Compared to his excited friends, Harry was far more preoccupied with the familiar feeling he sensed from Lockhart—a sensation he couldn't quite put into words, as if he were meeting someone he already knew.
The tone and cadence of Lockhart's speech, the effortless confidence he displayed during his duel with Snape—these were qualities Harry had never associated with the Lockhart he knew. It was almost like… Quirrell.
The sudden thought of the enemy he'd killed last year sent a shiver through Harry. He couldn't shake the feeling that he saw traces of Quirrell in Lockhart's demeanor… much like how Quirrell had acted in Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.
Years of experience had taught Harry not to ignore his gut instincts, and now suspicion gnawed at him. Could Lockhart be a Death Eater, like Quirrell? Possessed by a fragment of Voldemort's soul?
Each soul fragment had its own will and plans, yet they all shared the same way of thinking, choosing to possess a body to carry out their schemes. From this perspective, many unanswered questions suddenly fell into place. Dumbledore had said Voldemort always considered himself Slytherin's heir, and all signs pointed to Voldemort as the one who unleashed the Basilisk to kill Myrtle and frame Hagrid decades ago.
Now, decades later, the Basilisk had reappeared in the castle, brazenly slithering through walls to attack students. Neither Harry nor Dumbledore believed the creature would suddenly go mad and destroy the castle after years of dormancy. Someone had to be commanding it.
If a fragment of Voldemort's soul had possessed Lockhart and was controlling the Basilisk to attack people, everything would make sense.
Lockhart himself likely had no idea that Harry was growing suspicious based on such a vague feeling. The next day, Harry sought him out, using his Astral Vision to examine Lockhart's soul.
To Harry's confusion, Lockhart's soul appeared untainted under Astral Vision. There were no signs of life force being drained or the chaotic aura of multiple souls intertwined. The only thing noticeable was a pure, intense jealousy directed at Harry during their conversation.
Harry didn't care about Lockhart's envy—after all, the man's ambitions were always on display. Ultimately, Harry chose not to accuse a colleague without evidence and politely left Lockhart's office.
"What do I do? He's definitely onto me!" The moment Harry left and Lockhart locked the office door, the ever-present smile vanished from his face. In a panic, he rushed to a cabinet, pulling out a crown adorned with a massive gem and an eagle motif, and placed it on his head.
Like a drug addict relapsing after withdrawal, Lockhart's panic eased slightly, though he still clutched the crown tightly, as if it were the only thing anchoring him.
"You're too obvious, you fool!" a voice snarled, tearing through Lockhart's face as though it were no longer his own.
"Vanity! Arrogance! The moment you gained a sliver of power, you couldn't wait to show it off, ha!"
"How pathetic. You thought setting rules to ban other magic would let you humiliate that boy, only to be utterly crushed. No one cares about you, poor Lockhart. No one cares that you defeated Snape, or about your supposed strength—they only care about themselves and learning that boy's new spell."
One voice after another berated him. Lockhart's face twisted, no longer human, as three or four mouths sprouted from his cheeks and neck. They attacked the deepest, most vulnerable parts of his psyche, fueling his pain, anger, and shame.
"Nonsense!" Lockhart screamed. "The students! The Gryffindors cheered for me! I'm their hero! I defeated Snape effortlessly!"
"Oh, a hero?" one mouth mocked, while the others laughed hysterically. "Weren't the Gryffindors the ones who branded you a useless buffoon? You think they'll respect you now? For your empty boasts? For your incompetence?"
"I'm not incompetent!" Lockhart's face flushed red. "I'm powerful! I defeated Snape! I'm no longer the man I was. With Ravenclaw's wisdom, I'm smarter than anyone! I'm the smartest person in the world! Neither Dumbledore nor the Dark Lord can match me! I'm the one who'll advance magic, not that ridiculous boy!"
"Give it up, Lockhart," a mouth sneered. "No one knows you better than we do. We see your soul clearly—you really think you could handle Snape so easily? Would you dare remove those absurd rules, stop using underhanded tricks to limit your opponent, and face Snape in a real duel, unrestrained?"
"A true wizard's duel, man to man?"
"We all know the truth. Snape's the real magical genius, a master of dark magic!" another mouth chimed in. "Even the Dark Lord admired his talent. Unlike you, a weakling, Snape is a true Death Eater, personally trained by the Dark Lord. Do you dare face his dark magic?"
"You don't!" Before Lockhart could respond, a mouth voiced his true thoughts, amplifying his shame and rage.
"Snape is a master of dark magic, and it's not your pathetic rules that restrain him—it's Dumbledore's orders. How much do you even understand about the allure of dark magic? Nothing! All you care about is fame, fame, fame!"
