Harry's face was tight with strain as he streaked across the Quidditch pitch.
The Slytherins had cheated.
Their brooms were clearly faster than anyone else's, and still, they had chosen to play dirty.
The heavy black Bludgers no longer drifted aimlessly through the air; instead, both of them had locked onto Harry, hunting him like predators.
Fred and George flew close at his sides, beating the Bludgers away with every ounce of strength they had.
Rain began to fall—fat, stinging drops that lashed Harry's face and smeared across his glasses.
He barely noticed anything else until Lee Jordan's voice cut through the storm:
> "Slytherin leads—sixty to zero!"
Harry's scar blazed suddenly, a searing pain that tore through his skull and nerves.
Why now?
Was someone controlling the Bludger? One of Voldemort's servants hiding among the crowd?
Anxiety twisted his stomach, but he refused to lose this match.
"Listen," Harry gasped to the twins, "you two can't babysit me forever. I'll never catch the Snitch like this. Go—help the others. Let me deal with those Bludgers."
Fred and George looked doubtful, but Harry's determination burned too fiercely to argue with. He forced them away, steeling himself to find the Snitch on his own.
The rain thickened, sheets of water pounding the pitch.
Harry didn't feel the cold. His scar burned hotter, almost unbearable, as he soared higher and higher—dodging, twisting, spiraling, with the Bludgers snapping at his heels.
Somewhere through the storm he heard Malfoy jeering, "Ballet practice, Potter?"
Harry shot him a glare—and froze.
The Snitch was hovering inches from Malfoy's left ear. Malfoy was laughing so hard he hadn't even noticed it.
In that instant Harry lunged, ignoring the Bludger that smashed into his arm. Pain flared, but he hooked his knee around the broom and stretched forward, fingers clawing desperately.
Cold, fluttering wings brushed his skin—he had it.
The Snitch was his.
But the moment his hand closed, Harry's mind detonated with a voice that wasn't his own:
"Kill you. Tear you apart. Come closer—let me rip you to pieces."
The evil hiss chilled him to the marrow. His vision swam, his spirit recoiling.
Still gripping the Snitch, Harry lost control and plummeted. The crowd screamed as he crashed into the mud with a sickening splash, his broom tumbling away.
His arm hung uselessly at his side, twisted at a grotesque angle. Pain engulfed him, the world fading in and out. But when he looked down, the Snitch gleamed in his uninjured hand.
We won. I did it. Just… don't faint yet.
But the voice was still there, hissing like a nightmare. Images clawed into his brain—Professor Lockhart swallowed by a colossal serpent in a dark tunnel, their bodies twisting together until Lockhart's laughter rang in Harry's skull.
Hisssss.
The agony was unbearable. Then, through the haze, the rain stopped.
A shadow loomed over him.
"Harry—what happened?"
Damon's voice.
Warmth spread through Harry's body as Damon touched his hand. With a precise flick of his wand, Harry's broken arm snapped back into place. Then something cool and soothing pressed against his forehead, easing the fire in his scar. A pale blue potion trickled between his lips; he swallowed instinctively, and the whispering in his head began to fade.
"Damon…" Harry croaked, clutching at his sleeve. "The Chamber… Lockhart… the serpent swallowed him. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened!"
He forced the words out—and then everything went black.
Hermione and Ron rushed to his side. "Harry!" Hermione cried, while Colin Creevey's camera clicked furiously.
"You take care of him," Damon said grimly, rising to his feet. "I have work to do."
What on earth was Dumbledore planning? Had everything gone wrong?
"Fawkes—come to me."
A burst of golden fire lit the air as the phoenix appeared, feathers dulled from its recent rebirth.
"Don't push yourself," Damon murmured, stroking the divine bird. "I have other allies."
He conjured a leather case into his hand. The locks sprang open at his touch, and he whispered, "Norberta, I need you."
A thunderous weight shook the corridor as the Norwegian Ridgeback surged forth, massive wings scraping the walls. The second floor of the castle trembled under her bulk.
The basilisk's deadly gaze would not kill Norberta instantly—Damon's dragon would be a shield and a sword.
Placing his hand on her scaled head, Damon chanted softly:
> "Oculos Vinculum."
Magic thrummed between them, a bond forged through trust and power. Damon's own vision faded, then returned—higher, wider, clearer. He was seeing through Norberta's eyes.
A gentle tap on his shoulder drew him back. Fawkes, watching him intently. The phoenix's gaze conveyed the message without words.
Dumbledore is behind you. He gives you his blessing. Go with all your strength.
Damon inhaled slowly. He could feel the Headmaster's presence—watching, waiting.
The castle was silent as a to
mb. Something had awakened in its depths.
And Damon Lockhart was ready to face it.
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—End of Chapter...