Professor McGonagall's voice echoed sharply through the Chamber of Secrets. "But these children went too far! They killed someone!"
Erwin shook his head. "According to the Ministry of Magic's laws, killing a dark wizard isn't illegal."
She sighed heavily. "These children must be terrified."
McGonagall turned to the cluster of young witches and wizards, who stood frozen in shock. It showed on their faces—they hadn't anticipated the sudden fatality. Lockhart's death had been accidental, but witnessing it firsthand was another matter entirely.
Snape shot Erwin a sidelong glance. He'd arrived early and surveyed the chamber's smooth stone walls, free of any hazards. Clearly, someone had tampered with the scene. And that someone was undoubtedly his godson.
Erwin met Snape's gaze with a faint smile.
The Potions Master scowled in return, a silent reprimand for resorting to such underhanded tricks.
McGonagall and the other Heads of House had been too preoccupied with the students to notice the subtle alterations. Otherwise, they might have spotted Erwin's deception.
Of course, Erwin wasn't one to get caught. His casual chat with the professors had bought him time. He needed Lockhart pinned as the villain—and the dead made the most convincing scapegoats.
Chaos rippled through the group. For many, this was their first brush with death, even if indirect. The weight of it hung heavy.
"Professor Lockhart... he's really dead?"
"Are we headed to Azkaban? I don't want to go!"
Even the Slytherins looked grim-faced, their usual smugness shattered.
Erwin frowned. He wasn't pleased with their panic. He'd orchestrated this not just for his own schemes, but to toughen them up. Fragile blooms needed a taste of hardship to thrive.
Charlotte stepped forward, her voice steady. "Don't lose your heads! Lockhart attacked us—he was a dark wizard. The Ministry's clear: self-defense against one isn't murder."
A trembling Gryffindor piped up. "But how do we prove it?"
Harry pointed urgently. "We have proof! Look there!"
All eyes followed his gesture. Beneath Lockhart's body lay a small, leather-bound diary.
Gasps echoed around the chamber. "What's that?"
Harry darted forward and snatched it up. He recognized it instantly—the one Hermione had warned him about.
"I know this diary," he said, holding it aloft. "Hermione said it's a dark artifact!"
As the words left his mouth, tendrils of black smoke curled from its pages.
Draco reacted in a flash, yanking it from Harry's grasp and hurling it to the ground. He pulled Harry back just as the smoke thickened.
"Harry, you okay?"
Harry nodded, brushing off his robes. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Erwin watched, impressed despite himself. Their bond was stronger than he'd expected.
The smoke coalesced in the air, forming a translucent figure clad in an old Slytherin uniform. Tall and poised, he cut a striking silhouette from behind—handsome, even.
But as he turned, the group recoiled. His face was a mess of bruises and welts, swollen and scarred. He looked utterly battered.
Erwin nearly snorted with laughter. That Ravenclaw prefect had done a number on him. How had they reduced the great Voldemort to this?
Harry's voice cut through the tension, wary. "Who are you? Why are you in that diary?"
Tom ignored the question at first. He seethed inwardly at the one who'd forced his hand—the audacity of it. Him, the brilliant Tom Riddle, reduced to this humiliation?
With a flick of his ethereal wand, words materialized in the air: Tom Marvolo Riddle. A sweeping gesture rearranged the letters: I am Lord Voldemort.
Harry went pale. The others stared in stunned silence.
In that instant, a jet of light streaked toward the hovering shade—and passed straight through him, slamming into the far wall.
Voldemort glanced down at his intact form, incredulous. Were these fools really trying to hex a memory?
The young wizards whipped around to face the culprit: a flushed Hufflepuff boy, stammering apologies. "I-I got nervous!"
Professor Sprout's expression soured. "Erwin, is this the caliber you're producing?"
Erwin's mouth quirked. Truth be told, he'd underestimated his Hufflepuffs' nerves. He cleared his throat. "My apologies, Professor. I'll drill the basics into them later."
Sprout's tone was icy. "Sometimes, rote repetition beats fancy essays. Have them copy out common sense a dozen times—they'll remember then."
Erwin suppressed a shiver. Spot on; it echoed the wizarding world's no-nonsense approach to discipline. "Understood, Professor."
Voldemort had no patience for their squabbling. He'd manifested only to meet that wretched demand. With a sharp hiss in Parseltongue, he summoned reinforcements.
Scraping echoed from the passage as the basilisk slithered into view, its massive coils filling the chamber.
Charlotte barked the warning. "Basilisk! Gear up!"
Sunglasses snapped onto faces in unison, shields against its deadly gaze.
Voldemort blinked in surprise. Well-prepared, weren't they?
McGonagall eyed Erwin doubtfully. "Will those shades really hold?"
"Absolutely," he assured her. "Direct eye contact kills. Anything blocking it—like these—only petrifies. Safer that way."
She nodded, reassured.
By then, the fight had erupted. The basilisk, bound by its new orders not to kill but unable to restrain its fury, whipped its tail in a crushing arc. Several students too slow to evade flew backward, crashing hard against the stones with pained yelps.
The rest fired back—a volley of spells that splashed harmlessly off its armored hide.
Undeterred, the beast lunged, jaws gaping toward a cluster of frozen first-years.
Panic surged, but they rallied as one.
"Impedimenta!"
The incantation boomed, and ropes of light snaked from their wands, binding the serpent's limbs. It thrashed wildly, slowed but far from subdued.
Spells flew thicker now: Stunners, Disarming Charms, even a few glancing Reductos that chipped its scales. The basilisk roared, its tail lashing again, but the sunglasses held firm—no petrifications this time.
Harry and Draco worked in tandem, their curses precise. Charlotte directed the Hufflepuffs to flank it, while the Slytherins harried from the rear.
Voldemort watched from above, his bruised face twisting in frustration. This wasn't how he'd envisioned his return.
Erwin observed from the sidelines, arms crossed. The students were adapting, their fear forging into resolve. Blood had indeed watered the garden.
Snape murmured beside him, "Satisfied?"
"Getting there," Erwin replied with a grin. The chamber trembled under the basilisk's fury, but the tide was turning.
As the battle raged, Voldemort's shade flickered—his time limited, his plans in tatters. For the first time, the Dark Lord tasted true defeat at the hands of children.
...
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