Chapter 81: The Puzzle of the Truth
Inside the Room of Requirement, five people sat around the wide alchemy workbench.
After hearing Anthony relay that "Rhys knows some inside information," Hermione and Draco urged him to speak before they had even settled into their chairs.
Rhys leaned back against his chair, tapped his temple with a finger, and organized his thoughts.
"I can't really say where the information came from," he began, "but you just need to know that what I'm saying is correct."
Hermione frowned. She was never quite satisfied with "answers from unknown sources." However, she didn't press him, only gripping her quill a bit tighter.
"You already know the origin of the Chamber of Secrets," Rhys's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear in the quiet workshop.
"But the Chamber was opened once before, fifty years ago."
"There was a victim in that incident—the current school ghost, Moaning Myrtle."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the other four.
"Hogwarts was almost closed back then. Someone informed the Principal, Armando Dippet, claiming that a certain student's magical creature was 'Slytherin's Monster.' Under immense public pressure, Principal Dippet believed the informant, thinking the student posed a serious threat to the school. Ultimately, that student was expelled, and their wand was snapped on the spot."
Anthony frowned, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the table.
"Since the person who opened the Chamber was punished, why has it opened again fifty years later? Who was that expelled person? Why have I never heard of this?"
"I know who it is!"
Hermione suddenly put down her quill, her voice carrying a certainty that the answer was right in front of her.
Rhys raised an eyebrow in surprise.
He hadn't expected Hermione's reasoning to be so much faster than he had anticipated.
"Hagrid? Is it him?" Hermione looked straight at Rhys.
"How could it be?" Anthony pushed up his glasses, his face full of confusion. "Wasn't Hagrid a Gryffindor student?"
"And he's a half-blood; how could he represent the Heir of Slytherin?" Malfoy raised the same doubt.
Hermione didn't answer them; she just kept looking at Rhys.
Rhys nodded.
"The person who was punished was indeed Hagrid." He raised a hand to stop the questions that were about to pour out of Anthony and Malfoy.
"But Dumbledore at the time—who was only a Transfiguration Professor—believed Hagrid was innocent. Unfortunately, the punishment had already been issued and could not be reversed. Dumbledore fought to protect Hagrid, allowing him to stay at the school as the Gamekeeper."
Cho took over, her voice steady and calm. "Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn't have vouched for Hagrid for no reason. He must have discovered something, even if the evidence wasn't sufficient."
Hermione's eyes lit up.
"Then the problem lies with the informant—because only the person who framed you knows for sure that you're innocent."
Anthony's frown deepened. "But fifty years have passed. Even if that informant was only a teenager back then, wouldn't they be incredibly old by now? How could they return to Hogwarts to open the Chamber again?"
Rhys glanced at Draco.
The look was subtle, but Draco caught it.
He froze for a moment, then blurted out, "The Notebook?"
Anthony and Hermione turned to look at him simultaneously. Cho also looked at Rhys, the "so that's how it is" emotion in her eyes no longer hidden.
"Yes."
Rhys leaned forward slightly, resting his crossed hands on the table.
"Remember the Notebook Draco mentioned on my birthday? That day in Diagon Alley, after you guys went back, Draco and I specifically went to the second-hand bookstore to ask about it, but we were told it had already been bought."
He didn't mention who the buyer was.
But the information was enough for everyone present to piece together the rest of the picture.
"In other words—" Draco's speech slowed down, clearly thinking as he spoke, "that Notebook might be a Dark Artsproduct left by the informant from back then. So, after it was bought by that little Weasley girl, it followed her back to Hogwarts. Is that why the Chamber was reopened?"
"That's my reasoning," Rhys nodded.
He took five pairs of glasses out of the workbench drawer—the frames were silver, the lenses were thicker than ordinary ones, and fine Runes were engraved around the edges, shimmering with a faint blue luster in the candlelight.
"These past few days, I've been hearing strange sounds in the corridors. And you've probably noticed that Amber has been very restless lately." He glanced at Cho, who nodded, her finger brushing the small snake curled up asleep against her collar.
"So I can be certain that the monster in the Chamber is a Basilisk."
He distributed the glasses to the four of them one by one.
"These glasses are an alchemical product I made. They should prevent the petrification effect from looking directly at a Basilisk. Keep them with you, just in case."
Anthony turned the glasses over and over. On the back of the frame, there was a line of tiny text that read: "Star Core Workshop · Prototype No. 1."
Hermione had already put them on and was testing the effect by looking around the workshop. The lenses significantly magnified the letters on the spines of the books on the distant bookshelf. She took the glasses off, looked for a moment, then put them back on to confirm. Her expression shifted from "is this thing reliable?" to "well, it's actually quite reliable."
"However—"
Rhys raised a finger, his tone becoming serious.
"All of this is still just speculation for now, and the specific details remain to be seen. But I have one requirement: do not reveal my Parseltongue. Other than the four of you, only Headmaster Dumbledore knows about this."
He looked at the four people around the table.
Hermione, Anthony, and Cho all nodded.
Draco gave him a look that said, "What kind of people do you take us for?"
The five of them dispersed.
