"Why… why Ginny?" Ron muttered, eyes vacant. Harry watched, guilt and pain clawing at his heart. Should I tell him Ginny understood Parseltongue?
Her ability and abduction by the Heir felt connected, but Harry couldn't dismiss other possibilities—her ties to him or her "traitor" Weasley blood. Yet, the victims—Colin, Hermione, Justin—were all linked to Harry. What about the Ravenclaw prefect? Why Filch's cat?
The prefect, Penelope, oversaw her house but cared for other girls, like Banarge or Gaerio did for boys. Did the Heir target her for interfering? The thought gnawed at Harry, fueling baseless suspicions about Ginny. Why Mrs. Norris? Filch's cat patrolled Hogwarts, harassing lower-years, especially Gryffindors. If she reported to Filch, and Filch to Dumbledore, a student could be flagged as a suspect. An upper-year or Lockhart wouldn't bother petrifying a cat—they'd use Confundo to mislead her. Unless they couldn't.
Harry's suspicion of Ginny hardened, but he kept it from Ron as they headed to the Room of Requirement with Zabini, Azrael, and Farkas. Ron, face dark, followed silently.
"Ron… I don't know what to say, but let's do what we can," Harry said.
"What can we do?" Ron groaned. "We've tried everything! And now Ginny… she's pureblood!"
Ron's distress—losing Hermione, now his sister—unraveled him. He'd never flaunt his blood status normally. "Myrtle's death was in the third-floor girls' bathroom," Harry said. "Let's ask her. She might know something."
"Really?" Ron's eyes lit up.
"Luna mentioned it," Harry said. "It's a lead."
"We should bring an adult," Ron said. "I'll get Lockhart. He's useless, but he's the D.A. teacher—maybe he can handle a Basilisk!"
Harry had shared his Basilisk theory, backed by Hermione's "Pipe" note. It explained the lack of sightings—pipes let it move unseen. Victims survived indirectly seeing its eyes, like Colin through his camera. Invisibility magic was unlikely; Basilisks resisted spells due to their magical hide. Pipes were simpler.
Harry stopped Ron from mentioning Ginny's Parseltongue. True or not, it'd only spark conflict. "Ron, Zabini, Azrael, Farkas," Harry said. "Before we hunt, see this—my trump card against the monster."
"Seriously?" Zabini asked. "When'd you practice?"
"At night, under the Invisibility Cloak," Harry admitted sheepishly.
"Show us!" Ron urged. "Ginny's waiting!"
"I tried teaching this to Hermione," Harry said. "She said it wasn't needed, but I pushed because I was worried. I was such a fool."
"Wait," Azrael cut in. "You cornered Hermione to protect her?"
"Yeah," Harry said, guilt twisting his gut. "My fault."
Farkas looked at Harry, hesitant. Harry waved his wand, scar throbbing faintly. "Ron, Farkas, Zabini, Azrael… I practiced this dark magic to protect you all from the monster."
"Dark magic?" Ron's face twisted with disgust.
Harry's pleading eyes met Ron's. I hate myself, he thought. Always making excuses. He scanned their faces—Ron's freckled, sweaty anxiety; Zabini's shadowed exhaustion; Farkas's hopeful trust; Azrael's calculating gaze.
"Trust me," Harry said.
"Got it," Ron replied instantly. Zabini and Farkas nodded. Azrael spoke sharply.
"Trust depends on you," he said. "If this fails against a Basilisk, I'm done with you."
Harry smiled, took a deep breath, and cast: "Protego Diabolica (Devil, protect all with flame)!"
Black flames erupted from his phoenix wand, sinister and beautiful, embodying a childish urge to burn all opposition. Harry had mastered it by amplifying Incendio's flames into a Protego-like barrier, fueled by negative emotions—hatred for the Dursleys, Voldemort. Initially, his scar burned, but practice dulled the pain, amplifying his magic. He fought not to lose himself in it.
The flames encircled him, a barrier sparing allies. They shifted to fierce blue, controlled yet powerful. Harry remained calm, certain this was needed to defeat the Basilisk.
"This Protego Diabolica won't burn those who trust me," Harry said.
"How much stronger than Incendio?" Zabini asked.
"No idea," Harry said. "Guys, if you want to save Ginny, cross the flames. If you doubt me even slightly, tell a teacher my theory. If I fail, they'll stop the Basilisk and save her."
Farkas, awed, touched the flames and joined Harry, unburned, grinning. Harry hugged him. "Thanks, Farkas."
"No big deal," Farkas said. "Even Aurors use dark magic sometimes."
Ron, furious, glared at the flames. "I'm sorry for hiding this," Harry said. "This is me."
"I know dark magic's bad," Ron said. "But we need power against a Basilisk."
"How can you be okay with this?!" Ron snapped at Farkas. "Dark magic's hurt tons of people!"
Harry looked away, guilt-ridden. I had no choice. Zabini stepped through, unburned. "I'm betting on you," he said. "Don't quit, or we're stuck as Hogwarts' outcasts."
"Deal," Harry said, fist-bumping him.
