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Ginny Weasley clutched that cursed diary to her chest, running alone through the corridor like a startled rabbit, eyes wide and breath shallow as she fled blindly through the maze of reflective walls.
In every pane of mirrored glass, her panicked figure was splintered and scattered into countless fragments, each one echoing her frantic retreat.
She was desperate to get rid of the diary, to throw it somewhere no one would ever find it. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom came to mind; it was a place long forgotten by most, a place thick with cobwebs and almost always empty.
Glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of her nose, Ginny kept her head down as she hurried forward, arms wrapped tightly around the diary as though afraid it might leap from her grasp.
Suddenly, the door to an office flew open without warning, and a figure stepped out.
"Bang!" Ginny crashed straight into a billowing robe of deep violet, embroidered all over with glittering golden stars. The force of the collision knocked the diary from her hands, and it tumbled to the ground.
"Oof!" Lockhart let out a dramatic yelp, throwing up his arms as if he'd been hit by a Bludger. "Careful there, child — wait a minute, you didn't do that on purpose, did you?"
He looked down at the small witch who'd bumped into him, flashing what he clearly believed to be a dazzling, charming smile.
Ginny's pupils shrank in horror… because there, right at the tip of Lockhart's gleaming leather boot, lay the diary.
She dropped into a crouch at once, reaching out in panic. "S-sorry, Professor…"
"Hold on!" Lockhart barked suddenly, lifting his foot just enough to pin the diary in place. Ginny's heart nearly stopped.
"What are you doing wandering the castle all by yourself?" he asked, crouching down and reaching for the diary himself. "You do realize it's a very sensitive time right now, don't you? Roaming around alone is against school rules…"
Ginny opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat, slipping out as nothing more than a helpless stammer. And in that moment, Lockhart flipped open the diary — its pages blank — and a smug little grin spread across his face, as if everything suddenly made perfect sense.
"Aha! You are a fan of mine, aren't you?" he said, eyes lighting up with faux understanding as he offered her what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. But Ginny only grew more flustered, her panic written plainly across her face.
"I get it," Lockhart went on smoothly, completely missing the fear in her eyes. "Meeting me can be a little overwhelming, I know. After all, I'm an author, and that tends to make my schedule… well, rather full."
Ginny said nothing. Her eyes were wide, locked on him, frozen in place as Lockhart reached into his robes and pulled out that ridiculously large, gaudy quill of his; the one made of peacock feathers, grand and completely unnecessary.
"You want my autograph, don't you? I knew it! Of course you do!" Lockhart declared proudly, speaking as if her silence were all the proof he needed. "But honestly, you didn't have to pretend to bump into me like that. I mean, it's a bit theatrical, sure… but let's be honest, that sort of thing's been done to death!"
Ginny raised a hand, opened her mouth, tried to say something — anything — to stop him. But no words came. Her throat felt tight, her chest even tighter, and all she could do was stand there helplessly as the moment spun completely out of her control.
"There's no need to be shy. I know how you little girls can be…" Lockhart said kindly, missing every warning sign in her expression.
The sharp scratch of the peacock quill echoed through the hallway as he wrote, the sound grating and smug at once. "To my most devoted reader — Gilderoy Lockhart."
With a final flourish, the elaborate signature settled across the diary's first page in sweeping, glimmering strokes.
"No—" The cry caught in Ginny's throat. She stood there, paralyzed, eyes fixed on the book in horror, unable to look away.
As Lockhart shut the diary with a satisfied snap, Ginny suddenly turned on her heel and bolted without a word, not even sparing him a glance. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Lockhart standing there alone, utterly confused.
"Well, that was... bashful, wasn't it? Are all the Weasley girls this odd?" He gave a nonchalant shrug, humming a light tune as he tucked his self-proclaimed 'trophy' under his arm. "Though I must say, her mother has excellent taste. She's one of my most loyal fans!"
Chuckling to himself, Lockhart shook his head, then turned and stepped back into his office as if nothing at all had happened.
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The screening operation was carried out using several curious magical devices.
At the head of each of the four House tables in the Great Hall, four crystal-clear spheres had been placed—gleaming, transparent orbs that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Every day at dawn, without fail, all students and faculty were required to approach them one by one and press their hands flat against the glass.
