"So that Acromantula named Aragog… you moved him into the Forbidden Forest?" Harry asked.
Hagrid nodded. "Aye. Found him a wife too. Her name's Mosag. They've got hundreds of little ones now."
"As far as I know," Rowan added, "Acromantulas don't petrify people."
Hermione thought it over, then said quietly, "If Aragog has been in the Forest all this time, then the creature attacking students now can't be him. Which means the original incident couldn't have been Hagrid's fault either."
She sighed. "Shame no one else is likely to believe that without proof."
To anyone else, the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest could've come from anywhere. There was nothing concrete tying them to the Chamber.
Still, as they left Hagrid's hut, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were noticeably lighter in spirit.
"If Hagrid's innocent," Harry said suddenly, "can we do something to help him?"
Hermione nodded. "If we can expose the real monster and prove it isn't an Acromantula, that would clear Hagrid's name for good."
"But the attacks stopped," Ron said uneasily. "What if it's already over?"
Rowan listened to them argue and couldn't help an inward smile.
Of course it's you three.
While everyone else was terrified of running into the Chamber's creature, these three were debating how to lure it out.
Reckless, yes. But familiar.
Rowan himself wasn't opposed to the idea. The difference was that he wasn't guessing.
He knew exactly what lived in the Chamber.
A basilisk.
An ancient horror bred through dark magic, hatched from a chicken's egg incubated beneath a toad. Vast, venomous, and lethal. Its gaze killed outright, and even reflected eye contact caused petrification.
But it had a fatal weakness.
Roosters.
The crow of a rooster stripped a basilisk of its power. In some cases, it could even kill it outright. That was why the creature's master had secretly slaughtered all of Hagrid's roosters in advance.
Rowan, however, had prepared.
During Christmas in Diagon Alley, while officially studying wandcraft, he had quietly purchased several large roosters. They now lived inside a magically expanded container, insurance for the worst-case scenario.
He didn't intend to use them unless absolutely necessary. Too many things would be hard to explain.
For now, it was too early anyway. The diary was still with Harry. Until Ginny reclaimed it, the basilisk wouldn't surface again.
What mattered most at the moment was mastering Sectumsempra.
Time slipped by quickly, and soon it was February fourteenth.
Valentine's Day.
The Great Hall was unrecognizable. Massive pink flowers bloomed along the walls, and heart-shaped confetti drifted endlessly from the enchanted ceiling.
"…It actually looks decent," Rowan admitted, watching younger witches light up with excitement. "No wonder they love this sort of thing."
Gilderoy Lockhart, for all his flaws, understood spectacle. Most girls were defenseless against this kind of display.
The boys, on the other hand, looked miserable.
Harry and Ron visibly recoiled at the sight of Lockhart strutting around in flamboyant pink robes. The professors weren't much better. Snape looked like someone had personally insulted his existence.
Lockhart soon unveiled his masterpiece.
Twelve dwarfs dressed as cupids, complete with golden wings and harps, began delivering Valentine's cards throughout the castle. Confessions were read aloud upon request. Lockhart even encouraged students to ask Snape about brewing love potions and Flitwick about charming spells.
Rowan watched it all with detached amusement.
He had no interest in romance. Not now. Not here.
Time was limited. Magic wasn't.
He'd learned long ago that affection was optional. Magic wasn't.
"Sectumsempra."
In the Forbidden Forest, Rowan flicked his wand. An invisible blade tore through the air and struck a fleeing mole, splitting it open instantly.
Peiqi dove from above, seized the carcass, and swallowed it whole.
With no classes that morning, Rowan had slipped into the forest to practice. Small animals made for controlled targets.
Sectumsempra, like most spells, rewarded precision and repetition. At its most basic, it produced a single cutting force. With mastery, it became something far worse.
Multiple blades. Wider arcs. Cuts deep enough to cleave a body in half.
Power came with study. And discipline.
He didn't go to lunch in the Great Hall. Instead, he ate rock cakes at Hagrid's hut.
They were nearly impossible to bite, but the flavor was surprisingly good.
Hagrid, at least, had never lied about that.