Rhys put the glasses case into his pocket. Amber crawled from Cho's collar back onto his wrist, her small red eyes half-open, her tail curling.
He stroked the little snake's head.
The Notebook had entered Hogwarts. The Basilisk had begun its movements. Madam Norris was only the first domino.
As long as he didn't disrupt the game, the subsequent pieces would fall one by one in order.
What he needed to do was stand at a safe distance outside the game.
Watch how the cards fell.
Then decide when to make his move.
Chapter 82: The Shadow of the Heir
Over the next few days, the students of Hogwartsdiscussed almost nothing else.
What was the truth behind the attack on Madam Norris?
In the corridors, at the dining tables, and in the common rooms, people everywhere were whispering and exchanging the rumors they had heard. From "Slytherin's monster has awakened" to "Who will be the next victim," there were enough versions to fill a book.
Rhys and the others, however, continued their lives as usual.
Attending classes, eating meals, conducting R&D in the Room of Requirement, and returning to the dormitory to sleep. These four activities repeated in a cycle, like a wound-up clock—steady and quiet.
The only thing that concerned Rhys was the feedback Hermione gave after specifically keeping an eye on Ginny Weasley's condition—the young girl was acting completely normal; she went to class and ate her meals as scheduled, with not even a hint of anxiety or abnormal emotion on her face.
This news made Rhys frown involuntarily.
Could it be that Ginny wasn't the one being controlled by the diary?
Then who could it be?
This thought circled his mind several times, but he couldn't make sense of it.
In History of Magic Class, the restless students finally couldn't help but fire a barrage of questions at Professor Binns—did the Chamber of Secrets really exist? What exactly was Slytherin's monster?
Professor Binns, irritated by the noise, recounted the origin of the Chamber of Secrets in his monotonous, ghostly voice, but added after finishing that "this is complete nonsense."
"The school has searched many times and never found the existence of the Chamber. This is merely a frightening legend; there is no Chamber, and there is no monster."
The students clearly scoffed at this conclusion. After class, they huddled in groups of three or five to discuss the "Heir of Slytherin," firmly believing that the legendary heir would surely appear in Slytherin House—after all, only a pure-blood descendant would be qualified to inherit Salazar's legacy.
As one of the most outstanding students in Slytherin this year, Draco was naturally included on the suspicion list of "Heir candidates."
He shrugged in the Room of Requirement, finding the whole thing utterly absurd.
"If I were the heir, would I still be hanging out with Hermione?" He rolled his eyes, his tone full of the helplessness of someone wondering if the students' brains were full of water. "Why not mention Ron Weasley? He's the one who shouted 'mudblood' in front of the whole school; he looks more like a defender of pure-blood status than I do, doesn't he?"
Rhys heard Draco's complaining, but his thoughts shifted to Ron.
That red-haired boy really had been acting strange lately. He always looked like he couldn't wake up, with dark circles under his eyes and a floating gait; he would occasionally bump into people in the corridors, acting as flustered as someone with a guilty conscience.
At first, Rhys thought he had been traumatized by the gruesome sight of Madam Norris that day.
But thinking back now, the probability of that diary falling into his hands wasn't small. Moreover, with Ron's willpower, he was indeed more susceptible to being seduced by the sixteen-year-old soul in the diary than Ginny.
On their way to the Great Hall, the group ran into Filch, who was still struggling with that patch of blood.
Those dark red words seemed to be under some sort of spell, as they couldn't be wiped away no matter what. Filchhad already tried a dozen types of cleaners, even using his personal stash of a powerful soap said to dissolve even ink stains, but the writing on the wall remained unmoved.
Seeing the Squib hunched over and struggling with a wall, Rhys felt a strange pang of pity.
He sighed, stepped forward, and said, "Let me try."
"Scourgify"—the effect was minimal.
He then added the power of the Horse Talisman, and only then did the wall completely return to its original state.
Filch didn't say a word the whole time. After Rhys was finished, he simply nodded at him and carried away his bucket of nearly empty cleaner. The nod was very slight, but for Filch, it was likely the highest form of gratitude.
Cho and Hermione, however, weren't paying attention to Filch; their focus was entirely on the window by the wall.
About twenty spiders were scurrying frantically across the glass, their eight legs all crowded together as they tried desperately to squeeze through the gap between the glass and the window frame, as if something were chasing them from behind.
"Why are they so frantic?" Hermione leaned in to look. The spiders crawled even faster, and several had already squeezed into the gap and disappeared.
"The Basilisk; they probably fear it," Draco whispered quietly after checking that no one else was around.
The group nodded in agreement and continued walking.
At the corner, they ran into Harry and Ron, who were being docked points by Percy Weasley.
The reason was that the two boys had burst into the girls' bathroom and were caught red-handed. Percy's chest heaved with rage as he declared it "one of the most shameful incidents since the founding of Gryffindor."
When Harry and Ron saw Rhys and the others approaching, their faces turned beet red to the roots of their ears, and they wished they could find a hole to crawl into.
Rhys and the others shrugged indifferently and walked past them without saying a single extra word.
But Ron stood there, his gaze following Rhys.
