The truth behind Myrtle's death fifty years ago eluded even the combined efforts of Ministry Aurors and Hogwarts professors. So, it was no surprise that Harry, Ron, and Hermione's little detective trio hadn't cracked it either. Others had investigated before them, with far more thoroughness and detail.
If they had any edge, it was their unwavering trust in Hagrid.
Melvin, playing the part, nodded as if he were up to speed on their investigation, tossing out a few encouraging words before steering the conversation back to their essay on wizarding combat.
Was the professor really clueless?
Hermione muttered under her breath, listening quietly.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts is a broad subject," Melvin began. "When applied to a wizard, it spans many fields, but at its core is personal combat ability.
"The essay analyzing different combat styles was meant to sharpen your instincts. We covered theory last class. Today's tutoring session is for practice."
Melvin stood, drawing his wand and waving it like a conductor's baton. The furniture responded, gliding to the walls, clearing a modest space in the center of the office in a blink.
"You've heard of wizard dueling, right?"
Harry scratched his head, standing with Hermione at opposite ends of the cleared space. Their eyes locked, a spark of excitement flickering between them. Wands in hand, their breathing slowed, focused.
Melvin didn't bother with dueling etiquette—those formalities were for show, useless in real fights.
He cleared his throat, speaking gently. "You may begin."
The moment his words fell, both sprang into action.
Hermione, slightly weaker in raw magical power, had planned her strategy in advance, opting not to go head-to-head. She immediately stepped back to create distance.
Repello!
Stupefy!
As she retreated lightly, she fired off a series of spells, swift and precise. The beams were faint and narrow, clearly not at full strength, but they whistled through the air, casting flickering shadows across the room.
Repello!
Harry countered one spell with a Repelling Charm but couldn't cast another in time. He twisted aside, narrowly dodging the Stunning Spell.
One attacked, one defended—two distinct strategies, neither clearly superior. Hermione stepped back as she cast, while Harry lunged forward to dodge, keeping the distance between them constant.
Melvin stood by a shelf near the wall, discreetly casting a Shield Charm to protect the room's contents from stray spells. His calm gaze took in every detail of their duel.
Their prior essays had given them a foundational understanding of dueling—attack, defense, distance, rhythm, and suppression. Perhaps because they'd analyzed so many case studies, their moves carried a hint of imitation.
Hermione's magic was weaker but more versatile. She didn't rely on a single spell or aim for a decisive blow. Her curses were less powerful but strategically layered, showing her unique approach.
If the duel dragged on, she might find her rhythm and seize an advantage over Harry.
But Harry's talent was extraordinary. Though his casting seemed slower, he was already forming a plan.
The office's limited space worked against Hermione. As she ran out of room to retreat, the gap between them shrank.
When Hermione fired a Tickling Charm to disrupt Harry's position and shift direction, he didn't dodge. Ignoring the incoming silver light, he swung his wand, unleashing an unavoidable Stunning Spell.
Hermione, mid-step, couldn't stop her momentum. Her clear eyes widened in shock as the Stunner closed in.
The two spells crossed paths, each streaking toward its target.
Just as they braced for impact, the beams froze in midair, as if striking an invisible barrier, then silently dissolved.
"That's enough for today," Melvin said, lowering the unseen shield. "You both know the outcome. Write another essay reviewing this duel—analyze your decisions, what could've been better, and what opportunities you missed."
Hermione pressed her lips together, a pang of disappointment in her chest.
A trivial Tickling Charm versus a fight-ending Stunner—the winner was obvious.
"It's getting late, Hermione. You can head back. Harry, stay a moment."
Hermione started to nod but froze, glancing at the professor, then at Harry. Her eyes flickered with unspoken thoughts, her lips tightening further.
The young witch sniffed, her voice bitter. "Yes, Professor."
Melvin watched her leave, her resentful glance as she closed the door almost amusing. He beckoned Harry over.
Harry stowed his wand and sat. "Professor, why did you ask me to stay?"
"Last year, when you were protecting the Philosopher's Stone, you showed a rare ability," Melvin said, tearing a piece of parchment and folding it into a thin strip. "Do you remember… Parseltongue?"
"Hard to forget," Harry said, his expression uneasy. "At first, I thought it was a common wizarding skill, but Ron told me only a few wizards have it. In Britain, it's mostly Slytherin's descendants—and they're usually dark wizards."
"Talent and ability aren't good or evil—it's how you use them."
Harry exhaled in relief. "That's what I think too."
"I asked you to stay because I need your help with something. Could you repeat a few phrases in Parseltongue…?"
As he spoke, Melvin twisted the folded paper into a spiral and slid it toward Harry.
Under Harry's gaze, the paper unfurled, sprouting fine scales. One end formed slit-pupils and fangs, the other a swaying tail.
…
Leaving the Muggle Studies office, the corridor was dark, the lights already out.
But it was a crisp autumn night at Hogwarts, the cloudless sky letting moonlight flood the staircases and halls. The portraits on the walls hadn't fully dozed off, and if disturbed, the ever-helpful Sir Cadogan might guide a lost student back to their common room.
Harry clutched a small glass vial, making his way to the portrait hole.
Earlier, Professor Levent had recorded his Parseltongue, then handed him a silvery wisp—a memory of their duel. Slip it into an enchanted mirror, stir, and he could replay the fight's details at will.
Like a video tape—pretty handy.
If he could do the same for dueling practice with Ron, that'd be great.
Was extracting memories a tough spell? He'd ask Hermione—she'd know, with all the magical knowledge in her head.
Harry reached the Fat Lady's portrait, whispering the password and slipping inside before she could grumble, darting through the passage into the common room.
