"You're going alone?" she asked finally.
I nodded. "I have to."
"You should tell a professor—Flitwick, McGonagall—anyone."
"I can't risk interference. I've been preparing."
I reminded her of the rat tests, the enchantment studies, the safeguards I'd been running behind the scenes.
Hermione's eyes narrowed as her unease deepened. She didn't know what I planned exactly, but she knew it wasn't normal.
"How do you plan to avoid the basilisk's gaze?" she asked.
I reached into my coat and handed her a pair of completely frosted glasses. "I won't see much—just vague outlines. But that should be enough."
"That's not safe," she said. "You're underestimating ancient magic."
I shrugged. "Magic has done little to earn my faith lately."
Hermione folded her arms. "Then I'm going with you."
I hesitated. "It might be too dangerous. And I only have one pair of these."
"Then find another solution. Or I go to the professors."
I closed my eyes. Regretted telling her. But she added, quieter now:
"If you hadn't told me… I'd never forgive you."
We crept through the castle under cover of night, muffling our footsteps as we reached Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The torches flickered low in their sconces, casting ghostly shadows over the cracked tiles.
Myrtle rose from a toilet bowl with a delighted shriek. "Ooh! It's you again!"
"Plumbing emergency," I said flatly.
"Ooooh," she cooed. "I love the pipes. Warm. Echoey. Full of whispers."
Hermione shivered. I blinked at Myrtle. "Ooookay."
Without preamble, I walked to the center of the bathroom, placed my hand on the sink pedestal, and stored the entire structure in one fluid motion.
The tile cracked. Pipes groaned. The massive chute beneath was revealed, dark and echoing.
Hermione winced. "You just—"
"Efficient remodeling."
I jumped in first, cushioning the descent with a spell. Hermione followed, a bit slower.
The tunnel was damp, ancient, and coated in slime and time. Our wands lit the passage ahead.
Hermione's voice was tight. "Do you even know where this leads?"
"Of course," I said. "Give or take fifty feet."
We passed a long, pale heap that shimmered under Hermione's light.
She gasped. "Is that…?"
"Shed skin," I said. "Not recent. But it means it's still alive."
Hermione didn't respond.
Eventually we reached the stone door. Massive. Carved with snakes.
"No Parseltongue," I muttered. "So let's skip the theatrics."
I stored the entire door. It vanished cleanly. Hermione stared at the empty archway.
"You have no respect for sacred history," she muttered.
"I don't know what you mean. If anything, my storage can keep that door more intact then whatever magic may have been on it."
The Chamber of Secrets opened before us, cathedral-like and gleaming with damp marble. Enormous serpentine statues lined the walls.
At the far end loomed the statue of Salazar Slytherin.
"Let me guess," Hermione said. "Another door that only opens with snake gibberish."
I nodded, sat down on a nearby step, and thought.
Fifteen minutes passed.
"Okay," I said. "Two options. One: I drown it out. Two: I Niffler the whole thing."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"I said—"
"I heard you. What does that even mean?"
"Trade secret."
She rolled her eyes. "Drown it. Let's start with that."
I climbed up to the statue's massive mouth and peered inside. There was a gap—wide enough to channel something into.
I reached into my inventory and began releasing stored Black Lake water.
It poured. And poured. And poured.
The statue echoed with gurgles. The mouth sloshed. Water spilled down its chin.
Hermione looked queasy.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
The splashing eventually stopped.
Nothing happened.
The mouth remained closed.
I stood at the base of the statue, arms crossed, soaked in magical humidity, and looked at Hermione.
"Any other bright ideas?" I asked. "Because the Niffler thing is starting to sound reasonable now."