The Tenth Weasley - CH - 63

The atmosphere in Hogwarts was thick with fear. Ever since Colin Creevey had been found petrified, his camera frozen mid-click and his body stiff as a statue, the last of the student body’s doubts vanished. The Chamber of Secrets had truly been opened.

The entire castle was thrown into chaos. Curfews were pulled back to 5:30 PM. Students—especially the younger ones—were forbidden from traveling the corridors alone. Professors doubled down on patrolling the halls, their expressions tight with anxiety. It wasn’t fear for their own safety that haunted them, but the dread of what another attack might mean—for the students under their care, and for the future of Hogwarts itself. The name of the school had already been dragged through the dirt in the Daily Prophet; another incident might very well bring down the wrath of the Ministry.

Whispers filled the Great Hall during mealtimes. Students spoke in hushed voices, glancing warily over their shoulders, and nobody trusted anyone anymore. Even friends looked at each other with suspicion. It wasn’t just about fear of the heir of Slytherin now—paranoia was spreading like a disease.

But there was one person in the castle who seemed completely untouched by the tension.

Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.

He walked through the corridors as if he were still the star of his own absurd tales, flashing his dazzling smile at nervous students and stopping to offer impromptu advice on how to handle mythical creatures no one had asked about. He spoke at length about how he had once warded off a banshee with nothing but a hairbrush and his charm, and how the current situation in Hogwarts reminded him of that tale—though it was unclear how petrified students and a wailing ghost bore any resemblance.

To Harry, Lockhart’s obliviousness was staggering.

“Either he’s the bravest man I’ve ever seen,” Harry muttered over breakfast, eyeing the flamboyant professor as he twirled into the Great Hall, “or he’s just too thick to realize how serious this is.”

Daphne, sitting beside him, rolled her eyes. “My money’s on the second one.”

Blaze smirked. “If the Heir of Slytherin ever came after him, I think the creature would turn to stone first.”

Still, what surprised Harry the most was that Lockhart had actually managed to get permission from Professor Dumbledore to start a Dueling Club. The announcement had come at breakfast, Lockhart’s voice magically magnified to echo around the hall.

“In light of recent events,” Lockhart had proclaimed, “I believe it's high time our students learned to defend themselves. Therefore, I shall be heading a school-sanctioned Dueling Club! You’ll all have the chance to learn from a real master of magical self-defense. Me!”

The reaction had been a mix of groans, laughter, and stunned silence.

Harry leaned close to Daphne and whispered, “Why would Dumbledore allow that?”

“Distraction,” she replied simply. “If people are focused on something ridiculous, they’ll stop panicking.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense. It felt like something Dumbledore would do—distract the masses with a spectacle while he worked behind the scenes. Still, Harry had no illusions. Lockhart was useless with a wand. If anything, this was likely to end in someone getting hexed in the face by accident.

The day of the Dueling Club's first official meeting dawned bitterly cold. Frost clung to the windows of the Slytherin common room, turning the already dim light a sharp and silvery blue. Inside, the fire crackled, casting long shadows against the walls, but the students were far too excited to care.

“Come on, Harry,” Blaise urged, adjusting the collar of his uniform cloak. “You’re going to miss the whole thing.”

Harry shook his head from his seat by the fire, one leg crossed casually over the other. “No, thanks. A room full of people who think I’m a threat and just learned how to hex each other? Doesn’t sound like a good time.”

Daphne sighed. “You could at least come to watch.”

“I’ll read about it in the Prophet,” Harry said dryly. “Lockhart will make sure it’s on the front page.”

With reluctant glances, Daphne and Blaise left Harry behind, pushing through the stone archway and into the corridors with the rest of their housemates.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the space had been completely transformed. The long house tables were gone, replaced by a gleaming dueling platform that hovered chest-height in the center of the room. Candles floated overhead, their flames dancing in the chilly air, illuminating the large crowd of students who had gathered—eager, nervous, or just looking for entertainment.

Daphne and Blaise slid into the growing sea of students just as a swirl of turquoise robes swept into the room.

“Gather round, everyone! Gather round!” called Gilderoy Lockhart, his voice magically amplified. “Welcome to the very first meeting of Hogwarts’ Dueling Club!”

He beamed out across the Great Hall like a performer basking in applause. Some of the younger girls tittered excitedly. Most of the older students merely looked skeptical.

“I have, of course,” Lockhart continued, placing a hand modestly against his chest, “fought the darkest creatures across five continents—and I thought it only right that I pass on a few tips. Let’s begin, shall we?”

From the shadows near the wall, Professor Snape stepped forward, his expression unreadable and his robes billowing ominously.

