Seeing that, the students who had stepped down from the platform all cried out in shock.
From the fight just now, they already understood how strong Lockhart was—but they never expected that even with Lockhart hitting that hard, Harry could dissolve the attack in that kind of way.
Snape's expression shifted slightly. Lockhart had humiliated him moments earlier, and now Harry had used the exact same method to humiliate Lockhart right back.
Was Harry… getting revenge for him?
With that thought, the way Snape looked at Harry turned noticeably softer.
Compared to the crowd, Lockhart was the one truly stuck in an awkward spot. He coughed and said with forced composure, "Mm. A very nice Finite Incantatem. I have to say it again—our Chosen One is the most outstanding young wizard I've ever seen in my life.
Now then… let's continue the duel!"
Lockhart tried to press the attack, starting up Transfiguration—the same way he'd attacked Snape, now aimed at Harry.
And because he was drawing on even more of that ancient magic, the Transfiguration came out even stronger. Even a basic stone wall formed several times thicker than before.
But at this point, Harry had already confirmed something.
Lockhart was wielding some form of ancient magic.
And that raised another question in Harry's mind.
Was Lockhart connected to Voldemort?
Harry had never once seen a wizard who could use ancient magic before. And now two of them had appeared in rapid succession—how could he not be suspicious?
Normally, Harry had no reason to investigate Lockhart.
But "no reason" didn't mean he couldn't make one.
If Lockhart acted strange enough in a duel—or if he ended up badly injured and confined to a bed for a while—either outcome gave Harry the perfect excuse to get close.
So Harry's lips curved faintly.
Pale violet lightning began to crawl across his skin, then gathered along his wand, forming an overwhelmingly powerful electromagnetic field.
It all happened in an instant.
Then Harry sharply condensed a sword of lightning and began accelerating it again and again inside that electromagnetic field…
That's right.
A Super Electromagnetic Railgun.
Boom!
A shrieking roar tore through the air. To spare the surrounding students, Harry deliberately suppressed the worst of the sonic boom as the shot broke the sound barrier—but even so, the kids nearby still winced, nauseated by the pressure and noise.
And if they felt that bad, the target felt far worse.
The "battlefield" Lockhart had painstakingly built with Transfiguration didn't block anything at all—it only boxed him in and ruined his mobility.
Lockhart's vision flashed white, then blurred—and a moment later, his body was launched backward by a force so enormous it looked impossible.
He went limp midair.
Lights out.
Dude… seriously?
Opening with an ultimate?
Is that even fair?
When Lockhart was blown away and knocked unconscious, the students finally processed what had happened.
There was a fist-sized hole punched clean through Lockhart's chest.
With an injury like that, if it wasn't treated immediately, even a wizard would die within minutes.
As the hall erupted into panicked shouting, Harry rushed forward. He forced a Life Potion down Lockhart's throat, healing most of the damage, then yelled to the students, "Professor Lockhart's hurt too badly—get him to the Hospital Wing, now!"
Only then did the kids snap into motion. They hurriedly lifted Lockhart and carried him away.
Watching them go, Harry wore a small, satisfied smile.
Tonight, he'd be paying Lockhart a visit—and causing him some trouble.
Then Harry suddenly felt a hand pat his shoulder.
He turned—
Snape was right beside him.
And Snape was actually giving him a stiff, ugly excuse for a smile.
What…?
What was going on?
Since when did Snape smile at him?
Harry stared, genuinely wondering if Snape had hit his head somewhere.
…
Late at night, Harry quietly slipped out of the Gryffindor common room and headed for the Hospital Wing.
The Hospital Wing sat high in the castle, near one of the school towers, with a corridor that connected toward the clock tower. When Harry reached the entrance, he could still see the bright full moon through the windows outside.
He pushed the Hospital Wing doors open. Madam Pomfrey's office was to the side, and Harry quickly traced a rune on her office door to seal off all sound from within. Then he moved deeper into the ward.
Because Hogwarts had so many students, the ward was a massive hall. Rows of beds lined both sides, each separated by folding screens, so the healer could treat and care for patients privately.
At the moment, only one bed was occupied.
Harry immediately spotted Lockhart lying there.
And what Lockhart did next instantly drew Harry's full attention.
Lockhart propped himself up, pulled out a diary, and began writing and sketching inside it. As he did, his expression kept changing—like he was having a conversation with someone.
So Lockhart really did have a problem.
Harry's gaze shifted to the diary in his hands.
He could sense a faint trace of ancient-magic aura clinging to it.
A thought struck him like ice.
Could that be Voldemort's method of returning?