There was something indefinable in his eyes—a deeper, darker emotion, like a thin vine slowly, slowly crawling out from a corner of his heart saturated in darkness.
Some time later, the Quidditch season finally began.
Thick clouds hung over the pitch on Saturday, and the wind was strong, making the house flags on the poles snap loudly. Yet the stands were still packed—the red of Gryffindor, the green of Slytherin, the blue of Ravenclaw, and the yellow of Hufflepuff intertwined like a giant flag tossed by the wind.
Draco stood at the entrance of the players' tunnel, wearing goggles and clutching his north star-star-shatter broom, his face a bit paler than usual. He looked toward the stands in the direction of Rhys and the others.
Rhys, Cho, Anthony, and Hermione sat side by side, and all four waved at him at once—their movements were surprisingly synchronized, as if they had rehearsed.
Draco saw them, nodded, pulled his goggles down to cover his eyes, took a deep breath, and took to the sky on his broom.
This was Draco's first match as the Slytherin Seeker, and their opponent was Gryffindor.
After Madam Hooch's whistle blew, fourteen brooms left the ground simultaneously, and fourteen trails carved fine marks into the grayish-white sky. The match was exceptionally intense, with both sides trading blows and the score swinging back and forth like a saw—Gryffindor's Chasers coordinated perfectly, while Slytherin's defense was airtight, with neither side able to pull ahead by more than ten points.
After the mid-game point, the weather suddenly took a turn for the worse. Rain began to pelt down, first as a fine mist and then turning into a torrential downpour moments later, hitting their faces like being lashed by wet towels.
Rhys and the others kept their binoculars on Draco's figure, fearing the rain would wet his goggles and affect his vision. In this miserable weather, the Golden Snitch almost blended in with the rain; for a Seeker to find it, half depended on skill and the other half entirely on luck.
Then, Rhys saw a Bludger start to go rogue.
It hadn't been hit by a Beater; instead, it seemed to have a mind of its own, relentlessly tailing Harry and chasing him all over the pitch. Fred and George tried several times to knock it off course, but the ball seemed to have eyes; every time it was hit away, it would immediately turn around and continue charging toward Harry.
Dobby is starting to make his move.
Rhys thought to himself, only hoping that Draco wouldn't get caught up in the chaos.
A gasp erupted from the stands—Harry had been hit hard by the rogue Bludger and fell from his broom, plummeting toward the ground like a bird that had been shot.
Simultaneously, Draco dove sharply at the other end of the pitch.
The rain trailed behind him in a silvery curtain, and his hand clenched shut at the last second—the Golden Snitch was struggling weakly in his palm, its wings making a faint buzzing sound.
The match was over; Slytherin had won.
But no one cheered, as everyone's eyes were on the crumpled red-and-gold figure on the pitch.
Harry lay in the muddy water, clutching one arm with the other. His face was as white as paper, and his arm was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Anthony frowned and remarked, "That's got to hurt."
Hermione also frowned, her gaze landing on Lockhart, who had suddenly rushed out onto the pitch, his blue robes shimmering in the rain.
Lockhart volunteered to treat Harry's arm.
He pulled out his wand and cast a glittering golden spell on the twisted limb. Then, Harry's arm went completely limp from the elbow down, as if something had been sucked out of it, and his fingers dangled like boiled noodles—the bones were gone.
Rhys and Cho shook their heads at the same time.
Hermione covered her mouth, and Anthony's hands clenched into fists on his knees.
"Madam Pomfrey is going to be absolutely furious," Hermione's voice leaked through her fingers, carrying a sense of despair as if she could already foresee how terrifying that outburst would be.
The group stopped watching the chaos in the center of the pitch and turned their eyes toward the green figure flying over from above.
Draco was flying toward the stands, clutching his broom; his goggles were covered in rain, which streamed down the edges, but his lips were curled into a wide, high grin.
Chapter 83: Betrayal and Decision
The atmosphere in the Room of Requirement the next day wasn't quite right.
Draco had been absent-minded the entire time. He was distracted while brewing Potions, and when he missed the optimal time to add ingredients for the second time, Rhys sighed, reached out to extinguish the fire under the cauldron, and poured the ruined solution into the disposal tank.
"Tell me, what's going on? You've been like this since this morning."
Draco looked up, his gaze sweeping across the four faces with a rare look of loneliness in his eyes.
"Tell me, what is betrayal? Why would someone be betrayed?"
Rhys's pupils contracted slightly upon hearing this. "Where did you go after the match yesterday?"
"The Hospital Wing." Draco's fingers unconsciously picked at the corner of the table. "The team members all got soaked yesterday, so Marcus asked me to get some anti-cold Potions. I saw Potter there—he drank Skele-Gro and needed to stay in the Hospital Wing overnight. But then I saw..."
He paused.
"I saw our family's House-elf, Dobby."
Rhys's fingers tightened slightly.
"He told Potter that Hogwarts was in danger and told him to leave," Draco's voice grew lower and lower. "This definitely wasn't my father's decision; he wouldn't do that. Dobby came to tell Potter on his own—he left without permission, he betrayed the Malfoys. A House-elfbetraying its master's house..."
