The rainy night passed with nothing but the steady drip-drip-drip against the windows.
Right around lunchtime, Sean spotted Harry and Ron dragging themselves into the Great Hall looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.
"I thought weekends were supposed to bring good news," Ron grumbled, waving his brand-new wand like it was the only bright spot in his life. "Instead we've got to go polish every single trophy in Filch's stupid cabinet—by hand. No magic!"
"I'd trade you in a heartbeat," Harry muttered, slumping into the bench. "Cleaning stuff? I've had years of practice at the Dursleys'. But answering Lockhart's fan mail… that's a whole new level of nightmare."
Sean just listened quietly like always, eating his roast beef while the two of them vented.
Everything was going according to plan. Any day now Harry would hear the Basilisk's voice, realize he was a Parselmouth, and the dominoes would start falling exactly where Sean needed them.
"Your latest invention?" Hermione asked, leaning over with bright, curious eyes at the little metal toad in Sean's hand.
It gleamed like polished bronze, wore a ridiculous pair of aviator goggles, and looked ready to take flight.
"Yep," Sean said simply.
Coming from Sean, that was explanation enough. Hermione had long ago stopped being surprised by the stuff he built. She just wanted to know what this one did.
Sean pulled out the Planning Map (his upgraded version of the Marauder's Map). The second the Alche-Toad touched the parchment, a new marker appeared: something the Marauder's Map had never shown.
That was the whole reason he'd made it. The Chamber of Secrets didn't show up on the Marauder's Map, which was why Ginny kept blinking in and out of existence last term. So Sean built the Alche-Toad (seven of them, actually) to fill in the gaps.
Its first job: test whether the magic-reflection mirror actually worked against a Basilisk's gaze. Just in case the toad counted as "non-living," Sean had tucked a few live beetles inside as backup.
Once Harry fully realized he could speak Parseltongue, Sean would "borrow" the right phrases from him and open the Chamber himself.
But the Alche-Toads were more than one-trick ponies.
Each one carried:
- A locator button synced to the Planning Map
- Seven paper airplanes that could zip straight to Dumbledore's office (or anywhere else Sean needed)
- A few cookies capable of making a very loud, very distracting bang
They were Sean's final insurance policy.
If everything went sideways, all seven Alche-Toads would activate at once: stall the Basilisk long enough for the paper airplanes to scream for Dumbledore.
Seven Toads. Seven airplanes.
Hopefully it never came to that.
The afternoon slipped away, and suddenly it was ten to eight.
Harry trudged out of Hagrid's warm hut, steeled himself, and headed up to Lockhart's office for detention.
He knocked. The door flew open instantly.
Lockhart beamed like Harry was his favorite person in the world.
Unseen in the shadows of the corridor, a black cat sat perfectly still, tail curled around its paws.
"Come in, come in, my wayward little celebrity!"
The office walls were covered (floor to ceiling) with framed photos of Lockhart winking, grinning, and blowing kisses. Candles flickered everywhere, making every perfect tooth sparkle.
"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart said, as if this were the opportunity of a lifetime. "First one goes to Gladys Gudgeon—bless her—what a devoted fan."
Time crawled by slower than a sleepy snail.
Harry wrote envelopes while Lockhart yammered on about his awards, his hair-care routine, and his many triumphs. Harry managed the occasional "mm-hmm," "uh-huh," and "right."
Behind a large globe, the black cat's whiskers twitched.
The candles burned lower. Then the cat's ears flicked.
A low, cold voice echoed through the walls (nothing like the crackle of the candles or Lockhart's endless bragging).
Harry froze. A huge lilac-colored blot exploded across the envelope he was addressing.
"What—?" he blurted.
"I know!" Lockhart crowed, completely oblivious. "Six months at number one—an all-time record!"
"No," Harry said frantically, "that voice!"
"Sorry?" Lockhart asked, puzzled. "What voice?"
"That voice—it said—didn't you hear it?"
Lockhart stared at Harry like he'd suggested wearing socks with sandals.
"What on earth are you talking about, Harry? Goodness, look at the time—we've been at it nearly four hours! Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?"
Harry didn't answer. He was straining to hear the voice again… but it was gone.
He packed up in a daze, stepped into the corridor, and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone spoke from the darkness.
"You heard it too, Harry?"
Sean stepped forward, calm as ever.
"Sean—how did you—did you really hear it?"
Sean nodded.
"Oh thank Merlin," Harry breathed. Then, without thinking, he tried to repeat what the voice had said.
What came out of his mouth wasn't English. It was a low, hissing sound—like a snake tasting the air.
Harry was too rattled to notice he was flicking his tongue like he had fangs.
"How much did you catch?" Sean asked.
Harry hissed again, completely unaware.
Sean tilted his head. "And 'open'—how did it say 'open'?"
Harry hissed something else, frowning in concentration.
"Got it," Sean said, jotting an invisible note in his head. He pressed one of the Alche-Toads into Harry's hand. "By the way—you weren't speaking English just now. That was Parseltongue."
Harry stood alone in the empty corridor a moment later, replaying the sounds he'd just made. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
…
Second-floor girls' bathroom.
Sean stopped in front of the sink with the tiny snake etched on the tap.
He drew a slow breath.
"Hiss—open."
A blinding flash of white light shot from the tap. It spun wildly. Then the whole sink shuddered, slid aside, and revealed a large pipe big enough for a person to slide down.
Five Alche-Toads hopped forward eagerly and vanished into the darkness with happy little croaks.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Sean stayed by the entrance, tracing the carved snake with one finger, thinking.
As long as Hogwarts stayed safe, he'd stick to the plan: subdue the Basilisk (not kill it) and turn it into Basilisk cookies.
No professor in their right mind would ever sign off on something that insane.
Killing it would be easy—one rooster cookie and done.
Capturing it alive while Tom Riddle was watching? That was the dangerous part.
A soul fragment made Voldemort insane, but seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle was still the cold, brilliant, ambitious heir of Slytherin.
"What are you doing?"
Myrtle pushed the stall door open and peeked out curiously.
Sean just scratched the nearest Alche-Toad behind its shiny metal goggles.
The reflection mirror worked.
Which meant the day he faced the Basilisk himself was coming—fast.