Chapter 311: Magick Moste Evile
"...I seem to recall telling you both that if you broke another school rule, I would have to expel you," Dumbledore said, looking over his spectacles at Harry and Ron.
Ron's mouth fell open in a look of sheer, frozen terror.
"Which only goes to show," Dumbledore continued, a mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes, "that even the best of us must occasionally eat our words.
"Both of you shall receive the Special Award for Services to the School, and—let me see—yes, a hundred points each for Gryffindor. And of course, you, Miss Granger; you have earned fifty points for Gryffindor as well."
Ron's face instantly turned a brilliant, vivid pink, and his mouth snapped shut.
"Now, I believe it is high time for bed. Perhaps a large mug of steaming hot chocolate is in order; I have always found it does wonders for the spirits."
With a final, grandfatherly wink, Professor Dumbledore dismissed them.
The diary had been dealt with. But the ripples it left behind were far from over.
Harry and Ron had been pulled aside by Dumbledore earlier to give a full account of how they had used Sean's Basilisk fang to destroy the diary. Harry had instinctively left out the part about the dream-walking; he figured the Headmaster surely knew about the "Spirit of Hogwarts Castle" already.
But Dumbledore's subsequent explanation had left Harry's eyes wide with shock.
Back in the Room of Hope, Hermione watched Harry return and asked immediately, "So, who was Tom Riddle? Did you ask Professor Dumbledore?"
Harry sat by the fire, his expression distant. "It was Voldemort."
The name sent a physical jolt through the others. Sean, however, wasn't there to witness the shock—he was already on his way to Hagrid's hut.
With the diary neutralized, Hogwarts was entering a period of genuine peace. Sean needed to finalize the Basilisk Biscuits as soon as possible; his alchemical progress required a leap forward. Furthermore, there was another matter to attend to... a specific, cowardly, long-lived rat.
But for now, he had a debt of justice to pay. For decades, Hagrid had lived under the shadow of being the man who caused Myrtle's death. Of course, Hagrid wasn't exactly a model of rule-following—keeping werewolf cubs under the bed and breeding Acromantula were distinct marks against his record. It was hard to imagine the state of mind his former roommates must have been in.
"Sean! Come in, come in—"
Hagrid was outside his hut, harvesting pumpkins. In a few days, Professor Flitwick would be carving the massive gourds into lanterns for the Halloween feast—a tradition that filled Hagrid with immense pride.
"I won't stay long, Hagrid," Sean said. He flicked his wand, transfiguring a nearby boulder into a comfortable table and chair. "Take a look at this..."
Sean handed over a magical reproduction of the diary's final confession. Hagrid took it, looking confused at first, but within moments, he went perfectly still, standing knee-deep in the mud of his garden.
"A reporter from The Daily Prophet is coming. The Basilisk's shed skin has been found, and Moaning Myrtle has agreed to testify that a giant serpent was the true killer. You're innocent, Hagrid. Everyone is going to know the truth."
"Oh... oh, blimey..."
Large, heavy tears began to soak into Hagrid's tangled beard.
In the days leading up to Halloween, rumors spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. Outside, the rain hammered down, turning the Great Hall into the perfect arena for gossip.
"Have you heard about the Chamber? And Slytherin's Heir?" a Hufflepuff whispered.
"Too right I have!" Ernie Macmillan started to say more, but he was silenced as a group of Slytherins swaggered past.
"...I know the truth, of course," Draco Malfoy drawled, pausing to ensure he had an audience. "Even if my father won't tell me the exact details of the last time the Chamber was opened. It was fifty years ago, before his time, but he knows everything. He says it's all been kept hush-hush, only for the 'right' people to know."
Malfoy paused, waiting for the inevitable prompting. Sure enough, several younger students looked at him with rapt attention. Even some upper-year Slytherins leaned in.
"Well, I'll tell you this: the Chamber was opened, and last time, a Mudblood died. So, I expect it's only a matter of time before it happens again... I personally hope it's Granger."
He spoke with sickening relish.
"And who's the Heir, then, Draco?" someone asked.
"Heh—" Malfoy tilted his chin up, saying nothing, but his smug expression made his implication clear. Pansy Parkinson looked at him with adoring eyes, while Crabbe and Goyle puffed out their chests.
They walked past the corner fireplace—a spot they used to avoid with superstitious dread, though they seemed to have forgotten their fear today.
"Only those of noble blood are worthy," Theodore Nott added, casting a pointed look around the room. "As for the low-born..."
"Shut it, Theodore!" Malfoy hissed, cutting off the provocation before it could escalate.
Sean was sitting nearby, holding a copy of The Daily Prophet. When he looked up, Malfoy and his gang were already scurrying away.
"I hope their skulls are harder than a Basilisk's scales," Ron muttered, curling his lip. If those lot knew that Sean had faced down a fifty-foot serpent with nothing but a sword and some Transfiguration, they'd probably find it difficult to even maintain eye contact with him.
At dinner that night, the trio tried to subtly pry the details of the fight out of Sean.
"I just used some Transfiguration..." Sean began.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione immediately stopped listening. They should have known. Even if Sean called a meteor down from the heavens, he'd probably just describe it as a "somewhat advanced Summoning Charm."
It left Sean a bit perplexed, but he let it go. Rita Skeeter was arriving at Hogwarts the next morning to write a feature on Hagrid. The man had been wrongfully expelled and sent to the fringes of society; now, his name was being cleared.
It wouldn't be easy. The Ministry wasn't fond of admitting to such massive, historical blunders. But Sean didn't care about the politics—the important thing was that people knew Hagrid wasn't a killer. Hagrid might be reckless with werewolf cubs, but he wasn't Tom Riddle.
Night.
The Library.
The Restricted Section lay at the very back of the library. Sean stepped over the silken rope that separated the forbidden tomes from the rest of the collection, feeling a spark of academic excitement.
Maybe I can find more on the biological constructs of the Founders...
The Restricted Section was a labyrinth of shadows. Some books had peeling, faded gold letters spelling out words in languages that didn't exist; others had no titles at all. One book bore a dark, irregular stain that looked suspiciously like old blood.
Sean could hear faint, ghostly whispers emanating from the shelves.
Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to a small volume bound in black leather and silver. As he approached, the book emitted a thin trail of acrid, evil-smelling smoke and let out a series of low, hair-raising shrieks.
Across the spine, the title read: Magick Moste Evile.
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