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With a crisp snap of his fingers, Sargeras lit the chamber.
Poof—a soft burst of sound echoed through the stillness as the torches embedded in the walls flared to life. Warm, steady flames bloomed along the stone, pushing back the thick, suffocating darkness that had long enveloped the room.
"Merlin's dirty socks! Isn't that the peacock, Lockhart? Gilderoy Lockhart? What in the world is he doing here, and why does he look so… so…"
Peeves trailed off, his voice snagging awkwardly in midair. He seemed completely at a loss for words, unable to find a description that could capture the shock of what he was seeing.
Sargeras, without replying, tucked the bottle containing Peeves back into his coat pocket.
His gaze had already settled on the figure curled up on the floor. But this version of Lockhart looked nothing like the man he remembered. The flamboyant author of years past, once all dazzling smiles and theatrical charm, had vanished without a trace.
He was still dressed in his signature robes, a flamboyant violet outfit that was unmistakably Lockhart. Yet that once-glorious silk now clung to his gaunt frame like a funeral shroud. Its former brilliance had faded, the fabric hanging limp and lifeless over his bones.
That famed golden hair, once shining like sunlight itself, had lost all its luster. It was now brittle and dry, tangled into a messy thatch that resembled nothing so much as a bird's nest left too long in the rain.
And worst of all, truly the most jarring change, was his face.
The face that had once graced countless magazine covers, that had been painstakingly cared for and adored by witches across the wizarding world, now looked like a piece of old parchment stretched thin and left to wither. It was dry and sunken, all color and vitality drained from it, so hauntingly unnatural that it sent a chill crawling down the spine.
His whole body had wasted away, collapsed into a shape barely recognizable as human. His skin had turned a ghastly, ashen gray, the color of death itself.
And yet, within that withering husk of a body, he was still clinging to a single object with a kind of desperate, obsessive devotion; a small black notebook, plain and unremarkable at first glance.
His fingers, brittle and gnarled like the limbs of a dead tree, had sunk deep into the edges of the notebook's hard cover, as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. It was as if letting go would cast him into the abyss, with no hope of return.
But to Sargeras, that notebook looked nothing like salvation. It looked far more like the very chain that had dragged Lockhart down into the darkest depths of hell.
And though Lockhart was not dead yet, the rise and fall of his breath was so faint it could hardly be seen. He seemed to be teetering on the knife's edge between life and death, so close to the end that if he were to take his final breath at that very moment, not a soul in the world would have been surprised.
He just lay there, silent and motionless, like a mummy dried out by a thousand years of sun and wind. The only thing that stood out now was that gaudy, ill-fitting robe, still clinging to him like a cruel joke; a lingering mockery of the man he used to be.
Sargeras slowly turned his gaze away from the "living corpse." With a flick of his wand, the black notebook that Lockhart had clutched with such desperate strength began to rise, slowly floating into the air before coming to a gentle stop, suspended just above the ground.
Another small movement of the wand, and the notebook opened.
On the yellowed first page, a single line of clear, elegant script came into view:
[Tom Marvolo Riddle]
"Voldemort…" Sargeras murmured softly.
His voice was steady, calm as still lake, as though he were simply confirming something he had already suspected all along.
Of course. Him again. Always him…
That name never seemed to disappear. Like a shadow that clung to the world long after sunset.
Sargeras narrowed his eyes, studying the notebook more closely now, carefully sensing the heavy aura of dark magic that pulsed from its pages. It was thick and twisted, like a poisonous fog, impossible to mistake.
And then, like a spark in the dark, an ancient, forbidden word surfaced in his mind; swift, sudden, and unmistakable.
"Horcrux…"
His pupils contracted ever so slightly. For the briefest moment, a flicker of disbelief and astonishment flashed across his eyes, sharp and bright, but it vanished just as quickly. What followed wasn't fear or outrage, but something quieter. He looked at the notebook with a deep, almost sorrowful disappointment, tinged faintly with pity.
So this was the great secret of the Dark Lord? The so-called key to immortality?
To tear one's own soul apart, to rip it into pieces and bury those fragments inside meaningless objects… all for the sake of clinging to life?
No wonder no one had ever truly uncovered Voldemort's secret to eternal life. It wasn't because the truth was too complex to grasp. It was because it was so crude, so pathetically absurd, that no one in their right mind would have believed such a thing was even possible.
This particular form of magic had long been recorded in The Secrets of the Darkest Art, a forbidden tome buried deep within the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library. The book even named the originator of the cursed spell: a dark wizard from Ancient Greece, infamous across history for his monstrous deeds, known only as Herpo the Foul.
To Sargeras, the magic itself radiated an aura of repulsive ignorance.
The soul was meant to be the core of one's magic, the root of all thought and will… the very essence of a wizard's being!
And yet, in pursuit of some empty, hollow promise of immortality, Voldemort had been willing to mutilate his own soul, shatter it, stain it forever?
Such an act wasn't just foolish. It was the ultimate form of self-betrayal; an unforgivable reversal of everything sacred. The madness and corruption it bred… far worse than death itself.
In comparison, even Nicolas Flamel's false immortality, achieved through the use of the Philosopher's Stone, seemed more reasonable… at least it didn't involve butchering the soul.