“I’ve asked Professor Snape to assist me with a small demonstration,” Lockhart said cheerfully. “Now, don’t worry—you’ll still have your Potions lessons. I haven’t stolen him entirely!”

Snape's sneer deepened.

Both professors climbed onto the platform. Lockhart drew his wand with a flourish; Snape did so with a slow, calculated movement.

“Now, Professor Snape and I are going to show you the proper way to conduct a duel. Wands at the ready!”

They faced each other, backs straight, their wands raised.

“As you see,” Lockhart said, “we bow—”

Snape inclined his head slightly, barely a gesture. Lockhart swept into an exaggerated bend that made his cloak flare out behind him.

“And now—on the count of three—we cast our first spells. Just disarming charms for today, nothing dangerous!”

“One—two—three!”

“Expelliarmus!” Snape’s voice cracked like a whip.

Lockhart's wand flew from his hand. There was a loud bang, and he was blasted backward, landing flat on his back with a yelp. His robes flared like a parachute as he tumbled off the platform and onto the floor.

A ripple of laughter ran through the hall.

Snape remained perfectly still, his wand lowered.

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” Lockhart wheezed as he staggered upright, cheeks flushed. “An excellent example of what not to do.”

Blaise muttered under his breath, “I think he just taught us how to fall.”

Daphne giggled.

Lockhart clambered back onto the platform and clapped his hands. “Now, let’s pair off! First years with first years! Take your positions!”

There was a scramble as students divided up and stood facing each other, nervous but eager.

Snape walked among them with the grace of a predator. “No foolish wand-waving. No idiotic incantations. You will listen. You will act when told. Or you will be hexed.”

He paired students together rapidly, casting sharp glances. “Potter and Malfoy!” he barked. “Up.”

The two boys climbed onto the platform, facing each other tensely.

“Don’t worry,” Lockhart beamed. “I’ll supervise this round myself.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

Draco raised his wand with all the arrogance he could muster. Charlie Potter mirrored him, jaw clenched, a faint spark of magic at the tip of his wand.

“Ready—when I count to three,” Lockhart said.

“Try not to cry when I hex you, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, rolling his shoulders like a showman warming up for a performance.

Charlie smirked. “Only if you don’t faint first, Malfoy.”

Professor Snape, arms crossed and face unreadable, gave a single nod. “Begin.”

There was no pause. No count.

Malfoy struck first.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, the red light of his disarming spell lashing toward Charlie like a whip.

Charlie raised his wand just in time. “Protego!” The spell rebounded with a crackle of static, dissipating harmlessly.

Charlie retaliated with a quick “Petrificus Totalus!” but Malfoy rolled to the side with surprising grace, the spell missing him by inches and splintering a bit of the platform’s edge.

“You’ll have to do better than that, blood traitor!” Malfoy hissed, sending a stunner straight at Charlie’s feet.

Charlie leapt, landing hard with a grunt. He lifted his wand again and barked, “Densaugeo!”

Malfoy flinched as the spell clipped him, and a sharp pain hit his jaw—his front teeth started to elongate.

“Stupid spell!” Malfoy snarled, wiping blood from his lip. “Let’s see how you like this.”

He whipped his wand in a tight arc and shouted, “Serpensortia!”

A jet of silver light erupted from the tip of his wand, and with a loud hiss, a thick black serpent uncoiled on the platform, landing with a heavy thump between the two duelers.

Chaos broke out in the hall. Students screamed and scrambled away from the platform. The snake raised its head, eyes scanning with a hungry gleam.

Charlie took a cautious step back, wand still raised.

“It’s just a snake—” he began, but before he could finish, Professor Lockhart leapt forward dramatically, wand aimed like a hero.

“Allow me!” Lockhart proclaimed with all the flair of a stage actor. “Vipera Evanesca!”

The spell burst from his wand in a flash of gold, hitting the snake squarely.

But instead of vanishing, the snake flew twenty feet into the air—writhing—and slammed down hard on the platform.

The loud crack of its body hitting the stone echoed throughout the Great Hall.

The snake coiled up, enraged, its pupils narrowed and tongue flicking rapidly. Its head darted toward the edge of the platform—and struck.

A scream pierced the air.

“Seamus!” someone shouted.

Seamus Finnegan had been closest to the edge, too stunned to react in time. The snake had sunk its fangs deep into his leg. He dropped, writhing in pain, clutching his robes where blood now seeped freely.

“Back! Everyone back!” Snape shouted, springing into action faster than anyone expected.

He dropped to his knees beside Seamus, pulled a small black bezoar from his pocket, and pressed it firmly between the boy’s lips.

