Fudge didn't hear it. He was still basking in the intoxicating thrill of wielding his authority.
The students didn't hear it either. The Great Hall was a cacophony of noise—some were defending the headmaster, while others hurled insults.
The professors didn't hear it. Their wands were gripped tightly, their nerves on edge, as if expecting the basilisk to lunge out from some unseen crevice.
But Harry heard it.
And though Dumbledore hadn't heard it, he felt the ripple of unusual magic in the air.
"Help... help me…" A weak voice accompanied the sound of shuffling footsteps, growing steadily closer.
Several students finally noticed the disturbance.
Their eyes turned, and then came the screams.
It was Professor Lockhart.
His face was ashen, his body hunched. But what stood out most—the thing no bent posture could hide—was his stomach, split open and hollowed out, as if the organs inside had been meticulously arranged to make room for… something.
The faint outline where an object had once rested resembled the shape of a book.
Harry's eyes widened in sudden realization. He knew where Lockhart had hidden the dark artifact.
The students' panic spread like wildfire. Screams echoed, rising one after the other in a deafening wave.
Fudge's eyes bulged in shock.
Last night, he had received a message warning him of a murder at Hogwarts.
And now…
It was the messenger himself?
What kind of desperate publicity stunt was this?
"Gilderoy, what's happened?" Fudge stepped forward, feigning concern.
Lockhart lifted a trembling hand. "Help... help me."
But before he could finish, his tongue twisted. His voice shifted into an eerie, unnatural tone.
"The Chamber… the Chamber has been opened!"
With that, he collapsed, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Fudge's face drained of color. He looked lost, his mouth hanging open as he turned toward Dumbledore—whom he had been threatening just moments earlier.
But Dumbledore was already in motion.
"All Heads of House, escort the students back to their common rooms. Classes are canceled for today," he ordered, his voice steady as his wand moved in fluid, deliberate motions. "Prefects and older students, protect the younger ones."
Rufus Scrimgeour, the Auror Office Director, barked out his own commands: "Aurors, assist the professors. The rest of you, search for any dark artifacts."
The Great Hall emptied in a rush.
Only Dumbledore, Harry, Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Lockhart—still sprawled lifelessly on the floor—remained.
Fudge waved his arms frantically, shouting at his subordinates. "Quick, take him to the hospital wing—"
"That won't be necessary, Cornelius," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice chilling.
Fudge froze.
"Tom," Dumbledore said, his eyes locking onto Lockhart's lifeless form. His wand raised. "Are you not coming out?"
Fudge blinked in confusion. "Dumbledore, what are you talking about? He's just—"
Before he could finish, Lockhart's body convulsed.
With grotesque, bone-cracking movements, it bent and twisted unnaturally until it rose to its feet. The face that turned toward them was still Lockhart's, but the smile was different—calm, almost serene.
"Professor Dumbledore," the figure said softly. "It's been a long time."
Dumbledore's knuckles whitened around his wand. His eyes drifted to the gaping wound in Lockhart's stomach. "This is exactly the kind of thing I would expect from you," he said grimly.
"To hide it inside your own body."
"Put down your wand, Professor." The figure—Lockhart, or whatever had taken control of him—smiled pleasantly. "What use is it against me?"
Dumbledore didn't lower his wand.
The creature laughed softly. "Ah, Dumbledore… It seems you've learned nothing in fifty years."
"You couldn't catch me back then."
"And now, here we are again."
"Age has made you weaker, hasn't it?"
Dumbledore's voice was quiet, but sharp as a blade. "Your mastery of soul magic is astonishing. Did you fuse your soul with Lockhart's?"
"No, wait." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Did you fuse his soul with yours instead?"
"That would explain—"
"Why you couldn't find me," the creature interrupted, grinning. "Even when you stooped to using the dark magic you hate so much. All you saw was a single, complete soul. No fragments, no clues."
"You're too kind-hearted, my dear Professor. If only you could be as ruthless as Grindelwald once was."
"For the greater good, sacrificing one useless professor should have been an easy choice."
"And now… what will you do?"
The creature took a staggering step forward, its voice soft and mocking. "Here I stand, utterly vulnerable before you."
"An Avada Kedavra? Perhaps some Fiendfyre?"
"Or any other dark magic. You know what I mean—the kind that could easily destroy both Gilderoy Lockhart and the piece of me inside him."
"This is your chance, Professor. Your best chance."
It raised a hand and caressed its own face—Lockhart's face—with almost tender care.
"Go on. Kill me."
"You're holding your wand, aren't you? One spell is all it takes. A single moment."
But Dumbledore did nothing.
The creature laughed, the sound echoing in the hall.
"Ah, Dumbledore. You're so noble. So powerful. But your weakness is glaringly obvious. You've caged yourself in this castle, protecting your soft heart."
"You once burned my cabinet to threaten me. Where is that fire now?"
Dumbledore's silence was damning.
"And to think," the creature sneered, "a wizard as strong as you willingly binds himself to rules made for the weak."
"A pathetic Minister like Fudge dares to tread on you, to give you orders. And you… you obey?"
"How absurd. My dear Professor, how truly absurd."
"If it were me, Cornelius Fudge would already be kneeling at my feet, kissing my boots, calling me master."
Fudge's face turned ghastly pale. He recoiled in terror—not from the creature, but from the fear that his long-held paranoia was coming true: that Dumbledore would one day take his place as Minister.
Harry said nothing.
His eyes were fixed on the creature, wary of the soul inhabiting Lockhart's body.
Words were the most dangerous kind of magic, and this creature wielded them with terrifying precision, slicing the space between Dumbledore and Fudge like a blade.
"You still have time to change your mind," the creature whispered. It spread its arms wide, exposing the torn and hollow cavity of its stomach.
"Go ahead. Kill Lockhart. Kill me."
"Lockhart deserves it, doesn't he? He's a thief of lives. As the greatest white wizard, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Dumbledore—you have the power to disregard the law. Deliver justice as you see fit."
Dumbledore's expression shifted.
Fudge's panic deepened.
The creature waved its wand.
A shimmering hourglass appeared, landing on the floor with a thud. Sand began to trickle through it.
"You have until the sand runs out," it said.
"The magic keeping me bound to Lockhart won't last much longer."
The room was silent except for the faint hiss of falling sand.
Dumbledore remained frozen.
The creature's words had struck too deep. Decades of restraint, principles, and morality now weighed on him like iron chains.
To break them for the greater good? Or to remain shackled by them?
"Professor, everything is for Hogwarts. For the students." Harry's voice cut through the silence. His hand slid into the Sorting Hat, gripping the hilt of Godric Gryffindor's sword.
But Dumbledore remained still, his face contorted with pain, haunted by memories of the past.
Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with resignation.
"Scrimgeour, this is an Auror's duty."
Then he turned back to the creature.
"But, Tom… where is it?"
"The thing you've hidden? I know it's not in Lockhart's body."
"You and I both know what I'm referring to."
"Even if I kill him, I won't kill you. You can't fool me anymore."
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Powerstones?
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