Dumbledore has been suspended," came Professor Sprout's voice, tight with worry.
"Hagrid too," said Flitwick gravely. "Taken to Azkaban."
Arthur's stomach clenched.
No.
This was spiraling.
Too quickly. Too... convenient.
The heir must be running out of time.
Then came the final blow.
"And two students taken—vanished into thin air. With nothing but another message on the wall."
A beat of silence.
"Ginny Weasley," someone said softly.
Arthur's brow furrowed. He didn't care for Weasleys. Too loud. Too nosy.
But then—
"Elena Potter."
The words hung like a spell in the air.
Arthur's breath caught.
For a moment, just a moment, the frost creeping into his soul cracked.
Elena. Harry's sister.
Her laugh, her stubborn glare, her curious eyes. She'd once called him a 'broody genius'. She'd always made an effort to understand him—even when he didn't want anyone to.
Why did it sting?
Why now?
He didn't have the answer.
But he knew one thing.
He was going down there.
Then came another voice—Snape, this time, dry and biting. "Well? You always claimed you knew where the Chamber was, Gilderoy. Surely now's the time to prove it."
Arthur tensed.
Bingo.
Lockhart sputtered something unintelligible.
Arthur quickly backed into the shadows behind a statue as the man himself passed by, robes flapping, expression pale. He was making a beeline for his office.
Arthur followed.
When he reached the office door, it was already open. Lockhart was frantically packing a trunk, his hands shaking as he shoved robes, books, and absurdly glittery accessories inside.
Arthur leaned on the doorframe. "Going somewhere, Professor?"
Lockhart jumped.
"Oh—Mr Reeves! You startled me. I was, er—emergency business at the Ministry. Very secret. Top-level—"
"Right," Arthur said, walking inside. "The Chamber. Where is it, exactly?"
Lockhart's mouth opened and closed.
"I—uh—well—"
Arthur raised a brow.
"Thought so."
Then, voice quiet, venomous: "I know where it is. And you're going to help me get in. Nope, that's wrong. I'm going to take you there."
The professor's facade crumbled. His hands stilled. His face twisted with desperation.
"You don't understand—I'm not who they think I am. I didn't do those things. I found the people who did—and modified their memories."
Arthur said nothing.
"You can't tell anyone. I'll—"
Lockhart whipped out his wand.
"Obliviate!"
The spell never landed.
Arthur's fist did.
Crack.
The man dropped like a sack of flour, wheezing, groaning, completely out cold.
Arthur rubbed his knuckles, eyes cold. "Sorry, fraud. But I really do need a scapegoat."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
It was late when he dragged the unconscious "professor" through the second-floor corridor.
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was silent save for the occasional drip of water.
Myrtle floated out from a stall and gasped when she saw him. "You again? You're not supposed to be—wait… is that a teacher?!"
Arthur didn't answer.
"Tell me, Myrtle," he said instead. "How did you die?"
She blinked, startled, then drifted closer, voice quiet. "I was crying in here. In that stall."
She pointed. "Then I saw big yellow eyes. Over there. That sink—it's never worked."
Arthur stared at it.
The carvings. The serpent design.
It made sense.
He stepped closer and hissed—not English, but something older, rougher. Beasttongue. But more specifically, Parseltongue.
The sink shuddered.
With a loud groan, it slid aside.
A black tunnel gaped open beneath.
Massive. Old. Hungry.
Big enough to house a monster.
Old Arthur would have made a sarcastic comment.
This Arthur didn't care.
He dumped Lockhart into the hole.
A grunt echoed up a few seconds later.
He was awake.
Arthur waited a beat.
Then he jumped.
The air rushed past him, cold and sour, like the breath of something ancient.
Arthur fell longer than expected—this wasn't just a hidden crawlspace. This was an oubliette. A grave for secrets.
He landed hard, knees bending to absorb the shock. He rose slowly, ears ringing. The stone beneath his boots was wet, slick. It smelled of rot and time.
A few feet ahead, Lockhart groaned, clutching his ribs.
Arthur didn't move to help him.
He took a breath, stared down the long, stretching tunnel ahead—dark, winding, ominous.
This was it.
The Chamber of Secrets.
It had always been a legend. A footnote in Hogwarts history. Another bedtime threat to frighten curious first-years.
But it was real.
He was standing in it.
And part of him—just a small, raw part—was still shocked.
Why am I here? he thought.
This wasn't his fight.
He wasn't the hero. He never had been.
He wanted to be the observer. The strategist. The one in the background with a book, not a wand.
And yet here he was, deep beneath the school, dragging a fraud behind him, chasing a snake he had no business hunting.
You should've walked away, the voice in his head said. Let it burn. Let them choke on their secrets.
But then he saw Elena's face again—heard her laugh, that ridiculous, squeaky laugh she always tried to stifle when Harry cracked some bad joke.
And something inside him—something cold, hard, bitter—wavered.
You're not here to save anyone, he reminded himself. You're here to shut this down. Seal it. Wipe it from history. That's all.
But was that the truth?
He didn't know anymore.
All he knew was this: the Chamber had been opened. Students were petrified. Some might die. So if no one else was going to finish this, then he would.
Even if you don't care, the voice whispered, you can still end it. Just to prove you can.
Behind him, Lockhart was muttering weakly. Ahead, darkness curled like a living thing.
Arthur squared his shoulders.
Time to meet the monster.