"I can't join," Azrael said. "I don't fully trust you. If things go wrong, I'd betray you and get burned."
Harry nodded. "Thanks for being honest. If I don't return, take care of Asclepius."
Azrael hesitated, then nodded. "Ron, let's get a teacher."
Ron, seething, stepped through the flames, unburned, and punched Harry's cheek—lighter than Dudley's blows, heavier than any punishment. "I'll lecture you first!" Ron roared.
"Ron, stop!" Azrael shouted.
"Hermione hates dark magic!" Ron yelled. "It's obvious! Why didn't you get it? Why hide it from friends?!"
Harry dropped Protego Diabolica, dodging Ron's second punch but missing his own. "Tell me another way!" Harry screamed. "A power to protect without hurting anyone!"
"There isn't!" Ron shouted, blocking Harry's tackle. "But dark magic can kill! It's not okay!"
"You don't protect with just righteousness!" Harry yelled.
"People struggle to stay righteous!" Ron countered. "You gave up!"
Harry aimed a kick, blocked by Ron's knee. "Some things are worth any cost! Powerless, you protect nothing!"
"Hermione wouldn't want this!" Ron roared, eyes locking with Harry's.
"We've been called suspicious, Slytherins dark wizard wannabes," Ron said. "But we believed in you—because you're our friend!"
Harry's heart broke. "I knew dark magic was bad… I just didn't want to lose you."
He confessed Pansy's love potion, meant to ruin his friendships. Azrael and Farkas recoiled; Zabini stayed stone-faced. "Why care so much?" Ron asked, stunned.
"I don't know," Harry said. "You're important. I'd do anything to protect you, even ignoring your feelings. I was a fool…"
Both bruised, they looked away, embarrassed. Azrael swallowed a retort—You're dependent on them, Harry?—and defended Slytherin. "Not all of us love dark magic or purebloodism. We're not all like that."
Ron calmed, nodding. Harry and Ron, battered, healed their bruises with herbs, still avoiding eye contact. "I'm not okay with dark magic," Ron said. "I'm in to save Ginny and make the Heir pay. This is your only pass."
"Thanks, Ron," Harry said.
"The Heir might be a witch," Azrael teased, noticing Harry's attempt to sideline Ron.
"You're a dark wizard in training," Azrael said, fear in his eyes. "Don't misuse it."
"I won't," Harry promised.
Farkas, versed in curses, suggested, "Finite Incantatem can stop it. Let's practice."
Finite, a second-year counterspell, varied by magic type but worked. They stopped Protego Diabolica together.
Their bond held, unchanged. Ron even appreciated Slytherins hating dark magic. Harry thanked Azrael.
Harry, Ron, and Azrael headed to Lockhart's office; Zabini and Farkas fetched Harry's Invisibility Cloak and items. Harry felt lighter—not from his secret trump card, but from friends beside him. Ron didn't condone dark magic but crossed the flames, trusting Harry. Azrael, staying back, showed loyalty by seeking a teacher.
Harry knocked on Lockhart's door. A weary Lockhart appeared. "What's up, boys? I'm busy…"
"Professor, help us find the Chamber!" Ron pleaded. "Hermione was your biggest fan! Avenge her, save my sister!"
Lockhart's face soured, eyeing Harry fearfully. He's useless, Harry thought. Protego Diabolica might burn him. Lockhart's incompetence made Finite unlikely in battle. Harry shared his pipe theory, crediting Hermione, omitting Ginny.
"Pipes? Brilliant!" Lockhart grinned, then aimed his wand. "If you know that much, I'll have teachers search the pipes—my achievement. Those who know the truth must forget."
"What are you doing?!" Harry gasped.
Lockhart's smile was his usual, incompetent self. "I'll claim the glory. A Parselmouth Slytherin's a perfect scapegoat, Harry. Off to Azkaban, while I vacation on a beach! Obliviate!"
Harry, recording on the hidden cassette, let Lockhart's confession pile up. He's vile. "Protego!" Harry cast, shielding all three. The barrier deflected Obliviate, which hit Lockhart, twisting his face in confusion.
Obliviate, a delicate Charm, worked on brains but was weak, deflectable by Protego. Unknown to them, Lockhart's repeated self-use had dulled his skill. A skilled Lockhart would've cast silently, unnoticed. Now, he was a shell.
Ron, enraged, cast a wordless Petrificus Totalus. Lockhart froze, dazed. Harry followed with "Expelliarmus!" seizing his wand. Ron aimed another spell, but Azrael stopped him. "He's petrified! You'll shatter him!"
"He tried to erase us!" Ron yelled.
"We're wasting time," Harry said. "Bloom, take him to the hospital wing. Get Snape, Flitwick, or McGonagall. Ron, I'll give you my Sneakoscope. Survive."
They rushed to the third-floor girls' bathroom. Zabini and Farkas hadn't arrived. Harry and Ron, not waiting, opened the door and called, "Miss Myrtle! Answer if you're there!"
Harry tapped the door with his wand. The ghost of a girl, killed there fifty years ago, appeared.
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