Chapter 195: Cured at Once, and Tom's Plan
The Hospital Wing
A group of people sat gathered around the bed: Dumbledore, Snape, Flitwick, and Leonardo.
Madam Pomfrey would normally never allow so many visitors. The patient needed rest. Rest.
But this incident was serious. Penelope had only just woken from petrification, and as the first student to face the monster's attack, what she remembered might provide invaluable clues. The sooner they knew, the sooner they could remove the danger.
And each person there had their own reason. Dumbledore, as Headmaster, needed first-hand information. Snape, as the one who brewed the antidote, needed feedback. Flitwick, as Penelope's Head of House, had every right to be concerned. As for Leonardo…
Well, Leonardo had been summoned. The official reason was that he had provided the crucial mandrake ingredient, though it was a rather flimsy excuse.
"Leonardo… thank you," Penelope said weakly. She still looked pale, like someone recovering from a serious illness. "Thank you for helping. If it weren't for your mandrakes…"
"You don't need to thank me, Penelope," Leonardo said gently. "It's nothing. Really."
Then he asked, "Are you feeling unwell anywhere now?"
Penelope shook her head.
"No. Just… a bit hungry?"
Leonardo relaxed at that. Wanting food was usually a good sign.
Dumbledore spoke softly. "We are fortunate that Leonardo provided the materials, and Professor Snape improved the formula so that the potion's effect was more…"
"That wasn't me who improved it," Snape cut in abruptly. "That was Leonardo."
Snape's gaze on Leonardo was still laced with confusion.
When they brewed the antidote, Snape had instructed Leonardo to make a full batch himself. He had intended to assess the boy's current Potions level.
Leonardo not only brewed it flawlessly, but he also suggested several refinements. After discussing them with Snape, he immediately put them into practice, reducing some of the antidote's side effects. Otherwise, Penelope would likely have remained in bed for another day or two.
What baffled Snape was not the refinements themselves, but the talent Leonardo had displayed during the process. The insight. The instinct.
After a full year of teaching him, Snape believed he understood Leonardo's ability: a student at the upper limit of "gifted", but still just a step short of true genius.
Snape had thought Leonardo was diligent and humble, and that if he kept at it, he would go far in Potions. But that antidote brewing had left Snape with the unsettling impression that Leonardo's aptitude had… improved.
Which was ridiculous.
Snape found it hard to accept. It made him doubt his earlier judgement, yet there was no obvious reason for Leonardo to hide his ability before. This was Hogwarts. Aside from the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, what teacher here would harm a student?
Hearing Snape's correction, Dumbledore smoothly changed course.
"Ha. Then Leonardo's contribution is indeed considerable. I believe the Special Award for Services to the School…"
Leonardo's expression shifted at once. That award sounded oddly ominous. Hadn't Tom received one fifty years ago?
"Headmaster," Leonardo said quickly, "there's no rush for that. Shouldn't we focus on understanding the danger first?"
He turned back to the bed. "Penelope, do you remember what happened before you lost consciousness?"
Penelope rubbed her forehead. Her eyes went hazy with a mixture of confusion and pain.
"I think I was… looking in a mirror," she said slowly. "In the mirror, I saw… a flash of light. Yes. Light. Yellow light?"
Dumbledore and the professors all fell silent, searching their memories for anything similar. What sort of magic could that be?
Defence Against the Dark Arts Office
Lockhart dipped his peacock-feather quill into a bottle of ink. A rich, heavy fragrance rose at once, threaded with a faint, unpleasant tang of blood.
The ink was not the usual black. It was a deep, dark red.
He wrote quickly:
My friend, does this 'ink', blended from dragon blood and graphorn blood, work?
The line vanished the moment he finished, as though someone parched had swallowed it like water.
Only two or three seconds passed before new words appeared.
Thank you for your help, my friend. I can remain in this world a while longer now.
Lockhart let out a breath of relief. Good. It worked.