By now, the diary had become nothing more than a dead object, completely stripped of magic. What remained was just the faintest trace of the soul that had once clung to it.
As for Voldemort's true soul, it had vanished; its whereabouts completely unknown.
Sargeras raised his wand and casually cast a healing spell at Lockhart. The effect was minimal, barely noticeable, but it was enough to smooth out the rhythm of his breath. At the very least, he no longer seemed to be teetering on the brink of death.
It was then that the massive statue of Salazar Slytherin began to move, its heavy stone mouth creaking open to reveal a dark, narrow tunnel hidden within.
And from that abyss, a grotesque creature of flesh and blood began to wriggle its way out; a towering beast, cloaked in crimson, well over thirty feet tall.
Sargeras stood his ground, calmly watching as the monster crawled forth.
This one was smaller than the one he had created. A different variant, perhaps. His eyes narrowed slightly, puzzled.
The creature, however, moved with perfect intent. It launched itself out of the statue's mouth in a single bound, and as it landed, two enormous wings, deep red and slick with blood, snapped open behind it. The moment its feet struck the ground, a dozen thick, muscular tendrils whipped out from beneath its body, writhing like living serpents as they braced its immense frame. The beast had landed directly between Sargeras and Lockhart.
"I know you."
The monster spoke.
It didn't have just one mouth, or even one head. Dozens of grotesque mouths opened and closed in eerie unison as the words poured out. The voice that emerged was a chilling blend of tones: the sharp clarity of a young boy's voice layered with a hoarse, guttural rasp, as if innocence and corruption were speaking through the same breath. The effect was profoundly unnatural.
"You're Sargeras Greengrass," it said, each word smooth and certain. "Hogwarts' youngest professor in recent years..."
Sargeras stared at the flesh-and-blood creature, and for a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. There was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, a hint of familiarity, though he said nothing. Instead, he nodded, the corners of his lips lifting into a smile that wasn't quite a smile; half amused, half unreadable.
"I've heard of you, too, Voldemort…" he replied calmly, voice as steady as ever. Then he motioned with a slight tilt of his head toward Lockhart, who lay motionless at his feet. "Mind helping me out with something? Is he your accomplice… or just some poor fool caught in the crossfire?"
A low, cold chuckle echoed throughout the chamber.
"Heh…!"
The creature let out a short, mocking laugh — sharp as a blade dipped in ice. "You're very perceptive. Can't say I'm surprised you figured it out. Fine then," it said, its tendrils curling and twisting slowly as its voice deepened, "I'll tell you everything… how it all began, and what this really is."
The monstrous being shifted its enormous limbs, speaking now with the self-assured tone of someone who believed they held all the cards. Its cruel voice slithered into every corner of the chamber like a venomous fog.
"But let's be clear about one thing first," it added, with cold disdain. "That useless waste of space, Lockhart, isn't worthy of being called my accomplice. That empty head of his, so stuffed with vanity and greed for fame — there's no room left in it for anything else."
Confident that it was in control, the flesh-and-blood creature began to boast, taking deliberate pleasure in recounting each step of his carefully laid plan.
"It all started a few months ago," it said, its many eyes gleaming with a sly, almost theatrical light. "A little witch named Ginny Weasley stumbled across my diary. From that day on, she began to confide herself into it — day after day, night after night, she wrote down every secret, every worry, every scrap of sorrow that weighed on her heart."
There was a pause, just long enough to draw breath and deepen the tension.
"All those pitiful little troubles… how her brothers teased her, how she had to wear hand-me-down robes and carry secondhand books to school," it said slowly, drawing the words out like a story being told by firelight, "and then…"
Its tone shifted; mocking, drawn out, laced with venomous glee.
"…how she was utterly convinced that the famous, noble, kind-hearted Harry Potter would never in a million years like her."
"She went on and on about it," the monster sneered, its many mouths curling into a grotesque approximation of a smile. "Trivial, boring nonsense about school life… and yes, she even mentioned you," it added with exaggerated reverence. "Said she wished she could take your class one day… dear Professor Greengrass."
There was no mistaking the sarcasm dripping from his voice now. Voldemort's pride pulsed from every syllable. His massive frame swayed slightly as he tried to mimic a human gesture, shaking his monstrous head with a slow, exaggerated motion.
"Pathetic," he said. "Listening to an eleven-year-old girl ramble on about her childish little problems? Utterly exhausting."
But then his voice shifted again, softening — artificially, unnaturally — as he continued.
"Still, I played the part. Patient, gentle, understanding. I made her believe I was someone who cared, someone who listened. And just like that, Ginny fell head over heels for me. Hook, line, and sinker."
His tone turned singsong, gleefully cruel as he mimicked her voice.
'Oh, Tom, no one understands me like you do…'
'
Oh, Tom, I'm so glad I have this diary to confide in you…'
'
Oh, Tom, you're just like a best friend I can keep in my pocket…'
Then came the laugh.
A cold, jarring burst of laughter that cut through the chamber like a jagged shard of glass.
He was proud… proud of how easily he had twisted her trust, of how thoroughly he had wormed his way into her heart and mind.
Sargeras, however, watched him in silence. And though he said nothing, there was something in his gaze, calm and very… very certain, that suggested this monster's laughter would not last much longer.
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[Chapter End's]
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