Hermione only knew one thing—she had to run faster. Faster and faster. Every second lost meant someone might die from the serpent's fangs.
Her breath came in ragged bursts as she stumbled through the corridors toward the Headmaster's office. The only thing that could counteract the Basilisk's venom was phoenix tears—Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, was her only hope. McGonagall or Professor Flitwick might be able to defeat the creature, but they wouldn't know how to save someone already poisoned. Even Snape's antidotes took time to brew. Only the phoenix could heal fast enough.
Images flooded her mind as she ran—the moment when Malfoy, to save her, had his arm nearly torn apart by the Basilisk's fangs. The vivid crimson blood had splattered across her face, still warm as it ran down her cheek. That heat seemed to linger, burning into her memory. Her thoughts spun wildly.
"I've made a mess of everything," she thought bitterly.
She wasn't naive enough to believe that Malfoy had suddenly changed because of her tears, or that he had defected out of compassion. No—he had planned everything. The dragon blood and unicorn blood he'd prepared long ago proved it. The dragon blood earned him trust; the unicorn blood, a safeguard against exactly this sort of situation. If it weren't for her interference, Dumbledore might have solved the Basilisk problem already.
"All I do is make trouble," Hermione thought, shame rising in her chest. Remembering Malfoy's steady composure and her own doubts about him filled her with regret.
She tore through the corridor, and every student she passed stared. It wasn't just that she was wearing Slytherin robes—it was the streaks of blood on her face, smeared and half-dried.
"What happened? Why are you wearing Slytherin robes?" A firm hand reached out to stop her. Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect on holiday patrol, stared in disbelief, suspicion flashing behind his glasses. "Hermione?"
As a prefect, it was his duty to keep order and report emergencies. Normally, Hermione was obedient—one of the last students he'd expect to cause trouble. But ever since she'd befriended Harry and Ron, she had developed a troublesome disregard for the rules.
But before he could question her further, Hermione pushed him aside. Percy staggered back several steps, almost losing his balance. Being shoved by a younger student was humiliating.
"Sorry," she called over her shoulder, not slowing down or looking back. Even her apology lacked real remorse.
She continued to climb, cursing for the first time the fact that Dumbledore's office was on the eighth floor. How much precious time would be wasted just getting there? Sweat dripped from her tangled brown hair, sticking to her neck and forehead, but she barely noticed.
By the time she reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance, her legs felt like lead. The griffin statue stood silently before her—a symbol of victory, and suddenly, a reminder of her defeat. She froze.
She didn't know the password.
"Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans… licorice wand… butterbeer…" she muttered breathlessly, listing every sweet she could think of. Dumbledore always used confections for his passwords. "Chocolate Frog? Ice Mice? Lemon Sherbet!"
At that last word, the stone gargoyle leapt aside, and the wall split to reveal the moving spiral staircase. Relief surged through her. She jumped onto the steps, fidgeting anxiously as the staircase rose—too slowly, far too slowly.
She tried not to imagine the worst. What if Dumbledore had already returned to the Chamber of Secrets with her? What if only the Basilisk remained—waiting? Or maybe Lockhart was still there, useless as ever, lying unconscious on the ground.
She shook her head fiercely, forcing those thoughts away.
She thought again of Malfoy's expression before she left—his steady, confident gaze. He had told her to trust him. And she did. She had to.
The stairs reached the top at last. Hermione saw the brass griffin knocker glinting on the oak door. She didn't care for its intricate design; all she wanted was to burst in and find Dumbledore.
The door was already ajar. From inside came a cold, disdainful voice that made her stomach twist.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, I don't think you are fulfilling your responsibilities. How many students have been attacked under your watch?" The voice paused briefly, then continued, dripping with accusation. "At first, I thought the monster only targeted Muggle-borns. But now that even Weasley's child has been attacked, it seems every student is at risk."
Hermione froze.
"That boy was polite, well-mannered. And now, because of your incompetence, he lies motionless in the hospital wing."
Her anger flared. "Disgusting," she muttered under her breath. To feign sympathy for Ron just to push his agenda—it made her sick. She shoved the door open.
Inside, around an antique round table, sat Dumbledore and several meticulously dressed figures—members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Dumbledore sat calmly, fingertips pressed together, his weathered face unreadable.
Across from him stood Lucius Malfoy, elegant as ever, though his tone was anything but.
"Look, look!" Lucius gestured sharply as Hermione entered. "This is the kind of student Dumbledore produces—no manners, no respect."
The other board members murmured in agreement, eyes narrowing at the blood-streaked girl in Slytherin robes who had interrupted their meeting.
"My students are not for you to judge," Dumbledore said quietly—but his voice cracked like thunder. The sudden shift in tone was startling; gone was the mild, twinkling old man. In his place stood the formidable wizard who had once faced down Grindelwald. His blue eyes flashed with fierce authority behind the half-moon spectacles.
Silence fell instantly. Lucius opened his mouth to retort, but no words came.
Then Dumbledore turned to Hermione. His voice softened, warm again. "Child, is there a problem?"
Hermione met his gaze, still breathless. "Another student has been attacked," she said, then looked pointedly at Lucius. "Your son might be dying right now—and you're still here, scheming for power."
Lucius froze. The blood drained from his face. Then, in an instant, his composure shattered.
He slammed both hands onto the table, the crack echoing through the room. "If anything happens to my son," he roared, "you will regret it, Dumbledore!"
Gone was his refined mask—only panic remained.
He turned to Hermione, voice trembling. "Where is he? Tell me what happened!"
But Hermione didn't answer him. She looked only at Dumbledore, who met her eyes with quiet understanding. For a moment, she felt as though she were falling into those blue depths, the world fading around her.
"Let's go," Dumbledore said simply.
He rose, his robes sweeping around him, and grasped Hermione's sleeve.
Before anyone could react, both of them began to shimmer, their forms growing translucent—then vanished completely.
Apparition.
Ordinarily, Lucius would have seized upon this as proof of Dumbledore's disregard for school rules. Apparition was forbidden inside Hogwarts grounds. But this time, he said nothing. He knew exactly where Dumbledore was going—to save his son.
"Damn it!" Lucius slammed his fist into the wooden table, the sound reverberating around the office. The other board members sat frozen, feeling both his fury and his fear.
The little Muggle-born girl hadn't said where Draco was. And so, he could only sit here—helpless.
His other hand clenched around his serpent-headed cane until his knuckles turned white. The silver serpent gleamed under the lamplight, reflecting his inner turmoil—fear, regret, and something dangerously close to despair.
When Hermione and Dumbledore reappeared, the chill of the Chamber of Secrets enveloped them. But that part of the story was yet to unfold. For now, the office above remained tense and silent, filled only with the echoes of Lucius Malfoy's rage—and the dread that something far worse awaited below.
End of Chapter 53: Seeking Help
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