Tom's "memory" would not fade yet. He could still offer advice.
As for the cost of those rare materials, Lockhart did not particularly care. He might not have the fortunes of ancient wizarding families, but as a bestselling author, he had earned more than enough.
And all of it came from fame. Fame and fortune. Once you had the first, the second followed close behind.
Lockhart continued writing in the battered diary:
Right, a student has been petrified. You were right. As long as we control the monster, there won't be actual death, and now there's an antidote. Our plan really can continue…
Inside the Diary
On the surface of the pristine diary, as the writing appeared, thin threads of pale light were drawn out of the dark red ink. Tom inhaled them slowly, through nose and mouth alike.
The boy's once-blurred features sharpened. His black eyes deepened into something darker still.
"Lucky," Tom thought, almost pleased. "An adult wizard who doesn't lack gold ended up with the diary. Otherwise, I'd never have access to so many materials rich in life."
If it had fallen into a child's hands, he would have been forced to endure it. Children did not have enough vitality.
And if it had been a poor student, all the worse. How would they afford something as expensive as dragon blood?
"One month," Tom judged, feeling his own condition and calculating the remaining time. "At most, one more month, and the energy I've drawn will be enough to rebuild a body."
Compared to powerful magical creatures, a human's life force was limited. And Tom could only steal the diary user's vitality slowly. It was not mercy. If he drained too quickly, he would kill the user, and then even fools would notice something was wrong.
Now, with a steady supply of high-quality life force, Tom could recover without restraint until he awakened fully.
He began to write:
Our plan can likely be accelerated. With so few victims and an antidote available, the sense of danger is not strong enough. If the students' fear and panic are insufficient, your entrance will not carry the impact, the shock, the salvation…
A few seconds later, Lockhart's side asked for specific measures.
Tom continued:
We must add more victims. At present, it is only petrification, so it hardly matters. And we should petrify students who carry 'weight'…
Tom tapped the page with long fingers, a flicker of coldness in his eyes.
For example, Harry Potter is an excellent choice. The Boy Who Lived. Quite valuable, isn't he?
This time, Lockhart did not respond immediately. After a long pause, Tom finally saw Lockhart's answer appear.
But Harry Potter… I've spent time with him. He's only a boy with a bit of personality. He's not as extraordinary as the stories claim…
Tom understood at once. Lockhart was being soft. Cowardly softness dressed up as kindness.
But Tom still "persuaded" him:
The world knows only the Boy Who Lived. The world knows Harry Potter, not 'Harry'. I trust you understand what I mean.
Imagine it, my friend. The basilisk is about to swallow the saviour of the wizarding world, and you make your grand entrance. With profound magic, you drive back the monster. Oh, the entire wizarding world will sing your name: Gilderoy Lockhart, who saved the future of magic, who protected wizardkind's hope.
And you would only have the basilisk petrify Harry first. There is no real risk, is there?
Tom set down his quill and waited patiently for Lockhart's reply.
Harry Potter truly was the best target.
But Tom had no intention of having the basilisk merely petrify Harry.
He intended to have it kill him.
Tom had cooled down over the past few days and thought it through again. Did he truly need to meet Harry Potter?
Not really.
By all logic, decades later, Tom Riddle, no, Lord Voldemort, would possess terrifying power and unrivalled Dark magic. How could he possibly be defeated by a baby?
"Protective magic? A vow? A contract?"
Tom sneered. "It doesn't matter what it was. I don't need to do anything personally."
Once the first wave of rage and humiliation faded, Young Tom rapidly sorted through the situation. Harry Potter, still in swaddling clothes at the time, had almost certainly been protected by someone else's magic. That protection had turned the tables on Voldemort.
Which raised an important question.
Would a Tom Riddle born of the same soul be able to kill Harry Potter with his own hands, or would he end up like that foolish future Voldemort, struck down by his own attempt?