“Swallow,” he growled. Seamus choked, then obeyed.

Snape stood swiftly. “He’ll live. The venom’s been neutralized.” He gestured to Madam Pomfrey, who had just arrived with a stretcher floating behind her. “Get him to the infirmary.”

All around, the Great Hall buzzed with panic and confusion. The snake had vanished. Malfoy stood white-faced, looking from Charlie to Seamus and back again.

Lockhart, red-faced and stammering, tried to calm the crowd. “Just... a small mishap, really—happens to the best of us!”

Snape turned slowly toward him. “You. Will. Not. Cast. Again.”

Lockhart nodded sheepishly, wiping sweat from his brow.

Charlie stepped down from the platform and rejoined his housemates without a word, his face pale but his jaw set. Around him, the whispers had already begun.


The library was quieter than usual. The oppressive air of fear hanging over the castle had slowly crept into every corner of Hogwarts—even the shelves of books seemed to whisper caution. But Harry Weasley was focused.

He sat in the far corner beneath a tall arched window, parchment spread out in front of him, a stack of thick, dusty tomes teetering beside him. His fingers skimmed the yellowing pages of Fantastic Beasts: Obscure and Obstructed, eyes narrowed in frustration.

What kind of creature could petrify without being seen? He'd scoured nearly everything he could find on magical beasts and curses—basilisks, cockatrices, gorgons—but the pieces still didn’t quite fit.

"Still on the mystery of the monster?" a familiar voice said softly behind him.

Harry looked up. Hermione Granger, in her usual buttoned robes and with three books tucked under her arm, gave him a small smile as she slid into the chair across from him.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "I don’t think anyone else is even trying to figure it out. They’re too busy trying to figure out if I’m the one behind it."

Hermione frowned. “People are just scared. You’re not helping by hiding away, you know.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But you were at the Dueling Club yesterday. You saw what happened.”

Hermione nodded. “I did. That snake—if you'd been there…”

“I wasn't,” Harry said, cutting her off. “And it’s better that way. Half of Hogwarts already thinks I’m the Heir of Slytherin. If I’d been in that room with a snake on the platform…”

She gave him a sympathetic look but said nothing.

“I’ve been dueling longer than most of the sixth years,” he added with a sigh. “Lockhart wouldn’t have taught me anything I don’t already know.”

Hermione didn’t argue. She opened one of her books instead and started helping him look.

Time passed in quiet companionship, parchment filling with notes, and the occasional flick of a page echoing through the library.

It wasn’t until Madam Pince cleared her throat and announced, “Library closes in five minutes!” that Harry blinked and glanced at the time.

His heart jumped. The curfew. It had been moved up after the last attack. And he was well past the new curfew.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said hurriedly, stuffing parchment into his bag. “See you tomorrow!”

Hermione waved as she returned to her reading. “Be careful.”

The castle was eerily quiet. Harry’s shoes echoed against the stone as he jogged through the dimly lit corridors, torchlight flickering off the walls. He rounded a corner near the Defense corridor when it happened.

“Kill… Let me kill… Let me rip… tear…”

Harry froze.

The voice slithered from the shadows, low and harsh. And unmistakably in Parseltongue.

His breath caught. This wasn’t the echo of his memory. It was now. It was close.

Heart pounding, Harry sprinted in the direction of the voice. He didn’t know what he’d do when he found it—he just knew he had to stop it.

Then he turned another corridor and skidded to a halt.

Justin Finch-Fletchley lay sprawled on the floor, eyes wide and glassy, completely still. Frozen. Petrified.

But that wasn’t all.

Floating next to him, arms crossed and head tilted, was Nearly Headless Nick—his ghostly expression twisted in a silent scream. He too had been struck.

“No…” Harry whispered. “Not again…”

He barely had a moment to breathe when the sound of fast-approaching footsteps made his heart sink.

“YOU!” came a furious cry.

Argus Filch stood at the end of the hall, eyes bulging as he pointed a bony finger at Harry.

“Caught red-handed! I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you!”

Harry backed up a step. “No, I—he was like this when I got here!”

“Oh, you’ll tell that to Dumbledore,” Filch snarled. “You’ll be expelled for sure!”

“I didn’t—”

“MOVE!”

Filch marched forward, grabbing Harry by the arm with surprising strength for someone so wiry. His grip was like iron.

As he dragged him away from the scene, Harry looked back one last time at Justin and Nick—cold, still, and utterly silent.

And a cold fear crept into his bones.

Someone was opening the Chamber of Secrets.

And Harry had just become suspect number one.