His brows furrowed, his tone filled with anger, but even more so with confusion and hurt.
"Draco, do you remember how Uncle Lucius has been angry ever since he found out you sold those Dark Artsitems without permission?" Rhys walked over and sat down opposite him. "This is likely related to Uncle Luciusand the owner of that diary. Perhaps Dobby heard some news from there and ran to find Harry."
"But why? Why betray? What will the consequences be? Will my father go to Azkaban? How could he be associated with Dark Wizards?"
A series of questions popped out like rapid-fire.
Anthony stepped forward and patted his shoulder, the warmth of his palm transferring through the robes. The others glanced at each other; there really was no ready-made way to comfort him.
After a moment of silence, Draco suddenly looked up.
His eyes were red, but his voice was much firmer than before.
"This Christmas, I'm going home first," he said word by word. "I'm going to take over my father's authority, and I'm going to make Dobby leave—as long as I get the position of the head of the house, any decision my father makes will need my consent. Then he won't get involved in this nonsense anymore."
"Alright, I'll help you." Rhys didn't hesitate. "Let Aunt Narcissa support you, and the ring symbolizing the head of the house will be in your hands—first, minimize the risk of the incident. Uncle Lucius won't necessarily go to Azkaban, but he might lose his seat on the Board of Governors. Let Aunt Narcissa take over."
"No, give it to your grandmother."
Draco shook his head, his thoughts much clearer than before.
"The Malfoy family has many industries. Once my father's power is stripped, my mother will have to spend her energy maintaining those businesses. Let your grandmother take over the school affairs—the Christmasbreak isn't short. Once the Star Core opens, I'll have my own career to prove to my father that he must take me seriously. The Board of Governors' seat cannot remain vacant; one position must remain in the hands of the House of Black."
He looked at Rhys, his eyes still red, but the corners of his mouth curled up.
"Rhys, I trust you, and I trust Black. I have half of the Blackbloodline in me; we are family, right?"
Rhys looked into his eyes and pressed down firmly on Draco's shoulder.
"Yes, cousin. We have always been family. Always."
Draco nodded, sniffed hard, turned back to relight the fire under the cauldron, and silently began optimizing and upgrading the recipe.
His movements were much steadier than before, and his focus had returned.
In the evening, another piece of bad news spread throughout Hogwarts.
Another student had been attacked—Colin Creevey. A first-year freshman and a fanatical little fan of Potter's, he carried his camera around every day, constantly taking pictures of everything. He even had to finish photographing his food before picking up his fork at meals.
"Petrified again."
Rhys sighed and instructed the four of them to wear those alchemy glasses at all times.
"With the glasses as a barrier, everyone will be fine."
He paused, feeling a sense of relief in his heart—fortunately, the people and animals attacked had not looked directly into the Basilisk's eyes. Petrification could be undone, but if they looked directly like Myrtle did, they would die on the spot without even a chance for rescue.
Everyone in the school began to feel unsafe.
Unease spread through the corridors like a plague. Talismans and exorcism items suddenly became popular. Almost overnight, except for the pure-blood young Wizards, Muggle-born and half-blood Wizards were all wearing various charms and pendants on their bodies, bags, and even hats.
Even Hermione had one shoved onto her by a roommate, who said it was "better to believe it than not."
In the Room of Requirement, Draco curiously picked up the charm Hermione had placed on the table and examined it, rubbing his finger over the patterns on it.
"It's just a string of defensive Runes; it's not very useful."
"Even the defensive talismans we made at Star Core are useless; they can't stop the Basilisk—currently, these glasses are the most effective." Rhys took off the silver-rimmed glasses from the bridge of his nose, wiped the lenses, and put them back on.
"Can they be mass-produced?" Anthony pushed his glasses up, a sharp business sense in his eyes.
"How about selling them on campus right now—to build hype for Star Core?" Cho looked up from her blueprints, her eyes bright.
Rhys thought about it and felt it was a good idea.
"You guys assemble them, and I'll be responsible for engraving the Runes. Let the Weasley Twins help us sell them for a commission, so we don't have to run around ourselves."
And so, the first batch of protective glasses produced by the Star Core Workshop quietly yet quickly became a craze throughout Hogwarts.
Students wearing various styles of silver-rimmed glasses moved through the corridors; some had them on chains around their necks, while others practically welded them to the bridges of their noses. When the Professors finally noticed, they were only slightly puzzled—had they been assigning too much homework lately? Why were so many students suddenly becoming nearsighted?
In the second week of December, Professor McGonagallcollected the list of students staying at school for Christmas as usual.
Rhys, Cho, Anthony, Hermione, and Draco were not planning to stay at school this year—they were going back to Diagon Alley to attend the opening ceremony of Star Core.
Large quantities of alchemy items were mailed from Hogwarts to the Star Core Workshop in Diagon Alley, and gold-stamped invitation letters were sent to various notable figures. The five of them were incredibly busy in the workshop, working overtime on the last batch of protective glasses while proofreading the opening ceremony procedures.
Before the holidays, however, the students received another invitation—the Dueling Club was about to open.
Rhys and the others glanced at each other, thinking it would be nice to relax before the break, and unanimously decided to go check it out that evening.
