The Ravenclaw students, who had spent the night dancing until their feet were numb and their bellies were full of smuggled butterbeer, fell into a deep, heavy slumber the moment they hit their four-poster beds. In their dreams, the sweet, spicy scent of sugar-spun quills and caramel cobwebs still lingered, a final ghost of the Halloween festivities before the reality of the term came crashing back.
But the morning light brought a shift in the castle's temperament. From that moment on, the only currency of conversation at Hogwarts was "The Chamber of Secrets" and the mysterious "Heir." The air in the Great Hall, usually filled with talk of Quidditch tactics or Charms homework, was now thick with whispers about the attack on Mrs. Norris.
Filch's behavior only served to keep the wound fresh. The caretaker had become a permanent fixture on the second floor. He spent hours pacing the spot where his cat had been found, his eyes darting toward every passing student as if he expected the culprit to return to the scene of the crime with a bucket of paint in hand.
Allen watched from a distance as Filch frantically scrubbed at the wall with "Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover." The man's knuckles were white, his movements desperate, but the purple liquid did nothing. The words—The Chamber of Secrets has been opened—remained as vibrant and menacing as the moment they were written, gleaming with an inner, dark light against the cold stone.
Allen leaned against a stone pillar, watching the pathetic display. He couldn't wrap his head around why Filch hadn't simply asked the Charms or Transfiguration professors for a professional cleaning. A simple Scourgify from Flitwick would have done more than a gallon of Skower's soap. More confusingly, why did Dumbledore allow the message to stay? To the younger students, passing that wall every day was a psychological tax; it was a constant, glaring reminder that the castle was no longer a sanctuary.
"Maybe it's a warning," Allen murmured to himself. "Or maybe the magic in that paint is deeper than it looks."
Whatever the reason, Allen made sure to stay out of it. He didn't want to be the one to 'accidentally' clean the wall and draw the attention of the staff or the gossip-hungry student body. The spotlight was a dangerous place in Hogwarts right now, especially for someone who knew exactly what was coming.
Yet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for Filch. The man looked broken, his shoulders slumped as he eventually sat on a nearby bench, staring at the empty torch bracket where his beloved pet had hung. Of course, that pity evaporated the moment Filch spotted a group of second-years.
"You! Smirking!" he shrieked, his face turning a mottled red. "That's a detention! Breathing too loudly in a corridor—I'll have you in the dungeons for that!"
The atmosphere was suffocating, and the professors seemed to have a unified strategy to combat the hysteria: drown the students in work. The assignment load tripled overnight. It was as if they hoped that if the students were busy calculating the lunar cycles of Jupiter or translating ancient runes, they wouldn't have time to worry about being petrified in the night.
It didn't quite work. The library, usually the quietest place in the castle, was now packed to the rafters. But the students weren't just doing homework; they were raiding the history section.
Allen was, as usual, the last one to leave. It had become a habit of his to stay behind and help Madam Pince. With a flick of his wand and a silent incantation, he'd watch the heavy oak chairs tuck themselves in and the stray parchment scraps fly into the bins.
Madam Pince, a woman who looked like a vulture that had been dried out in the sun, watched him with her usual sharp, suspicious eyes. She was currently dusting the shelves of the restricted-access area with a massive feather duster.
"Every single copy of Hogwarts: A History is gone," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite when speaking to Allen. "The waiting list is two weeks long. I've never seen these children so interested in a book that's over a thousand pages. I just hope they don't deface the pages. Some of those copies are older than the Ministry."
Allen rubbed his nose, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He had a habit of scribbling tiny, intricate notes in the margins of whatever he read—cross-references to other spells or personal theories. Even though he always charmed the ink to disappear before returning the books, her words made his ears turn slightly pink.
"I doubt they'd dare, Madam Pince," Allen said, dodging a particularly large cloud of dust she kicked up. "With the protection spells you put on them, any student trying to doodle on the text would probably find the book trying to take a bite out of their hand. A book that thick is basically a brick with a spine."
The librarian narrowed her eyes at him. "You seem remarkably well-informed about my security charms, Mr. Harris."
Allen gave a noncommittal shrug and slid a thick, square volume onto her desk. "Just a lucky guess. I'd like to check this out, please."
She looked down at the title: Illustrated Mysterious Creatures. Her eyebrows shot up. She lifted the book toward the light, examining the leather binding and the silver-filigree corners with the practiced hands of a surgeon.
"A first edition," she whispered. "Extremely rare. Dumbledore insisted this be kept in the general circulation rather than the Restricted Section. He claims it's 'educational for the curious mind.' Personally, I think it's too dangerous for a twelve-year-old."
She pushed the ledger toward him. "Sign here. And let me be clear, Mr. Harris: if there is so much as a smudge on these illustrations, or if a single scale is damaged, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your term scrubbing the trophy room without a wand."
Allen promised her, with a sincerity that seemed to satisfy even her, that he would treat the book like a holy relic.
The truth was, the book was massive and awkward to read in the library. It wasn't just a book of text; it was magically reactive. It contained sounds, shifting images, and a strange, ambient magic that hummed through the cover. He wanted to study it in the privacy of the Ravenclaw dorms.
He had found it tucked away on a high shelf in a corner that smelled of ozone and old parchment. It had called to him, in a way—not with a voice, but with a presence.
Back in his dormitory, before Edward returned from his own late-night wandering, Allen cleared his desk and lit a fresh candle. He opened the heavy cover. The inside flap was covered in a moving mural of snakes—coiling, hissing, and intertwining in a sea of emerald and gold. The author's obsession with serpents was immediately apparent.
The title page was elegant and minimalist. It was a French work, authored by Jean-Baptiste de Panafieu and illustrated by Camille Renversade. Published by the house of Deyrolle in 1831, it was a masterpiece of magical natural history.
Allen felt a thrill of genuine excitement. The book was divided into six meticulous sections: Dragons and Serpents, Quadruped Creatures, Winged Monsters, Sea Monsters, Half-Humans, and Hybrids. Unlike the standard Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which focused on safety ratings and brief descriptions, this book went into the visceral details. There were anatomical sketches showing the density of dragon bone, the complex muscle structures of a hippogriff's wings, and even diagrams of various magical creature excrement for tracking purposes. It covered hunting patterns, rare subspecies, and the specific alchemical properties of their organs.
Allen flipped through the pages until he found the section he was looking for: The Basilisk.
The illustration was breathtaking—and terrifying. At the top of the page was a small, delicate sketch of a toad sitting on a leathery egg. Below it, the result of that unholy union was rendered in vivid detail.
It was a brilliant green serpent, but its skin had a strange, iridescent quality that looked almost like reddish fur under certain lights. The artist had captured it with its mouth unhinged, revealing fangs that looked like curved ivory daggers, dripping with a thick, translucent venom.
But it was the eyes that caught him. They were a piercing, sulfurous yellow.
The moment Allen's gaze locked with the drawing, he felt a sudden, sharp jolt in his mind. His body seized up, his muscles locking as if a sudden frost had settled in his joints. His heart skipped a beat, and for a terrifying second, the room seemed to go dark.
Then, the magic of the book released him.
Faint, shimmering gold letters began to bleed onto the page beneath the image, as if the book were responding to his shock:
"One glance is all it takes. The King of Serpents does not hunt with teeth alone; to look upon its gaze is to find instant, irrevocable death."
Allen took a shaky breath, his fingers tracing the edge of the page. The illustration was so lifelike he could almost hear the low, rhythmic rasp of the creature's breathing. He closed the book slowly, the weight of the knowledge sitting heavy in his lap. The Chamber was open, the monster was real, and he was holding the blueprint of his own potential nightmare.