Midnight, Muggle Studies Office
Tap tap… tap tap…
In an upturned glass jar on the shelf, a small beetle with glossy blue wings tapped its short legs against the glass. Its plump form suggested it had been well-fed recently.
Compared to the empty jar a month ago, it now held comforts: insulating wood shavings, a bottle cap of water, fresh vegetable leaves from the greenhouse, and breadcrumbs from the school kitchen.
Despite the cushy life, Rita Skeeter had no intention of retiring here. Seizing the chance while the young professor was out late, she tirelessly probed for escape.
Her antennae explored the jar's rim, sealed tightly against the shelf. The wood's grain allowed air to pass but left no gap for her to squeeze through. Her front legs tapped the thick, smooth glass—unbreakable.
After hours of effort, Skeeter panted, fluttering to the bottle cap. Ignoring the water, she sipped moisture from the vegetable leaves with her delicate mouthparts.
Her antennae twitched, a beetle's instinctive sign of satisfaction.
After eating, she pondered other escape routes, but the prospects were grim. Unmarried, living alone, and rarely writing to family or friends, Skeeter could go months without contact while chasing scoops—her publisher wouldn't bat an eye.
Worst of all, this foreign professor treated her like a pet, showing no interest in interrogation or negotiation, leaving her clueless about his motives.
"…"
Her translucent wings quivered with restless urgency.
As the beetle paced anxiously, the office door creaked open. Skeeter dove into the wood shavings, peeking out to spy on the professor's return.
Melvin sat at his desk, staring at the right-hand drawer where an old diary lay.
Skeeter's antennae twitched. She assumed he was reflecting on the day, preparing to write in his diary—a habit he'd abandoned for some time, which surprised her.
But tonight, Melvin didn't open the diary. He sat in thought, his fingers tracing faint patterns on the desk—skulls and snakes.
Tom Riddle had explained the Dark Mark thoroughly, with two goals: to monitor Voldemort's main soul through the mark's state and to lay groundwork for seizing control if Voldemort returned. After all, the Dark Lord owned the Dark Mark.
Melvin wanted to create his own unique mark, replacing its core with his own signature. But the spell was more complex than he'd expected, entwining soul and magic in ways he couldn't yet grasp.
How had Tom Riddle, a mere sixteen-year-old, touched the mysteries of the soul?
Melvin's gaze flicked to the drawer, but after a moment's pause, he didn't retrieve the diary. Instead, he patted his coat pocket and left the office.
The beetle slowly emerged, its patterned antennae resembling spectacles.
---
The passage to the Chamber of Secrets opened again.
In the sealed underground chamber, before the ancient wizard's statue, Melvin mixed silvery potion with a memory, releasing a misty haze. Parseltongue hissed rhythmically from the fog.
The Slytherin statue's mouth creaked open, and a massive serpent with dark green-black scales slithered out, gliding down the statue's robe and staff, its thick scales scraping with a low, gritty sound.
"Sss…"
The Basilisk reached the floor, coiling toward Melvin. Its round, golden-yellow eyes, with slit-like pupils, gleamed coldly. Its scarlet-black forked tongue flicked, exhaling a foul stench.
This wasn't Melvin's first encounter with the Basilisk, but its presence still awed him.
The serpent lowered its head, parting the scales on its crown to reveal a Horned Serpent egg.
Slightly larger than a goose egg, its once-dull gray shell was now a frosty white, pulsing with faint, distinct magic.
The unhatched creature seemed to sense Melvin's gaze, the egg quivering with excitement.
Feeling the movement, the Basilisk quickly closed its scales, shielding the egg, and hissed at Melvin.
Melvin shrugged, unable to understand or respond, but he had other ways to win its favor. "Went to the Forbidden Forest with some students tonight and ran into an Acromantula colony. Picked up some roasted spiders for your dinner."
Ignoring whether the Basilisk understood, Melvin opened his coat pocket, shook it, and spilled out a dozen charred lumps.
Small as fists in the pocket, they expanded to carriage-sized Acromantulas on the ground, their legs curled, shells blackened.
The Basilisk's yellow eyes glinted with interest.
The burnt, bristly hair gave off a scorched smell. The crispy shells cracked, revealing creamy spider flesh, akin to crab or lobster meat, still warm and fragrant.
Drool oozed from the Basilisk's maw, dripping and slurping back up.
Utterly unappealing.
Melvin waved a hand, clearing space for it to eat. "Take your time. I'll check the statue for any relics Slytherin might've left for Hogwarts' heirs."
The Basilisk opened its massive jaws, diving into its meal.
Unlike other animals, snakes don't chew. They swallow prey whole, no matter the size, then lie uncomfortably for hours. The Acromantulas were perfectly sized—slightly larger than the Basilisk's head, with foldable parts, as if made for it. It gulped one down, pressing it along its digestive tract with a crunch.
"Crack…"
Melvin hadn't tasted it, but he'd heard high-protein foods like this often tasted like chicken.
The Basilisk swallowed another, lazily glancing at the statue, its yellow eyes narrowing at Melvin.
It wasn't sure if this wizard was Slytherin's heir.