Draco bottled and sealed the last batch of Potion from the cauldron and clapped the dust off his hands.
"Finally, something interesting."
His tone carried a rare lightness that hadn't been seen for days.
Chapter 84: The Dueling Club
Eight o'clock in the evening, Hogwarts Great Hall.
The long dining tables had vanished, replaced by a gilded stage stretching along the wall like a suddenly blooming golden flower. Hundreds of candles floated above the stage, their light illuminating the entire space so brightly that even the often-ignored Unicorn tapestry in the corner was clearly visible. The ceiling had turned velvety Black, with starlight sprinkling down from the dome as if the real night sky had been moved into the Great Hall.
Almost the entire school had arrived. Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, crowding together until the air itself became warm. Each person clutched their wand, faces filled with excitement and anticipation—after all, this was the first time in many years Hogwarts had held such an event, and no one wanted to miss it.
Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing plum-colored robes with gold lace at the collar and cuffs, strode onto the dueling stage like a flamboyant peacock. His golden curls shimmered in the candlelight, and his smile was as brilliant as if someone were taking a cover photo of him.
Beside him was Snape.
Dressed in his usual Black robes, his greasy hair hanging at the sides of his face, his expression was as gloomy as if someone owed him a thousand Galleons and hadn't paid him back.
"Our Dean won't twist his head off, will he?" Dracowhispered into Polaris's ear, glancing at Snape's face. Polaris's lips quirked slightly, but he didn't respond—because Lockhart had started speaking.
"Gather 'round, gather 'round!" Lockhart spread his arms, his voice as booming as if he were holding a concert. "Professor Dumbledore has allowed me to start this little Dueling Club, in case you ever find yourselves unable to protect yourselves. As for specific and varied ways to protect yourself—please refer to my published works, each of which contains detailed accounts!"
He paused, turning to gesture toward Snape with an exaggerated flourish, as if introducing a heavyweight guest.
"Oh, this is my assistant, Professor Snape."
Lockhart laughed loudly and said, "Next, we will give a dueling demonstration. But don't worry, your Potionteacher will remain completely intact."
After saying this, he gave what he considered a playful wink.
Snape's face darkened another shade. A few people in the audience let out suppressed laughter.
The two stood in the center of the stage and walked back-to-back toward opposite sides. Lockhart's steps were light as if he were dancing, while Snape was as steady as a moving stone. They turned to face each other and bowed—Lockhart's bow was theatrical and flamboyant, while Snape's was merely a slight nod, as if completing a mandatory formality.
Raising their wands to their chests, both men simultaneously lifted their wands over their shoulders.
"Expelliarmus!"
A dazzling red light shot from Snape's wand, so fast its trajectory was almost invisible. Lockhart didn't even have time to react before he was hit—he was sent flying back as if struck by an invisible Troll, slamming heavily against the wall with a dull thud.
The students gasped in unison.
That looked like it hurt.
Lockhart slid down the wall, landing on his bottom, his plum robes crumpled into a heap. He scrambled up quickly, however, dusting off his robes with that "I did it on purpose" smile still plastered on his face. He began spouting a load of nonsense—something about "going easy on Snape," "giving the young Wizards a demonstration of what not to do," and how "in a real duel, we sometimes need to pretend to be defeated to confuse the opponent."
Polaris and the others rolled their eyes impatiently.
No one wanted to watch a clown perform here.
Lockhart wanted to continue the demonstration, even striking a pose for a second round, but Snape interrupted him coldly: "The demonstration is over."
His voice wasn't loud, but the entire Great Hall fell silent.
"Now for practical practice. No high-power lethal spells are allowed; otherwise, anything goes."
After stating the rules, his gaze swept over the crowd below. He then grabbed the dazed Polaris nearby and pulled him onto the stage.
"Now, who will challenge him? Mr. Black?" Snape's voice was devoid of emotion, like water drawn from a very cold well.
The crowd went quiet.
Very quiet.
Polaris's spellcasting skills were too famous in the school—even his "Stupefy" was something the upperclassmen couldn't undo. The story of him subduing Ron on the Quidditch Pitch had already spread throughout the school; no one wanted to lose face in front of hundreds of people.
"I will."
An unexpected voice rang out from the crowd.
Everyone's eyes turned toward the source of the voice.
Ron Weasley.
He stepped out from the Gryffindor line, his expression carrying a gloominess Polaris had never seen before. Polaris was slightly stunned—this was certainly beyond his expectations.
Snape gave Ron a long look, his lips curling slightly into a cold expression that held no mirth, only a sense of "interesting."
"Prepare to begin."
Polaris and Ron stood on opposite sides of the stage and bowed to each other.
Polaris noticed that Ron's wand was intact, but it was completely different from his previous one—the old wand wrapped in several layers of Spellotape was gone, replaced by a new wand that was entirely Black with a smooth surface and no grain. The wand did not reflect the candlelight, as if it could absorb light, making it uncomfortable to look at.
"Ready—begin!" Lockhart shouted, his voice still carrying a tremor from being knocked away earlier.
Polaris didn't move.
