Anyone caught wrestling hand-to-hand, two points deduct — each!"
Sargeras made the announcement with a blank face, his voice calm and cold. "Let me repeat myself: a wizard's duel is not some back-alley brawl. If I ever catch someone biting again, I'll personally throw them into the Black Lake."
"But Professor, weren't you the one who said we should throw out all the rules?" George Weasley mumbled back without even looking up, absently rubbing his torn and tattered robes.
"Five points from Gryffindor," Sargeras replied flatly, unfazed. "For having ears that only seem to hear what they want."
Draco Malfoy, who was massaging a bruise on his arm, couldn't hold back a laugh. Just moments ago, he'd taken advantage of the chaos to sneak in a dirty kick to Potter's shin — though in the confusion that followed, he seemed to have caught a punch from Crabbe, who was now refusing to admit to it.
With a flick of Sargeras's wand, the Great Hall — still in shambles from the storm of spells — began to repair itself as if rewinding time. The lopsided candelabras straightened and returned to their places, the scorched floorboards smoothed out and regained their original luster, and even the pile of glittering, half-melted slug slime by Ron's foot vanished completely without a trace.
"That'll be all for today," Sargeras said as he glanced toward the magical clock hanging in the corner. The silver hand was already brushing against curfew. "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the common rooms. Anyone caught wandering around will enjoy a full month of detention."
Within minutes, the hall cleared out like a tide receding from the shore. The long tables emptied one after another, and soon the teacher's dais was deserted too.
Sargeras lingered for a moment in the now silent space. After some thought, he turned and decided to spend the rest of the night in the library.
————————————————————
Lockhart stumbled into his office, nearly tripping over the threshold before slamming the door shut behind him with a loud bang.
He staggered over to the mirror, and the moment he caught sight of his own reflection, he was visibly startled… he barely recognized the wreck standing before him. His perfectly styled curls now looked like they'd been through an explosion, wild and tangled beyond salvation. The corner of his mouth was still stained green from a half-absorbed healing potion, a bitter, rotting smell clinging to him that reminded him disturbingly of spoiled dishwater.
"Outrageous! Absolutely outrageous!" he roared, suddenly seizing a crystal vase off the table and hurling it into the fireplace. Glass shattered with a piercing crackle, sparks leaping up like startled birds.
"That filthy mongrel Sargeras — how dare he… how dare he treat Gilderoy Lockhart this way?!"
His voice trembled with fury as he paced in front of the ornate mirror, muttering to himself. His dragon-hide boots pressed heavy grooves into the intricate Persian rug, back and forth, back and forth.
Then, as if possessed by some restless instinct, he reached for the notebook again. With a dramatic sweep, he snatched up a quill and began scribbling in a mess of frustrated strokes:
[Today, I suffered a vile ambush at the Dueling Club. That greasy old bat Snape struck me from behind and completely ruined my fifty-Galleon hair potion! And as if that weren't enough, he rolled his eyes at me… not once, but several times!]
Lockhart paused abruptly, the tip of his quill hovering motionless over the parchment.
Ink bled slowly into the page, pooling into an unsightly, uneven blot — like a bruise, dark and swelling — eerily mirroring the twisted expression now spreading across his face.
[Snape is truly unbearable. No one likes him!]
He gave a solemn nod, as if affirming some bitter truth, then clenched his jaw and continued writing with renewed indignation:
[And not only that, but also Sargeras… that shameless scoundrel. He actually teamed up with Snape to humiliate me! The two of them ganged up like a pair of back-alley thugs. Even though I fought back with everything I had, even though I stood my ground with all my strength, it's just impossible to defeat two against one. In the end… I lost.]
[They envy your fame. They envy your brilliance; just like fireflies envying the sun! Nothing more than a pack of petty, spiteful fools…]
Lockhart's fingers trembled slightly as he read the words, the ink smearing faintly at the edges.
[Yes… yes, you're right! Of course you're right. That has to be it. They're just all jealous… jealous of my talent, my popularity, my brilliance. That's why they're always looking for ways to tear me down, to embarrass me in front of everyone…]
[And now… they've succeeded. For now, they've had their little moment.]
Lockhart leaned forward, hunched over the diary as though trying to shield it from the world, and quickly scrawled across the page:
[Should I do something? I must do something, right? Otherwise… what will my fans think of me? So many students saw what happened today. What if… what if they start to believe that Gilderoy Lockhart is nothing more than a puffed-up fraud, a hollow showman with nothing real to offer…]
[You need a new achievement to silence the doubters. Something greater… something grander…]
Lockhart paused for a breath, his hand hovering in the air, his brows furrowing as irritation began to rise within him.
[A greater achievement? What achievement? Write another book? But I'm stuck here at Hogwarts — I don't even have the chance, let alone the material…]
The words on the page began to unfurl with graceful elegance, curling and gliding across the parchment like a snake flicking its tongue:
[Esteemed Lockhart, you're forgetting… writing is not your only talent. You are, after all, a great wizard. And there are many other ways for someone like you to reclaim your glory…]
Lockhart fell silent, eyes narrowed as he tried to come up with an answer. But after several long seconds of fruitless pondering, he gave up with a sigh and scribbled messily across the parchment:
[Other ways? What ways exactly?]
