Chapter 69
"Mr. Albert, would you care to explain why you felt the need to do that?"
Lockhart's voice carried a sharp edge of displeasure. Though Albert's spell had dissipated before reaching him, the sheer force of it had frightened the self-proclaimed hero.
"I only saw how well you performed as the Werewolf of War," Albert said smoothly, his tone polite but disarmingly calm. "I couldn't help but applaud—and accidentally released a spell in the process."
It was an effortless lie, a neat little speech conjured in seconds, and it seemed to pacify Lockhart somewhat.
"Ah, yes… I suppose I can understand your excitement upon witnessing my heroic stance," Lockhart preened, adjusting his expression for the benefit of the watching students. "But do try to restrain yourself in future. After all, we wouldn't want to disturb your classmates merely to… emulate me."
He turned back to the front, resuming his over-the-top performance.
All around, the boys and girls were staring at Albert with wide eyes, whispering in awe. For most of them, this was the first time they had seen that much raw magic radiate from a single student.
After class, Albert muttered under his breath about the homework assignment—yet another request to write a poem or ode to Lockhart. What goes on in that man's head? he thought in exasperation, before slipping into the library with the stream of students.
---
With his assignments quickly completed, Albert turned to a more serious task: researching the basilisk.
Hogwarts' library contained little on the subject; the creature was exceedingly rare. Aside from a brief entry in Where to Find Magical Beasts, only a handful of obscure notes existed. Fortunately, the family archives back at the Black estate had already given Albert key insights: the older a basilisk grew, the more dangerous it became—but its greatest weakness lay in the cry of a mature rooster. A single crow could sap the serpent's strength, for they were creatures of the same magical lineage.
Of course, Albert already knew this—he had read it in the "original book" of his previous life. What truly caught his attention now was another note: while a basilisk could communicate in Parseltongue, its mind remained that of a beast. It possessed no true human intelligence.
Good, Albert thought. Fighting a mindless monster is entirely different from fighting a cunning one.
Even so, some questions demanded firsthand answers.
---
While most students toiled over homework, Albert slipped out of the library and made his way to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He pushed open the creaking door to find Myrtle perched on a sink, sulking as usual.
"I know you," she said, squinting at him. "We met the other day. But this is a girls' bathroom, you know—you're not supposed to come in here."
"I'm here for you," Albert said simply.
"For… me?" Myrtle blinked, startled. Her voice wavered as she hovered a little higher. "Even though I'm dead, people still whisper behind my back. No one ever thinks poor Myrtle has feelings… I'm not dignified like the Fat Friar, or noble like the Baron. I—"
Her voice trembled, and she glared at him suddenly. "You're not here to make fun of me, are you?"
"No," Albert replied firmly, his gaze steady. "You're the only one who can help me, that's why I came."
"Really? I'm the only one?" Her mood shifted instantly to delight, and she twirled in the air. "Ask away! If I know it, I'll tell you."
"It might be upsetting… but I need to know what happened. The day you… died."
Myrtle's expression twisted, the memory raw even after decades. "It was awful… It happened right here. I died in this bathroom."
Albert skipped over the details of her being bullied before she ran in crying; he already knew. "You didn't see the attacker?" he asked softly.
"No… I only remember seeing a pair of great, terrifying yellow eyes. And then… everything froze."
"Can you show me where exactly you saw them?"
"Of course."
Myrtle drifted to her old stall while Albert conjured two glowing orbs to mimic the eyes. At her guidance, he adjusted their height and angle repeatedly until she nodded.
Armed with this reference, Albert quickly pulled a small notebook from his bag, calculating the likely size of the serpent from the distance between its eyes.
"Is this important to you?" Myrtle asked curiously, peering at his notes.
"Very," Albert said, scribbling quickly. "It might even save my life."
"Oh… I'm honored to help." For the first time in a long while, she looked almost… happy.
When he finished, Albert conjured a lively piece of enchanted chocolate and offered it to her. Myrtle snatched it eagerly.
"So it was you who prepared Nick's feast! Too many ghosts crowded the table—I only managed to snatch a single chicken wing. Thank you for this. You can visit me anytime!"
Albert bid her farewell and, once outside, pulled out a leather pouch—his personal space-expansion bag—and stored his notes carefully. The calculations would help him prepare the old Black family equipment for basilisk defense.
This enchanted pouch had its own story. At the start of his second year, Albert had explored his father's old room at the family estate and discovered it in a wardrobe. Examination revealed that it had once belonged to Benjamin Black, the first and most powerful head of the Black family.
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Back in the Gryffindor common room that evening, the homework group had abandoned writing altogether. Tomorrow was Gryffindor's Quidditch match, and excitement buzzed in the air.
The house planned to unveil new banners to cheer the team.
Albert's knowledge from brewing over a hundred common potions quickly proved useful. He mixed a temporary magical dye that would last thirty-six hours, using rare ingredients supplied by the Weasley twins. With it, they transformed sheets of parchment into roaring lion banners.
After Hermione added a charm that made the lion toss its mane and let out a silent roar, she smiled at Albert.
"A little craft you picked up from the Fat Friar, isn't it?" she teased.
"You've learned quite a few tricks from the ghosts yourself," Albert replied with a grin.
Hermione lifted her chin proudly. "I don't know why most wizards ignore ghosts. They never realize how much knowledge they carry. Talking with them yesterday taught me things I'd never read in any book."
Albert nodded. "That's because they could sense your sincerity. Those ghosts have drifted through this world for centuries—they can read a person's heart at a glance. Your genuine curiosity moved them, and they shared their wisdom. Very few wizards manage that."
Hermione let out a small, contented sigh. "So I'm not just a bookworm after all."
To be continued…