He stood there with his wand hanging at his side, his posture as relaxed as if he were taking a stroll. Seeing Polaris's "hit me as you like" attitude, Ron's expression became increasingly distorted, and he was the first to strike.
"Tarantallegra!"
With a flick of his wand, a spell shot toward Polaris. Polaris didn't even move his feet; he simply gave his wrist a light turn, tracing a small arc in the air with his wand. The spell was deflected, hitting the wall at the edge of the stage and sending up a shower of fine sparks.
"Rictusempra!"
Deflected.
"Bat-Bogey Hex!"
Deflected.
"Slugulus Eructo!"
All deflected. Polaris's movements didn't even extend beyond his wrist; he stood there like an impenetrable wall.
Ron's face turned beet red.
"Attack, Black! Can you only defend?" His voice carried a sharpness Polaris had never heard before.
Polaris frowned. He noticed that the whites of Ron's eyes were shot through with abnormal red capillaries, his pupils were more dilated than usual, and his entire being radiated a contradictory aura of excitement and gloom—the diary was indeed in his hands, Polaris was almost certain now. Lord Voldemort's sixteen-year-old soul was slowly eroding this boy.
"Expelliarmus!"
Ron fired the spell again. This time the motion was much more fluid, and the light of the spell was brighter.
Whispers rose from the crowd—"He actually knows that spell?" "Since when did Weasley become so good?" "Has he been practicing in secret?"
The spell was again lightly deflected by Polaris. This time he barely even moved his wrist.
From the beginning until now, Polaris hadn't moved a single step. He appeared completely at ease, like he was practicing with a child who had just learned to walk. The audience began to murmur; some thought Polaris was too powerful, some thought Ron was overestimating himself, and others were just there for the spectacle.
"Petrificus Totalus." Polaris finally took the initiative, flicking his wand and sending a grey beam of light straight at Ron.
"Protego!" Ron's reaction surprised many—not only did he block it, but he did so beautifully. A transparent barrier expanded in front of him, bouncing Polaris's spell away. It hit a pillar on the stage, and a patch of grey stone immediately appeared on the surface.
The crowd erupted again. "Protego? How does he know that? Isn't that an upper-year spell?" "Did Lockhart teach him?" "Don't be ridiculous, Lockhart himself got sent flying."
Ron gave Polaris a smug look, his lips curling into an expression of arrogance he had never possessed before.
"You're not the only one who knows advanced spells."
"Stupefy."
"Incarcerous."
"Levicorpus."
Three spells in a row, one after another, fast and fierce. The buzzing from the crowd grew louder—the rhythm and precision of this triple-cast were not at all what a second-year student should be capable of.
Only then did Polaris truly move—he turned slightly to avoid the first spell, his wand parrying the second, and the third spell grazed the hem of his robes, hitting the back wall of the stage.
He frowned slightly.
"Is that all?"
His tone was flat, without any hint of mockery, merely stating a fact. But to Ron's ears, these words were more piercing than any insult.
Ron was completely enraged.
"You're not the only genius!" he practically roared, his eyes red and the veins on his wand hand bulging. "Confringo! Reducto!"
The moment these two spells were uttered, the temperature in the Great Hall seemed to drop several degrees. Several students in the front row instinctively shrunk back. Snape's reaction was lightning fast, stepping forward with his Black robes billowing—he was going to stop it.
But Polaris was faster.
"Impedimenta!"
An almost invisible barrier rose out of thin air in front of Ron, an invisible force intercepting those two lethal spells mid-air. The Blasting Curse hit the barrier, exploding into a ball of orange-red sparks, while the Reductor Curse fell away powerlessly like a bird hitting a wall.
Immediately following that, Polaris flicked his hand back—crisp and clean, without any wasted movement.
"Incarcerous."
Ron was bound tightly, squirming on the stage like a fish hauled onto the shore. His face turned even redder, but he couldn't break free from those invisible ropes.
"It's over."
Having said that, Polaris turned and walked off the stage without looking back. The hem of his robes traced a smooth arc in the candlelight, his steps steady as if nothing had happened.
Snape stood on the stage, his Black robes slowly settling behind him.
His gaze fell coldly on Ron, like two unsheathed blades.
"How dare you?" His voice was very low, but every word was as sharp as a razor, carrying clearly through the silent Great Hall. "Lethal spells—how dare you use them against a classmate?"
Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Snape didn't give him the chance—a swift Silencing Charm sealed his mouth shut. Ron's lips were as if glued together, and he could only make muffled sounds.
"Polaris Black wins. Ten points from Gryffindor for Ron Weasley's illegal use of spells."
The judgment was passed.
The Weasley Twins rushed up from below, grabbing the still-struggling Ron by each arm and dragging him down. Fred had a "brother, what's wrong with you" look on his face, while George whispered, "Ronnie, you really crossed the line."
The Great Hall was silent for a moment.
It wasn't the kind of silence where no one was speaking, but rather the kind where everyone was digesting everything they had just seen.
Snape retracted his gaze from the dragged-away Ron and scanned the crowd, landing on Draco—who was huddled next to Polaris, whispering something, the veins on his forehead popping, clearly terrified for his cousin.