In that case, why not use the basilisk and be done with it in one clean step?
And if the saviour died inside Hogwarts, Dumbledore, as Headmaster, would be blamed beyond excuse.
Stepping down would not be enough.
"That sanctimonious old man," Tom thought, with vicious satisfaction. "The world would love an excuse to tear him to pieces."
Tom was no longer obsessed with meeting Harry. Killing him would do.
He could not help wondering why his future self had insisted on personally killing a baby. Was it meant to feel impressive?
After a while, Lockhart's words appeared again:
If it's only petrification, the risk is manageable. I can control the basilisk. It's just… profound magic…
I'm worried that if the spell is too profound, people won't understand its brilliance and power. Perhaps something more dazzling and dramatic would be better?
Tom stared at the reply, almost speechless. Then he wrote back:
I've read of certain spells in books. They should suit your requirements, for example…
And a few practical tricks as well. They will make you look heroic and impressive…
Tom fed Lockhart a handful of flashy, impractical magic. It did not matter. When the time came, none of it would truly be needed.
Outside the Diary
Following the diary's instructions, Lockhart waved his wand. Sparks burst in various sizes, ribbons of coloured light coiling through the air and casting him in a glittering glow.
"Very useful spells," Lockhart murmured, pleased. "Yes. Perhaps I can show a bit of this ahead of time, build anticipation for my final, brilliant entrance. Just like the techniques in writing novels."
"Best if more people see it. Now, what excuse can I use to gather the students together…?"
The Quidditch Pitch
Clouds hung thick overhead, and low thunder rolled within them.
The fact that it still had not rained was a relief to both the spectators and the players, but the muggy heat and dampness remained unpleasant.
Leonardo's water-repellent wristbands meant nobody had to fear being soaked, but rain still ruined visibility. It would affect both the match and the viewing.
Inside the Gryffindor team's changing room, Wood was delivering his final rallying cry.
"There's no denying it, Slytherin's brooms are better than ours, but our players are stronger!"
"Trust me, money will never beat effort and sweat…"
Harry listened, but his hands only tightened around his broom.
It was not the Nimbus Two Thousand.
It was a sleek, unfamiliar broom, its design new enough to look almost like something from a different era. Along the broom's core, faint arcs and currents flowed like breathing lightning. The dark walnut handle was intertwined with mithril, carved with lightning patterns.
This broom had been designed by Leonardo, and its top speed and burst acceleration both surpassed the latest Nimbus Two Thousand and One.
After testing it, Harry had fallen in love instantly.
The Nimbus Two Thousand was brilliant, of course, but beside this new broom it felt like an older model in every way.
Speed, acceleration, agility, stability. It was ahead in all of it, and the combined gap was enormous.
Harry looked down at the words engraved on the handle.
EAST WIND.
Leonardo had said "East Wind" was the series name.
Harry had a strong feeling that East Wind would crush Nimbus, Comet, Cleansweep, and every other brand, and become the only real choice in Quidditch.
He was using the East Wind now. The Nimbus Two Thousand had been lent to one of the Chasers to reduce the equipment gap as much as possible.
"At least as Seeker," Harry murmured, "I won't be outmatched for speed."
In truth, the East Wind was certainly stronger than the Nimbus Two Thousand and One, but…
Malfoy had an East Wind too.
Leonardo had only lent these brooms out. He had also made it clear they were not the final version. He needed to observe them in real matches and then adjust and refine.
Safety was guaranteed, at least. Nobody was going to explode mid-flight or plummet to their death.
Harry did not even consider asking Leonardo not to give Malfoy an East Wind. Harry and Malfoy hated each other, but Leonardo did not share that particular feud.
And Harry knew better than to use friendship as a leash. A Gryffindor should not do that.
Walking out onto the Quidditch pitch with his teammates, Harry let out a slow breath.
If the brooms were equal now, then it came down to one thing.
Who was the better Seeker?