"…I believe I did tell you two that if you broke any more school rules, I'd have to expel you,"
Dumbledore said again to Harry and Ron.
Ron's mouth fell open in pure horror.
"That just goes to show," Dumbledore continued with a twinkle, "that even the best of us sometimes have to eat our words.
You will both receive Special Awards for Services to the School, and—let me see—yes, two hundred points each to Gryffindor.
And you, Miss Granger, fifty points for sheer brains."
Ron's face turned bright pink. His mouth snapped shut.
"Now, off to bed with the lot of you. Or perhaps another mug of steaming hot chocolate first—I've always found it does wonders for the spirits."
Dumbledore winked kindly as they left.
The diary was gone.
But the ripples it left behind were far from over.
Harry and Ron had been called to the headmaster's office and told him everything—well, almost everything—about how they'd destroyed the diary with Sean's basilisk fang. Harry had instinctively skipped the dream part; he had a feeling Dumbledore already knew about the spirit of Hogwarts Castle.
What the headmaster said next made Harry's eyes go wide.
Back in Hope Cottage, Hermione pounced the moment Harry walked in.
"So who exactly was Tom Riddle? Did you ask Dumbledore?"
Harry sat by the fire, staring into the flames.
"It was Voldemort."
That sent a collective shiver through the room.
Everyone except Sean—he was already at Hagrid's hut.
With the diary dealt with, Hogwarts was finally heading into real peace.
Sean needed to hurry up and finish the Basilisk Cookie recipe—his alchemy progress was begging for it.
Plus, there was one very special little guy waiting for him to deal with… a sneaky, cowardly… rat.
But right now, he could at least help clear Hagrid's name.
For years Hagrid had lived branded as Myrtle's killer.
Of course, the guy had his own issues—raising werewolf cubs under his bed, breeding Acromantulas in the wardrobe…
It was honestly a miracle his old dormmates survived.
"Sean! Come in—" Hagrid called from outside, busy harvesting pumpkins.
In a little while Professor Flitwick would turn them into lanterns. Hagrid was bursting with pride over it.
"No need, Hagrid," Sean said. He flicked his wand; a rock rolled over and transfigured itself into a neat table and chairs.
"Look at this."
He handed Hagrid an exact replica of the diary.
Hagrid took it, puzzled, and froze in the middle of the muddy patch.
"The Daily Prophet's sending a reporter. They've found the basilisk skin. Myrtle's agreed to testify it was the snake that killed her…
You're innocent, Hagrid. Everyone's going to know it."
Big, fat tears rolled into Hagrid's beard.
…
The night before Halloween, Hogwarts was buzzing with rumors.
Rain hammered the windows, and the Great Hall became gossip central.
"You heard about the Chamber? And the Heir of Slytherin?"
A Hufflepuff whispered.
"Duh!"
Short little Ernie opened his mouth to add something dramatic, but someone clapped a hand over it.
A group of Slytherins had just walked past.
"…Of course I know about it, even though Dad won't tell me anything that happened when the Chamber was opened last time.
It was fifty years ago—he wasn't even born yet—but he knows everything.
It's all top-secret, only a few people are supposed to know."
Draco paused theatrically, waiting for the praise.
Sure enough, someone delivered.
Even a couple of older Slytherins leaned in.
"Fine, I'll tell you: the Chamber was opened once before. Last time, a Mudblood died.
So if it's open again, another Mudblood's definitely going to die. Just a matter of time… I'm hoping it's Granger."
He looked immensely pleased with himself.
"And the Heir of Slytherin, Malfoy?" someone asked.
"Heh—"
Draco lifted his chin, said nothing, and somehow that said everything.
Pansy gazed at him adoringly. Goyle and Crabbe puffed up their fat faces.
They strutted past the corner fireplace—they never used to dare come this close—and apparently forgot who was sitting there.
"Only the pureblood elite can—" Theodore started, smirking.
"Shut it, Theo!" Draco hissed, suddenly panicked.
By the time Sean lowered his copy of the Daily Prophet, the whole group had scurried off.
"I hope their skulls are harder than a basilisk's," Ron muttered.
If they ever found out Sean had soloed a fifty-foot basilisk with a sword, they'd probably faint if he even looked at them.
At dinner, the trio were still casually-not-so-casually trying to pump Sean for anti-basilisk tips.
"I used some transfiguration…" Sean began.
They immediately tuned out.
Yeah, they should've known. Even if Sean called down a meteor, he'd just say, "I used Accio."
Sean was mildly confused by their reaction, but whatever.
Rita Skeeter was coming tomorrow to write a new piece on Hagrid—wrongly imprisoned, unjustly expelled. Time to set the record straight.
It wouldn't be easy.
The Ministry didn't love doing favors that earned them nothing but headaches.
But Sean didn't really care about the Ministry. What mattered was that people finally knew Hagrid had been innocent.
Sure, keeping werewolf cubs and Acromantulas wasn't exactly legal, but pinning Tom Riddle's crimes on him was just wrong.
…
Night.
The library.
The Restricted Section was tucked at the very back.
Sean stepped over the rope that separated those books from the rest, a little thrill running through him.
Maybe he'd find something useful about basilisks…
There were way too many books. Some had peeling, faded gold lettering that spelled words you didn't want to say out loud. Some had no title at all. One had a dark stain that looked suspiciously like blood. A few even whispered faintly when he walked past.
Then one book caught his eye.
When he got close, it let out a thin, evil-smelling smoke and a series of blood-curdling shrieks.
Black and silver cover.
The title read:
Moste Potente Magics.