Snape strode over and yanked Draco onto the dueling stage.
On the other side, Lockhart finally recovered from the embarrassment of being "defeated by his assistant" and pushed Harry up as well with a grin.
The two stood in the center of the stage, one bewildered and the other helpless, as the buzzing of discussion resumed below.
Polaris stood at the edge of the stage, looking at Draco's profile, his lips curving slightly.
This next match should be quite a bit more normal than the last one.
Chapter 85: Parseltongue
Draco stood on the dueling platform.
Opposite him was Harry Potter.
The boy dubbed the'Savior' by the entire wizarding world was currently holding his wand with a dazed expression, as if he hadn't quite figured out why he had been pushed up there.
A surge of complex emotions welled up in Draco's heart.
Resentment, unwillingness, and an indescribable sense of disappointment.
This boy was the person he had most wanted to befriend when he first entered the school.
During their first meeting on the train, he had reached out his hand, only to be met with rejection.
Looking back now, Draco did not regret his former arrogance.
Because the longer they spent around each other, the more he felt that Harry wasn't nearly as special as he had imagined.
Academically, he couldn't beat Hermione; in terms of ability, he couldn't match Rhys, let alone Anthony's intelligence or Cho's attention to detail.
The memories Harry left him were mostly of headstrong recklessness, ignorance of the truth, and a wavering lack of a firm stance.
He had even told Hermione himself that if being around someone was uncomfortable, there was no need for much interaction.
Yet it was such a person who had caused his own House-elf to forsake its loyalty to the family, leaving behind nothing but naked betrayal.
It was such a person whose friend, Ron, had gone from knowing nothing to now being able to use high-level magic and fire lethal spells at his own cousin on the dueling platform.
These changes were like thorns pricking at Draco's heart.
He just couldn't wrap his head around it.
"Three—two—one, begin!"
Lockhart's voice interrupted Draco's thoughts.
The two bowed to each other and raised their wands to their chests.
"Densaugeo!"
Draco struck first, firing a spell at Harry. Harry rolled out of the way; the movement was agile but entirely lacking in grace, much like a cat that had its tail stepped on.
"You're a Wizard, why don't you use a spell?" Dracofrowned.
Harry's expression was a bit awkward—he hadn't learned any defensive spells yet, and that move just now was pure physical instinct.
Looking at him like that, the resentment in Draco's heart suddenly dissipated.
It was replaced by a sense of weariness, a feeling of 'forget it, I can't even take you seriously'.
"Serpensortia."
He raised his wand, and a black snake shot out from the tip, slithering forward across the stage.
Harry turned pale. "I give up."
Draco was just about to turn and leave the stage when he heard Lockhart comfort Harry in a 'watch me' tone: "Don't worry, I'll handle it."
Then, he saw the small snake, which had only been as thick as an arm, turned into something massive by Lockhart.
It was as thick as a fallen tree, its body covered in pitch-black scales that glinted coldly under the candlelight.
The snake lunged from the ground, flew up, and then landed heavily.
This completely enraged it.
It opened its large mouth, revealing two rows of sharp fangs, and slithered toward the nearest person. The target was Justin Finch-Fletchley, who stood there without time to react.
Finch-Fletchley was so terrified his face went white; he was rooted to the spot as if petrified, unable to move an inch.
Malfoy was about to use 'Finite Incantatem'.
But someone was faster than him.
A voice came out of Harry's mouth.
"Hei-seeesa~"
"Hei-seeesa~"
The sound didn't seem like human language; it was more like the hissing of a snake flicking its tongue. Raspy, low, and carrying a chill that gave one goosebumps.
Rhys stood below the stage, his pupils contracting slightly.
Parseltongue.
He said—"Leave him alone."
The snake seemed to have its pause button pressed.
Its body relaxed, and it coiled into a heap on the floor, no longer moving.
Draco took the opportunity to wave his wand, using 'Finite Incantatem' to turn the giant snake into a wisp of black smoke. It vanished without a trace.
Harry didn't even have time to feel happy about stopping the snake from attacking his classmate.
He saw Finch-Fletchley's expression change from fear to anger, and then from anger to terror.
"What kind of game are you playing?!"
Finch-Fletchley roared, then turned and sprinted out of the Great Hall, his robes flapping behind him like a retreating flag.
The eyes of the students in the Great Hall changed as they looked at Harry.
It wasn't gratitude, and it wasn't curiosity.
It was wariness and fear.
The kind of instinctive guardedness one has when looking at someone 'different from themselves'.
"He was talking to the snake just now."
"Only the Heir of Slytherin can speak Parseltongue."
"He must be the Heir of the Chamber of Secrets, right?"
Whispers surged through the crowd like an undercurrent, growing more numerous and denser until they finally converged into a buzzing hum.
"Let's go."
Rhys took another look at Harry, who was standing blankly on the stage, then turned and left the Great Hall with the newly descended Draco and the remaining three.
Harry opened his mouth forcefully, wanting to explain something.
But all the words were stuck in his throat, and he couldn't utter a single syllable.
The candlelight on the stage stretched his shadow very, very long, spreading it lonely across the floor like an isolated island with no one nearby.