Overhead, the mirrored panels woven into the enchanted ceiling reflected strange, flickering light that echoed the glint of the crystal spheres below. Together, they cast a shimmer across the room that felt at once beautiful and faintly unsettling.
In private, Sargeras had told the professors, "If there's a second soul hiding inside someone… the sphere will turn pitch black the moment they touch it."
But that, in truth, was a complete lie. The spheres were nothing more than ordinary crystal balls, the kind used in Divination class, and Sargeras had borrowed them casually from Professor Trelawney without even needing an excuse.
Of course, no one else knew that… no one but him.
The real trump card stood beneath the archway of the Great Hall: a towering mirror, its surface hidden behind a curtain of magically woven silk. This was the Mirror of Erised, and Sargeras had borrowed it directly from Dumbledore himself, modifying it temporarily with a layer of detection magic before bringing it here.
When Sargeras raised his wand and swept the silk covering aside, the mirror's surface shimmered like liquid silver, as if molten mercury were flowing slowly just beneath the glass. Then, with a flick of his wand and a non-verbal spell, he transformed its frame, reshaping it into the illusion of a long, mirrored corridor.
"Now you no longer reflect desire," he murmured, tapping the mirror gently with the tip of his wand. "Now you reflect souls."
Soul Tracing— a detection spell so obscure and arcane that Sargeras had once assumed he'd never use it in his lifetime. And yet, against all expectations, here and now, it had proven useful after all.
This improvised "Mirror That Reveals All" would silently screen every person who walked past it. Should anyone carry a second soul within them, the mirror would emit a piercing shriek, loud and unmistakable.
The real trap, then, had been laid in plain sight — right under the nose of the entire school. If Voldemort really dared to try the same trick again, no matter whose body he was hiding inside, the moment they passed in front of this mirror, they would be exposed instantly.
In the time that followed, Sargeras made another trip to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, hoping to gather some information that might prove useful.
But Myrtle, still sulking over the fact that he hadn't helped her teach Peeves a lesson, was in no mood to talk. She spent the entire time with her head shoved deep into one of the toilets, and with her voice echoing gloomily from the pipes, she stubbornly refused to say anything helpful.
"You promised you were going to punish Peeves!" she whined, her wet, muffled voice bouncing eerily from somewhere deep inside the plumbing.
Sargeras couldn't really blame her… and truthfully, he felt just as frustrated. The truth was, Peeves was nearly impossible to track down.
As the castle's resident troublemaker spirit, Peeves had a maddening trait: the more you went looking for him, the more he vanished without a trace. But the moment you stopped thinking about him, the moment your guard dropped, there he'd be… bursting out of thin air to pull some ridiculous prank.
So, Sargeras was forced to adjust his approach.
He began wandering the castle with Harry, combing the place bit by bit as they searched through Hogwarts' vast and winding network of underground passageways.
They checked the kitchens, the bathrooms, every drain and pipe they could find. Sargeras paid especially close attention to the areas students frequented the most, because if a Basilisk ever appeared in those places, the consequences would be unimaginable.
"Demonstrate that pronunciation again." He stopped in front of a weather-stained stone wall, keeping his voice low.
Harry swallowed, clearly uneasy, then let out a hoarse, deep hiss.
Nothing happened.
Sargeras narrowed his eyes, listening intently. Then he gave it a try himself, mimicking the strange, serpentine syllables.
Scenes like this had become common between them lately. While searching for the entrance to the Chamber, they were also holding their own version of language lessons… lessons in Parseltongue.
Simple commands like "open," "stop," and "obey" were ones Sargeras had learned to pronounce with decent accuracy by now. But even so, this flow of communication was still entirely one-sided. He could speak the language, yes… but he couldn't understand it in return. He couldn't hear what snakes were saying. He was the kind who could talk, but not listen.
At the entrance to the Great Hall, the Mirror That Reveals All remained still and silent.
Sargeras often stood before it, gazing calmly at its motionless surface.
And at times, questions would creep into his mind, surfacing slowly like mist. Had the enemy already caught wind of his trap and cleverly avoided it? Or had he been wrong from the very beginning… searching in the wrong place, following the wrong clues?
Yes, even Sargeras wasn't immune to self-doubt. But whenever those thoughts threatened to take hold, he would gently run his fingers along his wand and turn away, ready to press on to the next suspicious corner.
His patience had always run deep… and now, it would have to run deeper still.
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[Chapter End's]
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