Snape's voice cut through the air like ice. "Do I need to alert the Daily Prophet? Oh, and one more thing—I'll ensure the crucibles are clearly labeled this time. We wouldn't want the fire to conjure a hair curler instead."
Lockhart's smile froze in place, his raised hand rigid as a cured ham. An awkward silence settled over the room, equal parts comical and cringeworthy.
Dumbledore absently stroked his beard, as if debating whether to tie a ribbon in it. Professor McGonagall, who had maintained a stern facade until now, let her lips twitch into a faint smile. Flitwick glanced around, noting the enchanted photos on the walls mirroring the same uneasy grimaces. He ducked his head, shoulders quaking as he stifled a chuckle. Sprout cleared her throat repeatedly until she regained composure.
Harry's cheeks bulged from the effort of holding back laughter. Ron fared no better, emitting a series of stifled snorts.
Snape arched an eyebrow at the noise. "It seems Mr. Weasley has more to add."
The boys bolted for the door without another word, yanking it open and vanishing into the corridor. "Goodnight, Professors!" Harry called over his shoulder.
...
Back in the office, only Filch seemed genuinely distraught. The others exchanged knowing glances.
Sprout broke the tension. "I'd best return to the greenhouses and tend to the Mandrakes. We need them ready for Mrs. Norris's recovery."
McGonagall scooped up the limp cat. "Filch, I'll take her to Madam Pomfrey."
Filch nodded numbly. "I'll come with you, Professor."
Dumbledore turned to Lockhart with a nod. "Thank you for the use of your office, Professor. We should head out."
Dumbledore, Flitwick, and Snape slipped around a corner and ascended another staircase. As they climbed, Dumbledore probed again. "Nothing at all?"
Flitwick shook his head. "I gathered ambient sounds from the area—nothing but everyday echoes. Even a tracking charm turned up no magical residue."
"No dark magic traces either," Snape added curtly.
"Perhaps the Animagus connection?" Flitwick ventured, furrowing his brow. "Vizette's enchanted that Sneakoscope with layers of spells no one's attempted before. At his current stage, he might pick up on irregularities—like a second heartbeat or odd noises."
"Why not just ask him?" Snape suggested, one eyebrow raised. "He's not like Potter; he won't keep secrets."
Flitwick chuckled, a trace of warmth in his voice. "True enough. He's a dream to work with, apart from his aversion to sleep."
"Then tomorrow it is," Dumbledore decided. "Felius, how's Vizette faring with the weather charms?"
"We've covered the fundamentals and built a solid base," Flitwick replied. "Influencing weather through emotions demands deep attunement, so I haven't introduced it yet. Still, I worry. He's disciplined, but if he slips..."
They continued discussing late into the night before Dumbledore finally returned to his office. He steepled his fingers, gazing at the weary Fawkes, then raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"
A silver phoenix burst forth, shrinking to palm-sized elegance.
---
The trek back to the common rooms buzzed with unrest. Ravenclaws and Gryffindors swapped intel, pooling what little they knew
Ravenclaw delved into library tomes, debating proofs for or against the Chamber of Secrets. Gryffindor contributed wild rumors—sensational tales with zero foundation but endless intrigue.
Vizette hung back, sifting for kernels of truth amid the chatter. Sadly, he'd encountered the roots of every Gryffindor yarn in the library stacks. Slytherin's Chamber legend didn't truly ignite until the late seventeenth century.
That era marked a seismic shift: In 1698, the International Statute of Secrecy was signed, forcing wizards underground and severing ties with Muggles. For the dwindling pure-blood lines, it felt like a humiliating surrender.
Resentment festered. Pure-blood families twisted "pure wizardry" into supremacy dogma, elevating themselves as the rightful elite. To bolster their claims, they cherry-picked from Salazar Slytherin's writings, framing pure blood as inherently superior.
The Ministry's swift rebuttals fell on deaf ears. Conspiracy theorists accused officials of wizard suppression, dooming their kind to extinction. The ideology caught fire, drawing fervent support and spawning myths tied to Slytherin.
The Chamber of Secrets topped them all—a hidden vault evading the other Founders, brimming with enigma and wizardly allure.
...
The group parted in high spirits, though exhaustion hit the Ravenclaws hard upon reaching their tower. They drafted a borrowing list for the library's morning rush.
Vizette contributed several titles himself. After bidding Luna goodnight, he retreated to his dorm, washed up swiftly, and sank onto his bed. A silver phoenix patronus perched on her pillow, intricate and lifelike.
"Headmaster Dumbledore?" she ventured.
It stirred, his voice emanating clearly. "Vizette, if you're free, meet me in the hospital wing at noon."
The patronus lingered, then added, "After lunch. And get some rest—the days ahead will test you."
…
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