Chapter 143. Destroying the Diary
That night, Adrian Wesson went to the eighth floor of the castle—
—to the door of the Room of Requirement.
Ignoring the troll's roar in the "Barnabas the Barmy Being Clubbed by a Troll" tapestry behind him, Wesson silently thought to himself: a room where flames cannot spread.
After pacing back and forth along the wall a few times, the door to the Room of Requirement appeared.
Inside was a circular chamber built of smooth stone blocks.
Other than that, it was empty.
Wesson looked around with satisfaction—this was exactly what he wanted.
It amazed him that the Room of Requirement truly contained such a chamber.
After a quick survey to confirm the surroundings were all stone, Wesson drew the diary out from his robes and set it in the exact centre of the floor.
Then he carefully took a small transparent vial from his pocket. Inside was a quantity of dark blue liquid.
[Name: Liquid Fiendfyre]
[Warning: Do not pour it all out at once]
Yes—this was the Liquid Fiendfyre Wesson had prepared last term for Ravenclaw's diadem. It hadn't worked then, but now was the time to use it.
Under Fiendfyre's flames, Wesson believed even the most powerful magical artefact would be reduced to ash—
let alone a small notebook.
Once ready, Wesson slowly twisted off the stopper.
The dark blue liquid shimmered faintly in the vial, casting an eerie light.
Carefully tilting the mouth of the vial, Wesson let a few drops of the blue liquid fall onto the diary's cover.
"Tss—"
With a faint sound of corrosion, the drop sank into the diary's cover at once.
Immediately, a tongue of blue flame leapt up from the notebook.
Almost at once, that flame shifted from blue to the look of ordinary fire—red shot through with yellow.
That was also the sign of Fiendfyre turning from controllable to uncontrollable.
Seeing this, Wesson put the Liquid Fiendfyre away with satisfaction.
It only needed a tiny spark; Fiendfyre would engulf the entire room.
The red-and-yellow flames devoured the diary ravenously, like a living thing. Very quickly, the room's temperature climbed to the limit of Wesson's tolerance, and the fire had already filled the chamber.
Give it a short while and not even ash would remain of the notebook.
At that, Wesson withdrew from the Room of Requirement at once; it would be disastrous if the Fiendfyre touched him.
Stepping out through the door, Wesson let out a small breath.
Now, the Dark Lord's second Horcrux could be considered well and truly dealt with.
However, just as Wesson rounded a corner along the corridor, two figures appeared ahead of him.
When he drew near, he was surprised to find the two were Gilderoy Lockhart and Argus Filch.
At the moment, they seemed to be discussing something.
Wesson slowed his pace and listened.
"I'm telling you, Mr Filch, if you want to successfully use a spell, then do it my way," Lockhart's voice echoed down the corridor. "Honestly, the Kwikspell correspondence course is absolutely useless. You'd be far better off reading my autobiography…"
"Don't bring that up again. All right, Professor Lockhart…" Filch said in an almost pleading tone.
"I understand entirely, dear Mr Filch," Lockhart said sympathetically, patting Filch on the shoulder. "Wanting to cast spells but being unable to—no one knows that pain better than I do!"
Filch's face turned especially ugly at that.
Why had he let slip in front of Lockhart that he'd enrolled in the Kwikspell course?
The man was simply too annoying, forever picking at his scabs, whether he meant to or not.
At last, Filch couldn't stand Lockhart any longer.
"Mind your own business!" he growled. "Professor Lockhart, it's curfew now. Even if you're a professor, you can't—"
Before Filch could finish, Lockhart suddenly drew himself up and cut him off. "Oh, you can't put it like that. As Hogwarts's Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, it is my responsibility to ensure the castle's safety!"
By then Wesson was close enough for Filch to hear his footsteps.
Filch turned, and on seeing Wesson, he looked taken aback. "You're… Professor Wesson? What are you doing here?"
Wesson smiled, answering without missing a beat. "Good evening, Mr Filch—and Professor Lockhart. I've come to admire the tapestry on the eighth floor—it really is quite amusing."
After a brief pause, Wesson asked in return, "And you two? Doing anything special here this late?"
In truth, the only notable rooms on the eighth floor of Hogwarts were the Room of Requirement and the Headmaster's office.
Thus, very few professors came here at night apart from Dumbledore.
Lockhart and Filch both showing up here was indeed a bit odd.
"Routine patrol," Filch said expressionlessly.
He really was only out on his rounds.
Unluckily, the application form he meant to send to the Kwikspell Company had been dropped by accident in the eighth-floor corridor.
Worse, Lockhart had found it.
After that, Lockhart had latched on to him, going on and on about the "tricks" of spellcasting.
Damn it! He was a Squib! Everything Lockhart was saying was rubbish!
If those "tricks" worked, he'd eat his own wand!
Having got Filch's answer, Wesson nodded, then turned his gaze on Lockhart.
Lockhart flashed a signature smile. "Ah! Professor Wesson! Good evening—marvellous moonlight tonight."
Wesson glanced out of the corridor window; outside, rain was lashing down, the big drops drumming on the panes.
"Er… in fact, it wasn't raining just now…" Lockhart's smile froze. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "All right, to be honest, I'm here looking for something—but I ran into Mr Filch on the way, and he was in distress—you know me, always ready to lend a helping hand."
Wesson nodded, indifferent. He didn't care about Lockhart's movements—as long as they hadn't seen him enter the Room of Requirement, that was enough.
"Carry on, then," Wesson said, turning to go. "I won't keep you."
After Wesson left—
"Off with you now, Professor Lockhart!" Filch said. "I've other places to patrol. Good-bye!"
With that said, he immediately picked up his lantern and headed back the way Wesson had come.
For a moment, Lockhart was left standing alone.
After a while, he let out a quiet sigh.
In truth, not everything he'd said to Filch was a lie.
"Wanting to cast spells but being unable to—no one knows that pain better than I do!"
At least that line had come from the heart.
After a moment's rueful reflection, Lockhart walked deeper into the corridor.
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