Chapter 7: The Chamber's Secret
The girls' bathroom was a place of apprehension, its air thick with cheap soap and an ancient dampness that clung to Leo's skin like a second robe. The mosaic tiles gleamed faintly under a flickering torch, one serpentine rune pulsing on the floor, its glow casting eerie shadows. A chipped faucet dripped, the steady plink echoing in the silence, a mundane anchor to the tension. Leo stood before the sink, his hands trembling, the cold porcelain biting his palms. The group—Hermione, Enid, Wednesday, Agnes, Lila—stood behind him, their faces a mix of bravery and dread, their breaths misting in the chilly air. This is it. No turning back. His heart thudded, memories of his old life—arcade lights, his dog's bark—fading against the weight of this moment.
He whispered a word he didn't know he knew, a low, hissing sound from deep within, like a memory of scales on stone. The sink groaned, pipes coiling like snakes, the basin sinking into the floor with a grinding screech, revealing a gaping black pipe. The air grew heavier, the scent of damp earth rising. I'm not ready for this, but I'm here. A frayed towel hung on a nearby hook, swaying slightly, grounding his nerves.
"Blimey."
Ron Weasley's voice, pale with fear, broke the silence as he peeked around the corner, his freckles stark against his ashen face.
"Snakes again? Count me out."
The Gryffindors kept their distance, their wary glances a reminder of the group's isolation. Leo slid down the pipe, the slimy walls slick against his robes, the musty air filling his lungs. He slipped on a wet stone at the bottom, his knee jarring against the rough surface. Hermione caught his arm, her grip firm, her robes damp from the slide.
"Really, Leo? Now?"
Her voice mixed exasperation and relief, her eyes glinting in the dark.
"Timing queen."
He retorted, a nervous laugh escaping, his breath visible in the cold. The tunnels' air was thick, glowing green serpentine runes on the walls pulsing like a heartbeat, their light casting jagged shadows. This place is alive. And it hates us. A chipped brick, half-buried in the dirt, caught his boot, a small jolt anchoring him.
[BASILISK REMNANTS—FUN.]
"Your fun."
He muttered, his voice echoing, the sarcasm a shield against the creeping dread. The rumble started low, a tremor vibrating in his bones, a guttural sound that made his teeth ache. The Basilisk's spectral echo materialized, a hulking, ghostly serpent with shimmering green eyes, its scales glinting like wet obsidian. It was an illusion, but real enough to kill, its presence a cold weight in the air. Not a monster. A weapon. Leo's stomach churned, nausea rising as he focused.
"What are you?"
He whispered, his voice steady despite the fear clawing his chest. The echo's voice rumbled in his mind, ancient grief and cold rage.
"Control… Outcasts."
The Ministry had weaponized it to terrorize Outcasts, to crush their power. They made this? His blood boiled, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and betrayal.
[THE MINISTRY'S BEEN PLAYING GOD. SHOCKING, RIGHT?]
A puppet-like animation of a god pulling strings on tiny figures flashed in his vision, the image sharp and mocking. The stakes just got higher. Hermione's whisper cut through, laced with horror.
"They created this?!"
"Together, we stop them."
Leo's voice was firm, his resolve a burning coal. He pushed past fuzzy memories—sword, phoenix, heroism—now a distant dream. The Basilisk echo lunged, its spectral coils lashing out, the air hissing with its movement. They dodged, ran, ducked, hearts pounding, the chamber's damp walls slick under their hands. A glowing green vial pulsed on a pedestal, the venom within a beacon of hope and danger. That's it. The cure. A cracked stone underfoot nearly tripped him, its edge sharp.
Leo ran for the vial, Hermione's protective charm flaring behind him, its light warm against the cold. He grabbed it, the vial warm and vibrant, its glow pulsing in his hand. The echo roared, lunging, its frustration shaking the chamber. They slid up the pipe, the roar fading to a defeated hiss, the slimy walls scraping their robes. Leo clutched the vial, his breath ragged, the air sharp with victory and fear.
"Just brew this into a potion."
He grinned, the vial's warmth grounding him.
"Easy, right?"
"Famous last words."
Hermione huffed, her smile faint but real, her hair damp with sweat.
[OH SURE. JUST BREW IT WITH HOPE AND A SPRINKLE OF 'PLEASE DON'T EXPLODE.']
A recipe animation flashed, a complex list of herbs scrolling in his vision. Hope dash—got it. He quipped, the vial sizzling faintly against the scorched hydra scale in his pocket, a strange reaction sparking. We're close, Pixel. A frayed rope, dangling from the pipe's edge, swayed as they climbed out, a reminder of their narrow escape. The Potions classroom was next, where luck alone wouldn't suffice.