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Inside the bottle, Peeves seemed to have been startled by the Parseltongue just now. He was now anxiously banging against the glass walls, hurling a nonstop stream of curses at Sargeras as he thrashed about in frustration.
He had never been treated like this in his entire afterlife!
Locked up for two whole days inside a cursed glass bottle — no less! Not even the Bloody Baron had ever dared do something like that to him!
"Sargeras! You snot-nosed slug from the sewer! You rotten, moldy, mangy crow! Let me out! I swear I'll braid your greasy hair into a goblin's foot wrap! I'll smear your fanciest robes with dung bombs, you slimy—!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A series of heavy thuds followed as he slammed himself hard against the glass, over and over.
Sargeras showed no expression. He looked as calm and indifferent as if he were merely carrying around a noisy parcel. His gaze dropped ever so slightly, cold and piercing as it passed through the transparent surface and landed squarely on Peeves.
"Be quiet. Unless you'd like to experience something else entirely."
Peeves' movements suddenly froze.
He suddenly remembered that this professor standing before him wasn't the kind of easy target that old Filch had been. His mischievous bravado vanished in an instant. Floating nervously in the center of the bottle, he contorted his spectral face into a grotesque yet pitiful smile — one that aimed for flattery but came out more like a grimace.
"Ohhh~ most glorious, most merciful Professor Greengrass! Handsome sir! Living embodiment of brilliance! Surely there's been some kind of mistake! It's me, Peeves, your ever-faithful, utterly harmless little spirit! I was just… uh… engaging in a bit of morning exercise! A healthy routine for body and soul! Come now, be a dear and let me out? I swear on every ghost in Hogwarts… I'll never, ever spike the students' drinks with tickle powder again! And I absolutely promise not to doodle on Professor Binns's lectern ever again…"
He grew increasingly animated as he spoke, and in his excitement accidentally bumped against the bottle again. Realizing it, he quickly froze and started rubbing his transparent hands together obsequiously, trying his best to appear charming.
"Your promises," Sargeras said in a low, steady voice, "are worth less than a troll's snot."
The smile drained from Peeves's face in an instant, replaced by an explosive fury that twisted every inch of his form. He swelled up angrily, puffing himself so full he nearly filled the entire interior of the bottle, his features distorted beyond recognition.
"You damned, cold-blooded reptile! You vile, shameless thief! You've stolen my precious freedom! Who do you think you are?! Even Dumbledore never dared treat me like this! Just you wait! Once I'm out… once I'm out, I'll make this whole castle echo with—!"
Sargeras's eyes sharpened. Without a word, he raised his wand ever so slightly. A thin thread of red light flickered across the inside of the bottle, and the temperature within rose sharply, all at once.
Peeves immediately let out a high-pitched, thoroughly authentic shriek of pain, his wailing voice filled with panic and torment.
"AAAH!! HOT! IT'S BURNING! STOP! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"
He thrashed around wildly in the cramped little space, rolling and dodging in panic. The arrogant energy he'd been overflowing with just a moment ago had completely vanished without a trace.
"Mercy! Please, Master! Kind and noble Professor!" he cried, voice trembling with fear. "I was wrong! I swear I was wrong! I'll shut up, I'll be as quiet as a dead bat! Please don't roast me! I swear — on the name of Peeves himself — I won't make another sound!"
With the tiniest flick of Sargeras's fingers, the red light disappeared. The bottle's temperature dropped back to normal, as if nothing had happened at all.
Peeves collapsed at the bottom of the bottle like a soaked and crumpled rag. His translucent form drooped pitifully, shivering as he gasped for breath that didn't really exist. In his ghostly eyes shimmered a lingering terror, the kind that only came after real suffering.
He stole a cautious glance up at Sargeras but didn't dare say another word. Every now and then, his form twitched slightly, just enough to prove that he was still "alive."
Sargeras looked down at the temporarily "tamed" Peeves inside the bottle. His voice was as cold and emotionless as before.
"Good. Stay that way."
Then he turned and walked calmly over to the sink. With barely a second thought, he spoke again in Parseltongue.
"Open~~"
Immediately after—
Clack-clack-clack-clack…
A grinding, gut-twisting sound burst forth, sharp as rusted gears forced into motion after decades of silence. The air was filled with a piercing screech of stone against stone, a mechanical shriek that scraped at the teeth.
To Sargeras's astonishment, the entire faucet — grime-stained, cracked, and ancient — began to rotate. And not just the tap itself, but the entire stone basin it was attached to moved with it, slowly spinning in a jerky, almost reluctant fashion, as though awakened after a century of slumber.
Underneath, the edges of the basin split apart with a grating sound, crumbling open to reveal a gaping black hole below; a deep, yawning tunnel that stretched downward into darkness and exhaled a faint, chilling breath from the unknown depths.
The stone rim surrounding the opening was unnaturally smooth, almost eerily so. It was obvious at a glance that it hadn't been shaped by nature.
Sargeras's heart gave a sharp, involuntary jolt.
Perhaps he had spent too much time around ancient relics, because even his thoughts were beginning to turn rigid and old-fashioned.
Of course. Who ever said the entrance to a hidden underground chamber had to be through a toilet pipe?
Salazar Slytherin, proud and aristocratic as he was, would never have accepted such a disgraceful entryway.
Granted, this one wasn't exactly elegant either…
But at least it wasn't as absurd as the Ministry of Magic's infamous toilet-portkey travel method. For a long time, he'd honestly believed that bizarre contraption had to be some twisted invention from the mind of a transmigrator.
