As they entered Professor Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts office, a commotion erupted from the walls. Several oversized portraits of Lockhart let out terrified shrieks, their hair rollers scattering across the frames. One portrait brandished a curling wand in protest. The real Lockhart, meanwhile, lit candles and the fireplace, ushering everyone inside with a flourish.
Dumbledore conjured a special magical rope that tugged Moaning Myrtle into the room. Following him were Snape, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Lottie Turner, and Hodge Blackthorn. Even in the tense moment, Hodge couldn't help stealing a few glances at Dumbledore's magic—based on what he knew, spells typically didn't affect ghosts.
Soon after, Professor McGonagall appeared at the doorway, accompanied by Madam Pomfrey. Upon seeing Myrtle's darkened, ghostly form, Pomfrey gasped.
"What's going on, Albus—"
"Take a look, Poppy," Dumbledore said calmly. Madam Pomfrey stepped forward, drawing her wand and pointing it at various parts of Myrtle's translucent body. After a moment, her face registered shock.
"In all my years, I've never seen anything like this…"
"What do you know," Dumbledore asked softly, "about magic affecting ghosts?"
Pomfrey glanced up quickly, hesitating. "In documented cases, such phenomena have occurred—but only with living patients. Ghosts… I'm not certain. There's no precedent in the literature. It would have to be an exceptionally malevolent form of dark magic to affect a ghost." McGonagall's lips pursed tightly. "Could it be—" "It's possible," Dumbledore interrupted, "if he is involved." Snape, lurking in the shadows, remained silent. Hodge knew they were thinking of Voldemort, who, in a way, represented the pinnacle of dark magic in the last century.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances. Harry, however, caught the gist of the conversation: whatever had affected Myrtle wasn't something a second-year student could have done. That, at least, was good news. Slightly relieved, he began piecing together the puzzle. It had to be connected to the writing on the wall—the Chamber… the Heir… He glanced at Lottie Turner, who seemed unfazed, trying to look serious but clearly oblivious to the gravity of the situation, unlike Ginny, who was visibly shaken.
Harry's mind drifted back to the voice he'd heard in the walls—
"…rip you… tear you… kill you… starving… so long… time to kill…" Harry didn't think those words were aimed at a ghost.
Lockhart shook his golden, wavy curls and flashed his dazzling white teeth.
"Clearly, it's a curse targeting ghosts—likely a variation of the Confundus Charm. I encountered a similar case in an isolated ancient village. I could have resolved it easily, but alas, I arrived too late. If only I'd been there sooner…"
Dumbledore, Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Snape formed a loose circle, completely ignoring Lockhart. Dumbledore summoned a wisp of silvery thread from the air, dispersing it carefully toward Myrtle's fingers. The moment the silvery mist touched her, it turned black. Dumbledore examined it closely, occasionally flicking his wand with precision, as if dueling an invisible, sentient force. The other professors held their breath, watching intently.
"…A similar incident happened in Bandur," Lockhart continued dramatically, pausing for effect as if delivering a classroom monologue. "I caught the culprit red-handed with a bit of clever spellwork. Indeed, it was another ghost. He wept bitterly, admitting he shouldn't have carried his grudges into the afterlife… I saw him off on his final journey." He added with a suggestive tone, "We really don't pay enough attention to that lot, do we?"
"Ghosts don't write on walls," McGonagall snapped sharply.
"Of course not," Lockhart said smoothly, quick to elaborate. "In Bandur, there were two culprits—one was a living person, the ghost's great-great-great-grandson, no less."
At that moment, the scene shifted. Dumbledore twirled his wand, slowly pulling at the silvery mist clinging to Myrtle's fingers. He extracted a long, thin thread that had turned black. Gathering it carefully, he condensed it into a single drop of inky, liquid-like substance.
The professors leaned in closer, nearly bumping heads, straining to identify it. "Some kind of toxin?" Pomfrey asked, glancing at Snape. Snape studied it for a moment before shaking his head at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore fell into deep thought. The professors straightened, with Pomfrey racking her brain for ancient case studies and Snape retreating back into the shadows, arms tucked into his black robes.
"It could be poison," Lockhart piped up. "I recall a case in Sillery, a hidden ghost village… I even attended a ghost funeral."
Dumbledore seemed to snap out of his reverie at Lockhart's words. "She hasn't died," he said, "at least not in the way ghosts understand 'death.' They call it… release." Lockhart froze mid-sentence. "Not dead?" McGonagall asked, glancing at Myrtle. "Then she's under some powerful curse—" "Aha! As I said, an ancient Confundus Charm!" Lockhart interjected.
"That's a possibility, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said kindly, "but I'm not yet certain what we're dealing with."
"Perhaps Potter and his friends can shed some light," Snape said coldly. "As I understand it, they were lingering there before Filch arrived."
Harry's scalp prickled with nerves.
"We only just got there—"
"Straight from Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party—"
"Exactly."
Harry, Hermione, and Ron scrambled to explain their presence. "And after that?" Snape pressed. "Why didn't you return to the feast? Why were you in the corridor?" The trio froze. Snape's thin lips curled into a mocking smirk. "Headmaster, I believe they're not telling the truth."
Ron and Hermione both looked to Harry.
"Because… because…" Harry's heart pounded. He wasn't sure if admitting he'd heard a disembodied voice—one no one else could hear—would make him sound insane. He stammered, grasping for an excuse.
"Because—"
"—Harry heard a strange voice coming from the castle walls," Hodge said.
————
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