Harry took a couple of deep breaths, fingers closing around the quill in his pocket.
Knock-knock.
"Come in, Harry!" Lockhart's voice sang from inside.
Harry pushed open the door. There was the professor at his desk, same as always, scribbling away with that ridiculous peacock-feather quill on books or fan mail.
Lockhart flashed his trademark dazzling grin and waved him over. "Last detention, my boy! We've had such a lovely month. If you ever want a taste of fame early, pop by anytime to help answer my adoring public!"
Harry's stomach churned. If he hadn't crashed the Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow on the first day, he wouldn't be stuck here for weeks signing "Gilderoy Lockhart" until he wanted to puke.
He forced a shy-but-awkward smile and sat across from the man.
Pulling the quill from his pocket, Harry relaxed a hair. Lucien had lent him a self-scribing quill—perfect for mindless copying. He just had to pretend to hold it while the stack of books blocked Lockhart's view. The quill did the rest.
Then he spotted something new on the desk: a small hourglass.
Lockhart noticed. "Ah, the fans, Harry—so many letters! I lose track of time. Can't keep them waiting, can we?" He flipped the hourglass; sand began to trickle. "This little beauty keeps me honest."
Remember the domain: 101𝑘𝑎𝑛.𝑐𝓸𝓂
Harry gave a flat "mm-hmm," eyes dropping to the stack of gushing (and slightly unhinged) fan letters while the soft hiss of falling sand filled the room.
"Fame is a fickle friend, Harry…"
"Celebrities must act the part…"
Lockhart's voice droned on, blending with the sand. Harry's eyelids sagged.
CLUNK.
His forehead hit the desk.
Lockhart's eyes gleamed. He tapped the hourglass—sand froze mid-fall.
He slipped a battered old diary from the drawer into his robes, glanced at the snoring boy, and hurried out.
To the Chamber. Time to unleash the beast.
Tom's plan from the diary was solid: Harry as an alibi. The hourglass? A nifty little artifact Lockhart had "borrowed" along with someone else's memories. Anyone hearing the sand and the owner's voice drifted into deep sleep.
He'd be back before Harry woke. Easy.
Lockhart never noticed the tiny bat tailing him through the shadows. Halloween was close—bats were normal.
He reached Myrtle Warren's bathroom. Empty.
He sprinkled a ghost-confounding potion—just in case—then pressed the diary to a snake-etched tap.
The sink hissed open. Down the pipe he slid.
A bat fluttered in after him, morphing mid-air into a moth and vanishing into the dark.
Following the diary's glowing map, Lockhart soon faced a carved stone door. Diary to the lock—boom—it rumbled open.
A fifty-foot serpent slithered out, scales a blinding emerald. Lockhart's knees knocked. He stared at the floor, diary raised high.
The Basilisk vanished into a pipe with a scrape of scales.
Lockhart wheezed, wiped sweat, and scrambled back up.
Minutes later, the Chamber fell silent.
A moth landed, shimmered, and became a boy with ink-green eyes.
Lucien summoned Luster . The little qilin's golden glow chased away the damp and gloom.
"Master, this place is filthy!"
Lucien patted its neck. "We'll cleanse it soon. Drop a space marker first—makes popping back easy."
Marker set. Pop—they were gone.
---
Defense Against the Dark Arts Office.
"Harry, wake up! Too much studying?"
Harry jerked awake, glasses askew. "Huh? I fell asleep?"
The hourglass showed barely any sand had fallen.
"You nodded off the second you looked down," Lockhart chuckled. "Gotta take care of yourself, lad. Fame needs stamina…"
Harry flushed—sleeping in front of a professor? Mortifying.
Then a voice slithered into his ears, cold and venomous:
"Let me… rip… kill you…"
---
---
"I didn't do it!"
Harry stood in the corridor, pointing frantically at a torch bracket. Mrs. Norris hung there, stiff as a board, yellow eyes frozen wide.
He'd just finished detention and was heading to the common room when the voice returned—same as in Lockhart's office. Words of blood and death. He'd followed the sound in panic and bam—found Filch's cat, rigid and lifeless.
Worse: the wall dripped red.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
NEXT TIME IT'S YOU, MUDBLOODS.
The paint reeked of blood.
Filch knelt before his cat, sobbing. She was his only friend—the one creature who listened to a squib in a castle of wizards.
A crowd gathered. Harry tried to explain, but how? Only he heard the voice. Lockhart had sworn the office was silent.
"Why my cat? Why me?!" Filch wailed.
Dumbledore arrived with the staff. His eyes flashed behind half-moon spectacles at the blood and the cat.
Filch lunged. "Headmaster! Someone killed her—Harry Potter was right here—"
Dumbledore examined Mrs. Norris, eyes glowing faintly. "Argus, she's not dead."
"But she's not breathing! She's stiff! She was so lively…"
The students exchanged looks. Filch, the snarling caretaker, crying?
Harry stammered, "I didn't— I just found her—"
Lockhart cut in, gripping Harry's arm hard. "Harry's been with me all evening answering fan mail. Poor lad just stumbled onto this awful scene."
No flashy grin—just righteous sincerity, like he was staking his reputation on it.
Snape's lip curled; he'd been ready to pounce. Now he just glared at the cat.
Lucien watched from the crowd, arms folded.
Decent acting. Could've sold it better—throw in a wild tale about wrestling a Basilisk in Bulgaria. Fits the brand.
Lockhart was using Harry as his alibi too. Clever, Tom.
Dumbledore spoke. "She's been Petrified."
Filch wailed harder. "Who? Which student hates Muggle-borns—hates squibs—"
Dumbledore sighed. "We can cure her. This is rare dark magic—beyond any student."
He turned to Sprout. "A potion with mature mandrake root will reverse it. You've got plenty growing?"
Lockhart, remembering his persona, piped up. "I've brewed that potion a hundred times—blindfolded, even—"
Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "I am the Potions Master."
Lockhart shut up, shrinking back.
Then a hand shot up from the crowd.
"If you need mandrake juice… I've got some."
Dumbledore's gaze landed on Lucien—surprised, but not that surprised.
Lucien pulled a massive glass jar from his pocket, brimming with thick purple-green liquid.
Sprout's eyelid twitched. How many mandrakes did this kid grow?
She uncorked it, sniffed, tested. "Top-grade. Perfect for the potion."
Lucien smiled. "Figured I'd stock up. Got a few projects that need them."
Truth: he'd been dying to test a mature mandrake's scream. Biting Cabbages, Mandrakes, Devil's Snare—classic plant squad.
Sprout lowered her voice. "Be careful. Adult mandrakes can kill with a shout."
Lucien nodded. "I've got safety charms. Promise."
Dumbledore beamed. "A true contribution to the school, Lucien. Let's get Mrs. Norris to the hospital wing."
As the crowd dispersed, Harry rubbed his arm where Lockhart had gripped too tight.
Lucien pocketed the empty jar.
Phase one: complete.