Night had fallen over Hogwarts, cloaking the ancient castle in shadows and soft torchlight. In a spacious hall on the second floor, the second-year students had gathered. Excitement buzzed in the air like static before a storm. The room had been transformed: a narrow dueling runway stretched across the center, surrounded by a ring of students. The floor around the platform was decorated with crescent and full moons, casting a silvery glow that danced across the students' faces. It felt as if the sky itself had descended into the room.
"Everyone, gather around," called Lockhart, his voice smooth and laced with theatrical charm. "Can you all see me? Hear me? Wonderful! Given the recent events, Professor Dumbledore has graciously allowed me to form this Duelling Club. I'm here to prepare you—to teach you how to defend yourselves, just as I have done countless times in the field. For more on that, of course, do read my books."
With a flourish, he cast off his cloak, flinging it toward a group of giggling girls who squealed as they caught it. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air like an enchantment.
I glanced at Hermione. Her face betrayed her inner conflict—adoration mixed with the faint sting of doubt. To her, Lockhart was a prince from a fairy tale. But I knew better.
"I don't see what you see in him," I murmured.
Hermione sighed dreamily. "He's handsome and heroic. His books... each tale more fantastic than the last."
I smiled, mischief creeping into my voice. "My last contracted spirit can see a person's truth—not just lies, but their very essence. Want me to prove it?"
She hesitated, but curiosity won. We slipped to a shadowy corner of the hall.
"Onan, analyze that man," I commanded.
The spirit Onan emerged, rippling into existence beside me—half-black, half-white, his yin-yang eye glowing ominously. His fur darkened as he focused on Lockhart, pacing silently like a cat stalking prey.
"See?" I whispered. "He's no saint. His soul is stained. He's lied, stolen, maybe even destroyed lives to protect his image."
Hermione's eyes widened as the illusion crumbled. Her awe drained away, leaving only disillusionment and silent disappointment.
"Thank you, Onan. Back with the others," I said.
We returned just in time to see Harry and Draco facing off on the dueling stage. Sparks danced in the air as spells collided, lighting the room in sudden flashes of blue and gold. Then Draco conjured a serpent. It slithered menacingly toward a terrified Hufflepuff.
Before it could strike, Harry hissed—his words foreign, snakelike. Parseltongue. The room froze.
Snape stepped forward, his presence heavy as a winter fog. With a casual flick of his wand, he turned the snake to ash. My first impression of him wasn't flattering—greasy hair, yellowed teeth, the air of a man who hadn't smiled in years. The type you'd avoid instinctively.
Harry, flustered and confused, bolted from the hall. Ron chased him, and Hermione dragged me along.
In the Gryffindor common room, the confrontation began.
"Why didn't you tell us you spoke Parseltongue?!" Ron blurted.
"I didn't know it was weird," Harry said, frowning. "I did it once at the zoo—scared Dudley. Thought it was normal."
Hermione jumped in. "It's not. It's rare, and usually associated with Salazar Slytherin. People might think you're his descendant."
Harry's face drained of color. "I'm not. I swear I'm not."
I stepped forward. "Relax. You're not."
"How can you be so sure?" he demanded.
"Because I've seen things you wouldn't believe. If I told you everything I know, it'd bring about the end of the world."
A beat of silence.
"I'm joking. Sort of."
Later that evening, back in a quiet classroom:
"I'll stay out of the Polyjuice mission. Just tagging along for backup," I told Hermione.
"No problem. It's all ready. Just waiting for Ron and Harry."
They burst in, panting.
"Speak of the devil," I muttered.
"Got the hairs? Or maybe just stole Slytherin uniforms?" Hermione teased, half-joking.
The potion bubbled ominously. It looked more like cement than anything drinkable. As they poured it into cups, I leaned back, skeptical.
"As a wise magician once said: you didn't fail—you just gained experience."
They drank. Faces twisted, stomachs churned. Then they dashed to the bathroom.
Hermione and I remained.
I watched Harry's skin bubble like hot wax, limbs reshaping until his transformation completed. Ron returned, looking equally odd. Their voices, though, remained unchanged.
"Hermione, your turn!" I called.
"Go on without me! Don't waste time!" she replied, her voice tight.
I followed her instead, pushing the bathroom door open. The sight was... glorious.
Hermione stood before the mirror, mid-transformation. Her features had distorted—not quite human, not quite cat. She looked horrified.
I chuckled. "You didn't mix up my hair with the Slytherin's, did you? Trying to seduce me? Sorry—cat or not, I don't date cats. I think."
She shot me a glare, then burst into laughter.
"You don't look that bad—cough, cough!"
She pulled herself together quickly. "Let's go to the infirmary. I'll leave a note for the others."
I tried to write. "I can't!"
She raised a brow. "Planning to use your paws? Give it here."
I handed her the notebook sheepishly. She scribbled the message swiftly.
As the quill scratched the paper, I watched her in silence. Something about her presence... it grounded me.
She finished and handed me the letter.
"All done."
"Thanks, Hermione."
I meant it.