Chapter 189. Where's My Great Big Basilisk?
With Lockhart's hissing Parseltongue, the heavy stone door rumbled and slowly opened to either side.
"Professor Wesson," Lockhart flung his arms wide in an exaggerated flourish, smugly saying, "let's see how you handle this."
The door opened fully, revealing only darkness beyond.
Wesson looked in and found it empty—nothing at all.
Lockhart's expression shifted from smug to confused, and finally to panic.
"That's impossible..." His voice began to tremble, and he hissed again in Parseltongue. "Little fellow, where are you?"
"What trick are you pulling?" Wesson watched Lockhart's performance, baffled.
He'd already prepared himself to deal with the Basilisk—so where was it now?
In truth, Lockhart himself was a bit stunned.
Where had his enormous Basilisk gone?
How could it be gone?
He clearly remembered telling it to stay in that room.
Just then, there was a sudden thud from behind the door.
A pleased smile returned to Lockhart's face. "Ah, looks like it just took a nap."
A rat scurried out.
Lockhart's smile froze at once.
Wesson looked on, at a loss for words.
What on earth was Lockhart doing?
However, Lockhart now seemed to have accepted the Basilisk's disappearance.
"Forget it," he said, putting away his panic with a shake of the head. "I wasn't counting on that stupid snake anyway."
Seeing Lockhart so self-assured, Wesson immediately tensed.
He knew Lockhart alone couldn't face him.
So what was Lockhart's trump card?
Of course—Lord Voldemort.
Wesson levelled his wand at Lockhart. "Finally dropping the act, are you, Tom?"
What followed went far beyond Wesson's expectations.
"Tom?" Lockhart let out a cold laugh. "You must mean the name on that page I picked up in the Room of Requirement, right? Mm... that should be it."
"Come out, Voldemort. I know you're possessing Lockhart. Stop hiding."
Ignoring Lockhart's words, Wesson kept his eyes fixed on him, wand unwavering.
Lockhart burst into an exaggerated peal of laughter that echoed around the stone chamber, grating on the ears.
"Oh, my dear Professor Wesson," he said, wiping away tears of mirth, "you underestimate me. I, Gilderoy Lockhart—how could I possibly hand over my precious body to someone else?"
Then he took out a torn diary page from inside his robes and waved it triumphantly. "A broken soul—how could I ever let it take me over?"
Wesson narrowed his eyes. "Then how did you..."
"...control the Basilisk, you mean? And speak Parseltongue?" Lockhart helpfully finished for him.
Now Wesson was genuinely unsure what was going on.
Could it be that Voldemort hadn't controlled Lockhart?
Seeing Wesson's puzzled face, Lockhart didn't rush to act.
He stepped closer by a few paces and suddenly said, "Do you remember what I asked you a few months ago?"
"What?" Wesson tilted his head.
"Ah, it seems you've forgotten." Lockhart shook his head, then asked earnestly, "Do you think I'm a powerful wizard?"
Wesson remembered. Lockhart had indeed asked that strange question—around Valentine's Day.
At the time, it had simply felt baffling.
"Now I can give you a definite answer, Professor Wesson." Lockhart straightened his back, a look of seriousness on his face that Wesson had never seen before. "Yes, I am very powerful."
Wesson tightened his grip on his wand, on guard.
What on earth was Lockhart up to?
Under Wesson's perplexed gaze, Lockhart crushed the diary page into a ball and casually tossed it onto the floor.
That scrap of paper, which ought to have borne Voldemort's soul, was thrown aside like rubbish.
"You see, Professor Wesson," Lockhart said smugly, "even You-Know-Who can't do much about me."
Wesson was, for a moment, taken aback.
Lockhart wasn't entirely ignorant. He had indeed gleaned a great deal from that torn diary page, and he knew Voldemort's soul was within it.
But why—
"Let me explain what happened." Lockhart snapped his fingers, supremely confident. "You know, before this, the only thing I was really good at was the Memory Charm. Heh. Obliviate—what a simple spell."
He drew his wand and traced a silver arc in the air. "Perhaps I should thank You-Know-Who. He taught me... magic far stronger than the Memory Charm. Ah, memory is a marvellous thing. I spent a long time feeling my way, bit by bit, and in the end I discovered my true talent."
Wesson sighed.
"That pitiful soul," Lockhart nudged the crumpled page with contempt, "thought he was the one pulling all the strings. Little did he know I was the one controlling him. I was siphoning his knowledge! His magic! His memories! And now he's of no use—everything of his is already mine to know!"
Wesson looked at Lockhart; there was a peculiar gleam in the man's eyes.
In truth, Wesson felt he was getting carried away—daring to belittle Voldemort like this.
Bear in mind, even Albus Dumbledore would not call Voldemort a "pitiful soul."
You never know how many sinister contingencies Voldemort has hidden; one misstep, and you might be caught by some curse or taint.
Even as a teenager, Voldemort allowed not the slightest slight.
But Lockhart... Wesson could only think him far too young to grasp how terrifying Voldemort truly was.
Perhaps because he'd found his stride, Lockhart began confiding other matters to Wesson.
"By the way, did you know? Memory is an extremely dangerous and precious thing. Do you remember those books I wrote? You might think the events in them were all invented by me, but that's not the case."
"They were true stories—only the protagonist wasn't me. I listened to many people's tales and then used the Memory Charm on them. For example, in Travels with Vampires, the real protagonist was a vampire hunter. And Year with the Yeti—honestly, I wouldn't spend that long with a stinking monster..."
Once a person starts to speak the secrets buried deep in their heart—never told to anyone else—they often can't stop.
Just like Lockhart now, pouring out his experiences over the years to Wesson.
And Wesson didn't interrupt him; he listened with interest.
Still, Wesson understood: Lockhart was telling him all this because he was absolutely certain he could deal with him—most likely with the Memory Charm.
Wesson was not afraid of Obliviate.
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