The page responded slowly, as though savoring the moment. New words began to rise from the parchment, smooth and unhurried:
[For instance… dealing with the Chamber of Secrets.]
The moment he saw it, Lockhart recoiled in shock. His face went pale, the color draining swiftly from his cheeks.
[The Chamber of Secrets? There's a basilisk in there! That thing's deadly! And worse still, I don't even know where the Chamber is… how am I supposed to find it?]
The handwriting shimmered faintly on the page, the words pulsing with a strange, almost hypnotic rhythm:
[As it happens, I do know a few clues about the Chamber. And I also know how to subdue the basilisk. I can help you. I can help you solve the entire crisis. Just picture it… imagine the moment when you walk out, carrying the basilisk's severed head in your arms…]
Lockhart's breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell rapidly as excitement took hold. Behind his spectacles, his eyes lit up with a feverish glow. In his mind, he was already seeing the bold, triumphant headline across the front page of The Daily Prophet:
❈༻ Gilderoy Lockhart Saves Hogwarts Singlehandedly! ༺❈
He swallowed hard, heart pounding, and with trembling fingers, he lowered the quill to the diary once again: [What exactly do I need to do? I can't deal with that basilisk on my own. Just looking it in the eyes is enough to kill a man…]
The ink began to blur, and the letters seemed to falter — as though the diary itself were struggling to breathe.
[Don't worry… I have a way to make the basilisk as gentle as a kitten. But I'll need your help in this. You see, I'm just a poor, powerless diary. Without you, I can't do a thing…]
Lockhart inhaled deeply, his chest tightening. It was the kind of breath someone takes right before they make a choice they know they can't undo.
[Do you really think… we can solve the Chamber of Secrets problem?]
[Of course! With someone as heroic and capable as you leading the charge, and just a tiny bit of humble knowledge from me to guide the way, this whole thing will be as simple as lifting a wand. And in the end, it will be you who reveals the truth to the world… you who saves the school. It will be a brand new heroic epic, written entirely around your name. As for me — I ask only to be mentioned, even just as a modest footnote in your legend…]
Lockhart licked his lips. They were dry, parched with nervous tension.
[Tell me… Tell me what exactly I need to do.]
The ink on the page began to dim, fading like a candle flickering on its last breath. New letters formed slowly, shakily, as though written with effort that drained whatever power the diary still had:
[To keep this… communication flowing… I need energy. I'm merely a magical object, and I require magic to keep operating. And… just a tiny bit of blood, to help me find the answer for you…]
Lockhart's fingertip trembled as it slid across the diary's page. The edge of the parchment caught his skin and sliced it, barely a scratch — just enough to draw a small bead of blood.
The instant the blood touched the page, the ink, which had faded to a lifeless gray, suddenly sprang back to life.
Thump!
Without warning, Lockhart collapsed forward onto the desk. His head dropped heavily against the wood, and the quill slipped from between his fingers, rolling away across the tabletop.
A few long, breathless moments passed before he finally stirred. Slowly, as though waking from a dream, he lifted his head and reached again for the quill, gripping it with unsteady fingers as he scrawled a shaky line across the diary's open page:
[I… feel… so tired…]
The diary replied, its words flowing out with a familiar, coaxing rhythm:
[That's just creative fatigue, dearest Lockhart. The cost of genius. But tell me… would you like to know where the real entrance to the Chamber lies?]
Lockhart blinked, as if the question had broken through the fog in his mind. A sly smirk crept onto his lips.
[Of course I would. That fool Sargeras has been wasting his time poking around every corner of this school, chasing shadows. Meanwhile, I'll have the answer handed to me without lifting a finger…]
[Naturally, because you're far superior to him. You're a hundred, no, a thousand times more gifted than he could ever dream to be. I'll tell you everything… but first, you need to give me something in return…]
[What do you want?]
[Just a little blood. The tiniest bit will do…]
[Didn't I already give you some?]
[You didn't. You must be misremembering. Just a drop. That's all I need… and then I can help you become what you were always meant to be. A hero. A true hero…]
[Fine. I'll give it to you…]
This time, as Lockhart drew the quillknife across his finger, he didn't notice that the blood soaked into the page far more quickly than before, vanishing into the parchment as if it had been thirsting for it.
From somewhere deep within the diary, a soft, satisfied sigh seemed to echo faintly. But Lockhart, lost in the haze of fatigue, chalked up the heavy weariness dragging at his limbs to nothing more than the mental strain of 'outlining a new chapter' for his next bestselling book.
He slumped forward again, collapsing over the diary, and this time, he did not move.
As the silent night deepened around him, the diary stirred. Without a sound, it began weaving new thoughts into his dreams… planting them like seeds, quiet and insidious, deep in the folds of his mind.
[Why does that scar-faced boy always appear at the scene of the attacks? Could he be the one who opened the Chamber in the first place?]
[Those so-called protective measures set up by the professors… what a joke. A troll? Honestly? How laughably naïve…]
[Only we know the truth. Only we hold the real solution in our hands…]
Those thoughts, soft as whispers, began to take root, curling and coiling through Lockhart's consciousness like poisonous vines.
And by the time he stood before Sargeras the next morning, something in his eyes had changed. Beneath the usual polished charm, there was a glint of cold calculation. A flicker of hostility he couldn't quite explain… and a quiet, unsettling confidence that hadn't been there before.
**
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