The rainy night passed to the rhythm of dripping water.
Close to lunchtime, Sean saw Harry and Ron back in the Great Hall.
"I thought weekends were only for good news… didn't expect to have to help Filch polish every piece of silver in the trophy room,"
Ron said, holding a brand-new wand, his face gloomy when it really ought to have been delighted.
"No magic allowed—gotta polish everything by hand!"
"I'd swap with you any time,"
Harry answered listlessly.
"Cleaning and scrubbing, I've had plenty of practice at the Dursleys'. But writing letters back to Lockhart's admirers… that's guaranteed to be a nightmare…"
While they talked, Sean listened quietly as usual.
Everything was unfolding just as he'd planned. Harry would soon start hearing the basilisk's voice. Around that time he'd realize he could understand it, and slowly discover he was a Parselmouth.
"Your new invention?"
Hermione was holding something that looked like a metal toad, peering at it curiously.
It was a gleaming alchemical device, wearing oversized goggles like a tiny pilot.
"Mm."
Sean replied.
Considering who Sean was… Hermione no longer found it strange that he invented things. She was just wondering—what did this one do?
Sean took out the planner map. On it, the Alchemic Toad appeared with a special marker.
That marker was what distinguished the planner map from the Marauder's Map.
On the Marauder's Map, the Chamber of Secrets wasn't marked at all—so Ginny would appear suddenly on the map and then vanish just as suddenly.
So Sean had made an alchemical device and named it the Alchemic Toad.
It could go in place of a living person to test the effect of the magical refracting glasses. Since the toad might count as a "dead object," Sean had even loaded a few little beetles inside it as a backup.
Once Harry realized he was a Parselmouth, Sean could question him and use that to enter the Chamber.
Of course, the Alchemic Toad's use didn't stop there.
It carried all sorts of things on its body:
A button linked to the planner map for tracking and sending messages;
A paper airplane keyed to places like the Headmaster's office;
And a selection of pastries capable of causing serious commotion.
In Sean's plan, the toad was the last safeguard.
If things spun out of control, all seven Alchemic Toads would trigger the final failsafe:
Hold off the basilisk and call Dumbledore.
Why seven? Because he had seven special paper airplanes.
Hopefully it would never come to that…
The afternoon slipped past unnoticed, and before they knew it, it was five to eight.
In the Hope Nook, Harry dragged his feet reluctantly out of the warm little space and trudged along the third-floor corridor toward Lockhart's office.
He clenched his jaw and knocked.
The door flew open at once; Lockhart beamed at him.
He didn't notice the black cat sitting in a pool of shadow in the corner.
"Ah, here comes my little rascal! Come in, Harry, come in."
Lockhart said.
The walls of the office were lined with framed pictures of Lockhart himself, all brightly lit by dozens of candles.
Several frames even bore his autograph, and the desk was piled high with photographs.
"You can do the envelopes!"
Lockhart told Harry, as if granting a great favor.
"The first one's for Mrs. Gladys Gudgeon—bless her heart—one of my most ardent admirers."
Time crawled by at a snail's pace. Harry let Lockhart ramble on, occasionally grunting "Mm," "Ah," or "Yes" in reply.
The black cat crouched behind an ornament, whiskers trembling.
The candles burned shorter and shorter, when suddenly the cat's ears twitched. He heard another sound—a sound completely different from the crackle of dying wicks or their bored chatter.
The cat turned. Harry had jolted upright in his seat; a large blot of lilac ink had splashed over the street name on "Veronica Smethley's" envelope.
"What?"
Harry blurted.
"I know!"
Lockhart said at once.
"Six months at the top of the best-seller list, you know! Unprecedented record!"
"No,
that," Harry snapped, voice frantic.
"That voice!"
"I beg your pardon?"
Lockhart blinked at him, baffled.
"What voice, Harry? You must be getting a bit sleepy, hmm? Good heavens—just look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! Hard to believe—time flies when you're having fun, eh?"
Harry didn't answer. He strained his ears, but the voice didn't come again—not as he left the office, not until someone stepped out from the shadows of the corridor.
"You heard it too, Harry?"
A steady, reassuring voice.
"Sean, what are you—"
Harry stared, then blurted, almost tripping over his words.
"You heard it too?"
Sean nodded.
"Oh, Merlin, then you must know…"
Harry tried to imitate the sound. He thought he was speaking English, but what came out was a series of hissing noises, like someone pressing their tongue against their lower teeth.
He was so focused on it, he didn't even realize he was practically hissing.
"How much did you hear?"
Sean asked.
"Hssss…"
Harry said.
"Mm. How did it say 'open'?"
Sean prompted.
"Hsss…"
Harry repeated, confused.
"Got it. Take this."
Sean noted it down and placed an Alchemic Toad in Harry's hand.
"Oh, and Harry—what you just said wasn't English. It sounded more like… Parseltongue."
Left alone in the corridor, Harry went over what he'd just said in his mind. A moment later, cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
…
The girls' bathroom on the second floor.
Sean had found the special entrance.
"Hsss (open)…"
He mimicked.
The tap flashed a burst of brilliant white light and began to spin rapidly.
Then the entire sink started to move. It slid slowly out of sight, revealing a thick, vertical pipe, wide enough for a person to slide down.
Five Alchemic Toads hopped in one after another.
Outside, the rainy night remained damp and windy.
Sean waited there, running his fingers thoughtfully over the serpent carving.
If he wanted to keep Hogwarts safe and fulfill his plan, he had to push as far as possible—subdue, not kill, the basilisk, and then craft a Basilisk Biscuit.
He could predict that no professor would ever approve of such a dangerous, insane idea.
Killing a basilisk wasn't actually that hard—a rooster biscuit would do it.
But subduing it, especially under Tom's nose, was a different level of risk entirely.
Split soul or not, Voldemort had always been mad—but seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle was still the dark, ambitious heir of Slytherin.
"What are you doing?"
Myrtle peeked out over the stall threshold just in time to see Sean stroking the smooth metal head of the Alchemic Toad.
The magical refracting glasses had proven viable. Which meant the day Sean faced the basilisk head-on was very, very close.