The gaping hole beneath the basin loomed like the open throat of some great beast. Sargeras tightened his grip around his wand, and the corners of his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.
His eyes drifted first to Peeves, still crumpled in the bottle like a deflated balloon, then to the black phantom hovering nearby, frozen midair with an expression of stunned surprise.
"Do you want to come with me…" he asked quietly, "or is this where we part ways?"
Peeves instantly squeezed out a twisted, groveling grin, his words firing out so fast they nearly tripped over each other: "Ah! Oh, brilliant and wise sir! Your loyal Peeves would love… love to follow you on this grand and epic quest! But, alas, I'm such a feeble little thing, I'd only slow you down and get in your way! So perhaps… perhaps it's better if I stay behind, yes? I wish you a smooth journey and resounding victory!"
"Very well," Sargeras nodded calmly, his tone flat. "Then you're coming with me."
"Good—thank you, great pro… huh? Wait! what? What did you say?!"
But Sargeras didn't bother to answer. He ignored the sudden burst of noise from the bottle as Peeves began shrieking in protest, slamming wildly against the glass in a frenzy of panic.
Instead, he raised his wand and gave a brief signal to Noctis, the black raven that hovered silently nearby.
"The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is in the girls' lavatory where Moaning Myrtle resides," he said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.
And with that, he turned, stepped up to the edge… and without the slightest hesitation, jumped.
His figure vanished in an instant, swallowed whole by the endless darkness below.
The fall was swift and steep. His body plunged straight down through a narrow, slippery vertical tunnel, the walls slick with moisture and cold as ice. In the distance, he could hear Peeves moaning and whimpering from inside the bottle, his ghostly cries bouncing around in the echoing chamber of glass.
The descent lasted only a few seconds. Then, suddenly, his boots hit solid ground.
Sargeras landed lightly on the rocky floor, the soles of his boots scraping softly against the slippery surface with a whisper of sound.
"Bleugh—! What is this awful place? It's all sticky and gross! Let me out! The great Lord Peeves is gonna suffocate in here!"
Peeves let out a series of dry, muffled gags from inside the bottle, his whole translucent body hurling itself again and again at the glass, as if he could bash his way to freedom.
Sargeras didn't even glance his way; he knew the ghost was faking it.
Without a word, he calmly raised his wand, and at the tip bloomed a cold, white orb of light. It glowed with a clean brilliance, pushing back the thick darkness that clung to the air like wet cloth.
What lay before him took him by surprise.
A massive underground chamber stretched out into the shadows, far larger than he had imagined. It wasn't just big… it was colossal, the kind of space that made you feel small just by standing in it.
Twisting stone columns carved with coiled serpents rose up all around him, supporting a cave ceiling so high that it vanished into the black above, beyond even the wand's light.
The ground was littered with massive discarded snakeskins, their shimmering scales catching the pale glow and reflecting an eerie green phosphorescence that seemed to pulse faintly in the silence.
The air was bitingly cold, damp and heavy with the stench of rot and something old — something musky and reptilian that clung to the back of the throat. All around him, the silence pressed in like a living thing, broken only by the soft, rhythmic drip of water falling from the ceiling and splashing against stone and puddle.
At the tip of his wand, the glowing orb began to shift shape, folding and fluttering until it transformed into a bird woven entirely of light and feathers. Silent as moonlight, it took off, gliding deeper into the cavern, its glowing form casting faint shadows that danced along the walls.
Sargeras followed closely behind it.
"Wait… wait, don't go in there! This place feels horrible! Even Peeves is cold… and that never happens! Please, Professor, let me out! I swear I'll disappear right away and never bother you again! I swear… sniff sniff…"
Peeves's voice, now thick with the edge of tears, rang out clear and sharp in the quiet, echoing like a child's cry in a crypt.
Sargeras kept walking, completely unmoved.
He knew Peeves was still faking it.
He hadn't brought the ghost along for any particular reason. He just thought the trip would be less boring with some noise. Listening to Peeves swing wildly between theatrical terror and cocky bluster was oddly satisfying — like watching an opera with a ghostly clown as the star, or hearing an old internet troll put on a one-man show. In moments like this, he almost felt like he'd stepped back into the life he had before all this, back when he used to waste time listening to netizens brag and joke online.
Up ahead, a massive stone door blocked the path.
Etched into its surface were several serpentine carvings, winding and twisting their way across the ancient stone. Sargeras paused for a moment in thought, then spoke softly in Parseltongue: "Open."
Immediately, one of the serpents carved into the stone began to slither. Its body undulated smoothly along the edge of the door, completing a slow circle.
And then, with a low, heavy groan, the door opened.
Sargeras stepped inside…
A towering statue stood at the center of the chamber, carved entirely from stone, its presence looming and oppressive. It stared down over the room with a cold, imperious gaze, the kind of look that made you feel judged just for breathing in its presence. The statue's face, caught in the cold white glow of his wand, looked grim and fierce, its hollow eyes seeming almost alive… watching anyone who dared enter this place.
It didn't match the image of Slytherin he had in his mind at all.
He'd met Salazar Slytherin before… knew exactly what the man looked like. He'd always pictured him as a strikingly handsome figure, refined and sharp. But if this statue was created by Slytherin himself, it said something quite different — that perhaps the founder's own view of himself was far darker, far more severe, than what others remembered.
The bird of light flew ahead, wings flickering softly in the gloom, until it came to a gentle halt at the base of the massive statue.
There, in the open space at the heart of the Chamber of Secrets, someone was lying on the ground.
Or rather… what was left of someone.
A body, still breathing, but only just…
Gilderoy Lockhart!
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[Chapter End's]
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