Now that Harry was certain Lockhart was suspicious, he was preparing to probe him—capture him—then discuss how to handle it with Dumbledore.
But in the next instant, Lockhart's expression changed again.
It was like someone else had stepped into his skin.
He looked the same, but his presence was completely different—colder, smoother, elegant in a way that made your blood run chill.
And Harry recognized that aura immediately.
Voldemort.
The moment Voldemort forcibly seized control of Lockhart's body, Harry knew he'd been discovered.
Neither of them hesitated.
They attacked at the same time.
A deep purple beam of annihilation magic slammed into a deep green beam of disintegration—colliding and erasing each other.
For a brief moment, the clash locked in place.
Then the deep green began pushing back the deep purple, and the point where they met started creeping toward Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes widened slightly, disbelief flashing across his face.
He was using ancient magic—magic far stronger than anything modern.
So why was he losing in a head-on contest?
Unless…
Unless this Chosen One was also using ancient magic?!
The instant Voldemort realized the situation had turned bad, he made the decision without hesitation.
He cut off the power struggle outright.
His body twisted, carving a curved arc through the air as he bolted to the rear.
He was exposed now. If he stayed even a moment longer, the noise and magical turbulence from their clash would draw Dumbledore—and once that happened, escape would be impossible.
Seeing Voldemort flee, Harry lunged after him.
The two of them raced through the castle at breakneck speed.
Harry didn't know what Voldemort had done, but somehow he could pass through walls, slipping through the structure as if stone were smoke. Even with time acceleration active, Harry still couldn't catch him immediately.
As they surged onward, Harry gradually realized where Voldemort was heading.
The destination was the girls' bathroom.
The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets?
When Harry finally burst into the girls' bathroom, his eyes swept the room—Voldemort was already gone.
But after only a short search, Harry spotted something on an unremarkable faucet.
A delicate, hollowed-out little snake emblem.
Harry's heart stirred. He reached out and tried to wrench the faucet aside—but no matter how hard he forced it, it wouldn't budge an inch.
Clearly, that wasn't the correct method.
Then Harry remembered: the Chamber once belonged to Salazar Slytherin.
And Slytherin's defining mark was Parseltongue.
So Harry tried speaking in Parseltongue without hesitation.
"Hey—open up. I'm Slytherin's heir."
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
"All hail Slytherin?"
Still nothing.
He tried a third time, half out of irritation.
"Merlin's beard!"
No response.
After a few failed attempts, Harry gave up on being clever and just ordered it, flatly and simply.
"Open."
Bzzzz…
The faucet shuddered. Then a man-sized opening slowly unfolded.
Harry's face went blank for a second.
That was it?
The password was that simple?
He'd seriously overthought it.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and jumped into the opening.
Even though that girls' bathroom had been abandoned, the pipes beneath it were still filthy. Harry wrapped himself in a thin layer of telekinetic force so none of the grime could touch him.
When he reached the end, a vast underground space opened up before his eyes.
Dim, yellowed light seeped in from somewhere unknown, barely illuminating the jagged stone. Shadows trembled and crawled across the rock like stains.
Harry pressed on through the underground expanse. After passing through a tunnel, he found something huge—
a massive snakeskin.
In an instant, Harry understood exactly what it was.
The Basilisk's shed skin.
That meant he hadn't taken the wrong path. The Chamber of Secrets couldn't be far.
Harry quickened his pace. Before long, a cold, heavy metal door appeared ahead.
He drew a deep breath, forcing himself steady, then commanded again, "Open."
The snake engravings on the door slid rapidly.
Then the door unlocked and swung wide, revealing a gigantic palace—dark, damp, and suffocating.
Inside, the light was murky. A strange green haze drifted through the air, giving everything a sinister, twisted feeling.
On both sides, tall stone pillars carved with coiling serpents rose upward, supporting a ceiling that vanished into darkness and casting long shadows across the floor.
And at the far end, pressed against the wall, stood an enormous statue.
An aged, withered face. A scraggly beard that dragged along the ground.
It was unsettling in the worst way.
And in the very center of the palace stood Harry's target.
Lockhart.
Except now, he was also Voldemort.
Lockhart's face was changing—like wax slowly melting and reshaping—until it didn't look like Lockhart at all, but instead resembled the young Voldemort Harry had seen before.
What drew Harry's attention even more was what lay beside Voldemort's body.
A shallow pool.
Inside it, a thin layer of pale blue magical liquid had condensed into something almost physical, radiating chaotic, crushing power.
That small pool of magical liquid…
was entirely solidified ancient magic.
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