"You set the stage to win the students' admiration, but they're not fools. They see through the卑鄙 tactics you used to limit Snape and that boy. They know if you fought without restrictions, you'd never beat them."
"You know it too, deep down… what a foolish thing you've done," the mouth continued, needling Lockhart's soul. "A Basilisk, bred by Slytherin himself, a creature no ordinary wizard could face—far stronger than you—destroyed in a blaze because of your vanity and jealousy. A meaningless death, utterly laughable…"
"Enough!" Lockhart roared, tearing at his hair and face as if he could rip the mouths away and shred them to pieces. His screams drowned out their voices.
Finally, the mouths fell silent, seemingly satisfied with their mocking laughter. The crown Lockhart wore was none other than Ravenclaw's Diadem, said to enhance the wearer's wisdom. But that power had long been lost.
Years ago, Voldemort had found the diadem and turned it into a Horcrux.
Now, firmly atop the frenzied Lockhart's head, the diadem's massive blue gem gleamed. This fragment of Voldemort's soul was pleased—delighted with the creation born from its influence.
A soul consumed by jealousy, fallen into madness.
There could be no better sacrifice.
Mulgore, the Suitcase World
What was once a vibrant valley filled with birdsong and blooming flowers had transformed into a crystalline blue realm, reminiscent of the mana-soaked lairs of the Blue Dragonflight. The only difference was that this valley wasn't infused with arcane magic but with biting frost and snow.
An invisible barrier seemed to encircle the valley. Inside, it was a frozen wasteland; outside, the climate remained temperate.
Ragehorn… she was already having second thoughts. Harry had to nudge her several times, but she refused to step into the valley.
It was too cold.
Except for certain rare breeds, most dragons loathed the cold. Low temperatures made them want to curl up and sleep.
Despite her student-level intelligence, Ragehorn succumbed to a common student mistake: she balked. But Harry would help her through it with dignity.
Several sturdy earth elementals forcibly escorted Ragehorn into the valley. The biting cold quickly made her want to close her eyes and drift into slumber. Though reluctant, she eventually cooperated under Harry's reassurances and began the ritual.
Ice and snow elementals danced through the valley, some with arms and legs, their translucent blue forms capable of reducing a troll to tears with a single punch. But what drew their attention was the dragon standing in a cleared patch at the valley's center.
Snowflakes clung to Ragehorn's head, tail, and the gaps between her scales. At first, she shook them off in discomfort, but when she realized the blizzard would paint her white no matter what she did, she gave up. In no time, the snow had coated her entirely, making her look like a white dragon from a distance.
Centered around Ragehorn, three massive runic rings were nested within each other, forming a larger, complete circle. Carved in the elemental tongue, the runes bore meanings like "soothe," "calm," "flow," "sublimate," "merge," and "coalesce."
The Ascension Ritual, the ultimate transformation for a high shaman, was the greatest affirmation of their life's work. It required not only a deep communion with the elemental spirits but a transformation of mind and body, capable of wielding primal elemental forces.
The most extreme form of ascension could turn a flesh-and-blood shaman into a pure elemental being, abandoning talk of elemental balance or equality. In the elemental hierarchy, the strongest fist ruled.
Elemental Lords were born this way.
Harry wasn't mad enough to abandon his mortal form, but Ragehorn was about to take that step.
Her scales were vanishing—or rather, becoming transparent under the infusion of countless ice elementals. Not the polished, metallic gleam Alfred had achieved through grooming, but a crystalline transformation, like ice, more beautiful, bluer, and seemingly more fragile.
As Harry chanted the ritual incantations, he could see through Ragehorn's translucent scales to the flesh, bones, and writhing organs beneath.
Her boiling dragon blood thickened, forming sharp ice spikes, intensifying her pain. But truthfully, the physical pain wasn't what tormented Ragehorn. In this freezing cold, her dragon body was numb, barely registering the agony.
The true torment came from within—an indescribable cold, like a giant hand gripping her soul, a deeper, more profound suffering.
According to the warnings of the old shamans of the Horde, ascension was not glory but a shackle. From that moment on, the elements would forever gaze upon your soul.
For Ragehorn, her soul felt stripped bare, exposed to the primal elements. The ice elementals were becoming part of her soul, making the changes to her body seem trivial by comparison.
She was becoming a dragon-shaped ice sculpture, crafted from snow and frost.
Unlike a typical ascension ritual, where the shaman controls and halts the elemental power, Ragehorn's transformation was permanent. She needed more elemental power to flood her body and soul, to become a force she could wield, a part of her very being.
It was impossible to track how much time had passed. Harry only knew that the ice elementals in the valley had thinned, the temperature was rising, and the frozen snow was melting.
Everything was thawing—except for the colossal figure before him.
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