The common room still held the faint warmth of candles. It wasn't yet fireplace season, and only moonlight streaming through the windows lit the armchairs and sofas, turning them into shadowy lumps.
Hermione was probably back in her dorm by now.
As Harry started up the spiral staircase, a voice came from the nearest chair. "What did Professor Levent want with you, Harry?"
A candle flared to life. It was Hermione, in a strawberry-red nightgown, her eyes wide and fixed on him.
Harry blinked, startled. "He asked me to record some Parseltongue phrases and gave me this—a replay of our duel."
"That's it?"
"That's it," Harry nodded. "You waited here just to ask that?"
Hermione's stern expression faltered, a touch of embarrassment creeping in.
She wasn't sure why she'd thought the professor keeping Harry behind meant special treatment or private tutoring.
She'd always been closest to Levent, and the idea of Harry taking that spot stung a little.
"I was thinking about the essay," she said. "Some details were fuzzy, and I couldn't sleep until I sorted them out, so I waited for you."
"Oh, got it…"
…
The third-floor girls' bathroom.
A figure slipped through the pale moonlight, entering the lavatory.
Peeling tiles and dried water stains marked the neglected space. Unused for years, it lacked the usual unpleasant odors.
Creaky old wooden doors were set into stone walls, forming spacious stalls. A puddle of water pooled on the floor. Melvin traced its path, confirming it came from the third stall.
Pushing open the stall door, he found the toilet tank silent—Myrtle wasn't sleeping here tonight.
Avoiding the questionable liquid on the floor, Melvin approached the sink, scanning the copper faucets under the moonlight. Soon, he spotted a subtle snake-shaped engraving. "Found it."
He pulled a vial of shimmering silver potion from his pocket, flicking his finger to levitate a drop or two.
The silvery memory merged with the potion, which steamed and swirled into mist. A vague figure emerged, lips moving, emitting a hissing sound.
[Open]
Melvin didn't understand the hisses but knew their meaning.
The copper faucet glowed with brilliant white light. In the hazy glow, it spun rapidly, the sink spinning with it, as if the solid floor and walls had turned to liquid, swirling down an invisible drain.
After about ten seconds, the light faded, revealing a wide opening where the sink had been, connected to a massive, pitch-black pipe.
Melvin grinned, ready to leap into the pipe for a moonlit underground adventure. But a pungent stench hit him—decades of sealed decay, ammonia mixed with rotting protein.
"…"
He hesitated. Were these pipes, sealed for decades, really safe?
Snap!
A crisp snap echoed through the bathroom, and a cluster of blue flames floated into the pipe.
No flicker, no explosion—safe enough.
Melvin cast a Waterproof Charm and a Bubble-Head Charm, then dove into the pipe.
The iron walls were slick with microbial slime and moss, slippery and unpleasant. The slickness made the slide smooth, the path twisting and turning.
Guided by the blue flames circling him, he saw countless pipe junctions branching in all directions.
The slide lasted nearly five minutes, easing down a gentle slope before leveling out. Melvin shot out, landing on damp, cold stone.
He sniffed his collar and sleeves, relieved to find no lingering stench, then surveyed his surroundings.
A carved stone passageway stretched ahead, the air heavy with dampness and a faint, musty smell—not overpowering, just the scent of a place untouched by sunlight. Small animal bones littered the ground, likely creatures that had wandered in and starved.
The bones were so decayed they'd crumble at a touch.
The path was straight, with no forks, so Melvin pressed forward, blue flames rising to light the dark.
The Chamber's origins were lost to history, pieced together only through fragments of legend.
Of Hogwarts' four founders, three were upright in character and deed. Slytherin, however, was more ambiguous. He rejected Muggle-borns and half-bloods, teaching only pure-bloods. He wanted to teach dark magic and expose students to dangerous, forbidden spells.
The other three—especially Gryffindor—disagreed. To avoid conflict, Slytherin built the Chamber in secret.
For dark magic experiments, teaching, or other purposes, the Chamber was sealed when their disputes became irreconcilable, and Slytherin left Hogwarts.
The tunnel was silent. Rounding a bend, Melvin spotted a shed snakeskin at the far end.
About twenty feet long, it glimmered green under the blue flames, with vibrant, colorful flecks—beautiful and clearly venomous.
Melvin tapped it with his wand, producing a dull, metallic sound.
He patted his pocket, considering, then frowned.
"…"
His Undetectable Extension Charm had enough space, but stuffing it in risked breaking the delicate skin.
With a regretful sigh, Melvin decided to return later with a larger suitcase.
"No wonder Tom didn't take it," he muttered, bypassing the skin and continuing.
After a few more turns, the tunnel ended at a stone wall—or rather, a door—carved with two intertwining snakes, their eyes gleaming emerald.
Melvin repeated the process.
A hiss echoed, and the door opened.
Greenish light bathed his shirt—not from candles or fire, but from mysterious mist swirling in the vaulted ceiling. Towering stone pillars, wrapped in coiling serpent carvings, bared their fangs, scales glinting like metal. It was a palace of snakes.
At the far end stood a statue of an ancient wizard, stooped with age, his beard trailing to his feet. The room's serpent statues seemed to serve him.
Less a mysterious chamber, this was a grand, majestic hall.
The Chamber stretches a hundred yards, shrouded in perpetual gloom. Twin rows of dark pillars stand like the bones of the underworld, entwined with serpents, their scales gleaming, supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. Green mist swirls in the corners, glowing like ancient phosphorescence, floating in the void. At its heart looms a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, his form touching the heavens, a dark mountain against the wall, enduring as the hall itself. His stone mouth gapes like a gate to the abyss, a hidden lair of serpentine terror. The air carries a venomous tang, stirred by the breath of a millennial beast, coiled in its ancient den.