Sagres snapped his fingers crisply, and with a soft poof, the torches embedded in the Chamber of Secrets' walls instantly ignited, their warm, bright flames immediately dispelling the heavy darkness.
"Merlin's smelly socks! Isn't that the peacock Lockhart? How did he end up here, and looking like… like this…?"
Peeves's voice got stuck, evidently unable to find suitable words to describe the sight before him.
Sagres tucked the bottle containing Peeves into his pocket.
He had already seen the figure curled up on the ground. However, the Lockhart before him was a completely different person from the dazzling, smiling, flamboyant writer he remembered.
The man was still wearing his signature flamboyant violet robe, but at this moment, the dazzling silk was like a shroud, loosely draped over his body.
His once brilliant golden hair was now withered like straw, tangled messily, and devoid of all luster.
The most shocking thing was his face—that handsome face, once meticulously maintained and adored by countless witches, now resembled a piece of parchment from which all moisture and collagen had been drained, appearing terrifyingly abnormal.
He was emaciated beyond recognition, his skin a deathly, grayish pallor. Yet, in the embrace of this dying shell, he used his last ounce of strength to desperately cling to something—a seemingly ordinary black notebook.
His twig-like fingers were dug tightly into the hard cover's edge, as if it were the last straw he grasped before sinking into the abyss.
But Sagres felt that perhaps that very thing was the chain dragging him into endless hell.
Lockhart was not dead, though his breath was so faint it was almost imperceptible. If he were to expire the next moment, no one would be surprised.
He lay there quietly, like a mummy dried for a thousand years, with only his incongruously flamboyant robe silently mocking his current misery.
Sagres's gaze shifted from this "living corpse," and with a gentle flick of his wand, the black diary that Lockhart had clutched so tightly slowly floated up, hovering in mid-air.
The diary opened.
On the yellowed flyleaf, a clear line of text came into view:
Tom Marvolo Riddle
"Lord Voldemort…" Sagres murmured softly, his voice calm and unperturbed, as if merely stating an expected answer.
Indeed, it was him again. Still haunting.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, carefully examining the seemingly ordinary diary, sensing the strong Dark Arts aura emanating from it.
In an instant, an ancient, forbidden term suddenly flashed through Sagres's mind.
"Horcrux…"
His pupils contracted slightly, a fleeting trace of incredible astonishment crossing his eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a deep, almost pitying disappointment.
This was the Dark Lord's secret to immortality? Tearing his precious soul apart, then stuffing the fragments into so-called containers?
No wonder no one could guess Lord Voldemort's secret to immortality—it turned out to be unbelievably clumsy.
This magic was recorded in Secrets of the Most Advanced Dark Arts in the Hogwarts Restricted Section, which also documented its originator—the notorious ancient Greek Dark Wizard, Herpo the Foul.
In Sagres's view, the magic itself exuded a nauseating stupidity.
The soul is the core of magic, the foundation of consciousness, the essence of a wizard's existence!
To pursue a vague "immortality," one would mutilate their own soul, defiling and tearing it apart? This was the ultimate foolishness, putting the cart before the horse. The distortion and madness it brought far surpassed death itself.
In contrast, Nicolas Flamel's false longevity, obtained through the Philosopher's Stone, seemed far more reliable.
At this moment, the diary had become a lifeless object devoid of magic. Only the lingering traces of a soul remained, while Lord Voldemort's own soul was nowhere to be found.
Sagres casually cast a healing spell on Lockhart, and although it had little effect, at least the man's breathing grew steadier.
Just then, Salazar Slytherin's colossal statue slowly opened its mouth, revealing a deep, dark cavity.
Immediately after, a flesh-and-blood monster, entirely scarlet and over thirty feet tall, writhed its way out of the opening.
Sagres stood still, watching this slightly smaller flesh-and-blood monster, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
The monster, however, had a clear objective: it leapt from the statue's mouth, a pair of blood-red wings suddenly unfurling behind it.
When it landed, a dozen thick tentacles extended like living snakes, quickly propping up its massive body, positioning itself firmly between Sagres and Lockhart.
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"I know you!"
The monster spoke.
It had more than one head, and when it spoke, a dozen mouths opened and closed together, its voice a strange mixture of youthful clarity and hoarse echoes.
"You are Sagres Greengrass, Hogwarts's youngest Professor…"
Sagres looked at the somewhat familiar flesh-and-blood monster, revealing an unfathomable expression, nodding with a half-smile.
"I've also heard of you, Lord Voldemort…" His tone was calm, and he pointed to Lockhart lying on the ground. "Can you enlighten me? Is this one your accomplice? Or merely a victim?"
"Hmph!" The flesh-and-blood monster let out a chilling sneer. "You are very perceptive; it doesn't surprise me that you've guessed these things. Very well, then I shall tell you all about it…"
The giant monster twisted its tentacles, its cruel voice echoing in the Chamber of Secrets. "But let me state upfront, that good-for-nothing Lockhart is not worthy of being my accomplice. His empty head, besides his greed for false fame, probably can't hold anything else."
The flesh-and-blood monster, believing itself in control, began to boast to Sagres about its series of brilliant decisions.
"It all began months ago," the row of eyeballs gleamed cunningly, "a little witch named Ginny Weasley got my diary. Over the long days, she confided in me—those pitiable worries and sorrows: being ridiculed by her brothers, coming to school in old robes and with old books, and…" he deliberately drew out his words, "…she firmly believed that the famous, kind, and great Harry Potter would never like her…"
"She babbled about school trivialities, even mentioning…" the flesh-and-blood monster's voice carried a deliberate reverence, "…that she also longed to attend your classes… esteemed Professor Greengrass!"
Lord Voldemort's voice was full of triumph, and his massive body simulated a human posture as he shook his head. "How tedious, listening to an eleven-year-old girl's childish worries."
He continued, his voice feigning gentleness, "But I patiently responded, playing the role of a benevolent, understanding figure. Ginny was utterly smitten with me. 'Oh, Tom, no one understands me like you…' 'Oh, Tom, I'm so glad to have this diary to confide in you…' 'Oh, Tom, you're just like a friend I can carry in my pocket…' Bahahaha! How foolish!"
He let out a cold, harsh laugh, as if admiring his own masterpiece. But Sagres felt that the other party might not be laughing for long.
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