The Room of Requirement.
The five of them sat around the workstation.
Amber poked her head out from Cho's collar, her red eyes blinking in the candlelight before shrinking back in.
"Who would have thought Potter is a Parselmouth," Dracosaid, leaning back in his chair.
"Is that so rare?" Hermione looked up from her notebook and pushed up her glasses. "Doesn't Rhys know it too?"
"That's different." Anthony opened his copy of 'Hogwarts: A History' borrowed from the library, his finger pointing to a certain page. "Rhys is special; he learned it later. But Parseltongue essentially cannot be 'learned'—it's related to bloodline, an innate ability. Potter is different; his pronunciation was too natural, it didn't seem learned, it seemed carved onto his tongue."
"So that means—" Hermione's voice slowed down, as if she were solving a complex logic puzzle, "Potter could be the descendant of Slytherin? He's the Heir of the Chamber of Secrets?"
"As far as I know, the only family clearly recorded to have Slytherin blood is the Gaunt family." Draco frowned. "The Potters? Not related at all."
"Harry's matter isn't urgent."
Rhys had been listening quietly and only spoke once they had finished. His voice wasn't loud, but it was as steady as a rock.
"The most important thing is Ron Weasley—do you remember the spells he used on the dueling platform today?"
"Upper-year spells, some that can only be learned from the fifth year and up," Cho said, casually pressing the restless Amber back into her collar.
"But before this term, he didn't know these spells." Anthony pushed his glasses up. "In Charms Class last term, he wasn't even proficient with the Levitation Charm."
"Exactly. Didn't you notice—he's changed his wand."
Rhys's gaze swept across the four faces.
"It's not that old wand wrapped in several layers of Spellotape anymore. The new one is entirely pitch-black, with a smooth surface and no patterns. I felt quite uncomfortable facing that wand. And the spells he attacked with—"
He paused for a moment.
"They all carried malice, as if there were curses attached to them."
"What?" Draco almost sprang out of his chair. "Why are you only saying such a big thing now?"
Anthony and Hermione also stared at Rhys in unison.
The expressions of the three were surprisingly consistent—shock, lingering fear, and an incredulous 'how can you be so calm'.
Cho, however, didn't speak. But she had already stood up from her chair and walked over to Rhys, nervously checking him over. Her fingers moved from his shoulders to his arms, then from his arms to his back, only letting out a sigh of relief once she confirmed he wasn't injured anywhere.
Rhys waved his hand and raised his right hand.
The silver ring his grandmother had given him was revealed—the grey gemstone on the ring glowed slightly in the candlelight, its surface faintly shimmering with a pale golden light membrane.
"My mother's ring, given to me by my grandmother when I was eleven; it has protective spells on it. It sensed the malicious curses on Ron's spells, but I deflected them all."
He lowered his hand, his tone still very flat.
"I am now quite certain that the diary is in his hands."
"Then what do we do?" Hermione's voice was a bit tight. "Get the diary and give it to a Professor? Tell Professor McGonagall directly?"
"No."
Cho answered for Rhys. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was firm.
"Wait and see. If the diary really wants to open the Chamber of Secrets, we'll wait for it to act—that way we can solve the problem of the Chamber once and for all."
She paused.
"Don't forget, Hagrid is still being wrongly accused. He's our Star Core's biggest supplier of magical creature materials in the school."
After speaking, she turned to look at Rhys.
Her gaze held a confirmation of 'am I right'.
Rhys raised an eyebrow.
Cho indeed knew his thoughts. Although she might not know all his intentions, she still said the words he wanted to say but hadn't yet spoken for him. Even though he had never told her the reasons.
This kind of tacit understanding wasn't built on language.
It was built up through repeated observation, judgment, and mutual trust.
He nodded.
"We'll do as Cho says."
In the following days, sales of protective glasses saw another surge.
Finch-Fletchley was among the first batch of customers to buy more—he chose the style with the thickest frame and thickest lenses, almost welding them to the bridge of his nose, never taking them off wherever he went.
Rumors about 'Harry being the Heir of the Chamber' grew like weeds on campus, impossible to suppress.
After all, Finch-Fletchley was also a Muggle-born Wizard, and the scene of him being targeted by Harry's giant snake in the Great Hall had been seen by hundreds of pairs of eyes.
Harry ran into Finch-Fletchley several times wanting to explain to him.
But every time Finch-Fletchley saw him, he would take a detour; even accidental encounters in the corridor resulted in him hugging the wall to pass quickly, his expression somewhere between 'I'm very scared' and 'don't come near me'.
Lockhart, on the other hand, very enthusiastically tried to clear Harry's name once in class.
Saying that "Parseltongue is a very rare talent and does not mean Mr. Potter is the Heir of Slytherin."
But no one really believed his words to begin with.
After he finished, even the Gryffindor students were muttering privately: "Lockhart is speaking up for Potter, did Potter give him some kind of benefit?"
The students only believed what they saw with their own eyes.
A giant snake listened to Harry.
That snake almost bit a Muggle-born classmate to death.
Rhys walked down the corridor and heard those whispers.
He didn't stop.
And he didn't look back.