Past visitors spoke Parseltongue, issuing commands to leave the chamber and act on their orders. Slytherin had left it to guard the chamber, not to obey heirs or kill students. It cooperated out of respect for Parseltongue.
This wizard didn't speak it, but his branches carried the master's magic, so it obliged.
Melvin circled the statue, tapped his robe, and rode a summoned gust into its dark mouth.
The Basilisk's lair, worn smooth by centuries of scales, was filled with stone dust and an unidentifiable, heavy odor.
But that was all.
After two loops, Melvin found nothing. Either Slytherin left no relics, or Voldemort had taken them.
"Not a true heir, after all…" Melvin muttered, shaking his head as he drifted out, glancing at the gorged Basilisk below.
Having devoured the spiders, its belly swelled, thicker than the rest of its body, transforming from a mighty serpent to a sluggish one, too bloated to move easily.
Sensing Melvin's disdain, it rolled over, ignoring him.
---
Hermione slowly opened her eyes to a blurry, pure white. Her head spun, like staying up too late on Christmas and oversleeping, her body and mind out of sync.
Floaty, sluggish, lazy.
She hadn't believed in heaven or an afterlife, but meeting Hogwarts' ghosts had changed her mind.
"Is this what being a ghost feels like?" she murmured, dazed, reaching for her neck like Nearly Headless Nick.
It was there, warm and intact.
"I'm alive?"
Her senses sharpened, the room coming into focus. She was in the hospital wing, soft morning light streaming through the windows, the air tinged with herbal scents.
Propping herself up, she checked her limbs. Aside from sore muscles and minor scrapes, she was fine.
"Feeling scared now?" Madam Pomfrey bustled in, her face stern.
"We were surrounded by Acromantulas!" Hermione recalled, panicking. "Where's Professor Levent? He was with us—"
"Melvin deserves punishment too! A professor, messing around with students…" Pomfrey cut her off, checking Hermione's arm, prying open her eyes, and pinching her fingers, leaving no room for protest. "I don't understand you young people, doing such reckless things. He said it was to teach you a lesson. I say you should've been dragged back for detention. You Gryffindors…"
"A lesson…" Hermione echoed softly.
She'd suspected as much. The professor's capture seemed like a ploy to make them learn, but as the Acromantula fight intensified and he didn't appear, she'd dismissed it.
Now, it felt exactly like something Professor Levent would do.
Hermione's lips twitched into a silent smile.
"Open your mouth!"
As she savored her survival, Pomfrey pinched her cheeks, pouring in a blue potion.
It tasted of sharp mint—and slugs, from Potions class. Bitter and cold, it jolted her, her face scrunching up.
"Stay quiet. I'll check again in half an hour. If you're fine, you're discharged."
"Okay," Hermione nodded obediently, watching Pomfrey leave. Spotting her friends in nearby beds, she suddenly remembered—wasn't there a Quidditch match today?
---
Hogwarts Library
Melvin browsed the Restricted Section, finding a wealth of dark magic texts.
Tom Riddle's teachings were practical, focusing on casting dark spells. The books delved into principles, soul resonance, the cruel mindset needed for dark magic, and its long-term effects on personality. Combined with psychological insights, they deepened Melvin's understanding.
Unforgivable Curses came easily to him now.
But the Dark Mark remained elusive. It required self-awareness of one's soul and understanding others', far more complex than anticipated. Even drastic tweaks to its outer functions couldn't touch the core.
Clutching a tome on Herpo the Foul's dark magic, Melvin sat by a window, distant cheers from the Quidditch pitch signaling a crucial moment.
To avoid McGonagall's glares, he skipped the match.
Had Harry been discharged?
He vaguely recalled this match being tampered with by a house-elf, with an assist from a certain inept professor. If Harry played, he'd likely end up back in the hospital wing tonight.
Melvin chuckled, flipping open the book, immersing himself in dark magic.
Some time later, someone sat nearby. Looking up, he was surprised. "Hermione? What are you doing here? Match over?"
Hermione's expression was complex. "A Bludger was tampered with and hit Harry. Lockhart tried to help but botched the spell, vanishing his arm bones."
"That so?" Melvin replied, turning a page.
Hermione glanced at the book, catching a line about Herpo the Foul: After breeding Basilisks and long exposure to dark magic, his mental state grew unstable, possibly splitting his soul.
She didn't dwell on it, asking softly, "Professor, you deliberately let us face the Acromantulas, didn't you?"
Melvin nodded. "To practice what you learned in remedial lessons."
"Did you know asking Aragog would lead nowhere?" Hermione studied his face, wanting to ask if he knew the truth about Myrtle's death.
Was their investigation just another adventure he'd orchestrated?
"I had a hunch," Melvin said, nodding. "Acromantulas are beasts, unlike centaurs or unicorns. They rarely befriend wizards. Even when Hagrid was wrongfully expelled, Aragog didn't speak up. It certainly wouldn't help a few young students."
"I see…" Hermione said, reluctant but probing with more questions. As a second-year, she was too green to outwit a professor and left without the answers she wanted.
Melvin watched her go, then looked back at the book, lost in thought.
Was there a connection between a soul bound to a Horcrux and one imprinted in a mark?