The professors were busy—understandably so. The Chamber of Secrets had been cleared, the monster that had nearly closed the school was slain, and countless matters still awaited attention: informing parents, settling the panic, and preparing for the Headmaster's return.
The younger students were promptly sent back to their dormitories. No matter how much they wanted to stay and check on Ron, Ted, and Harley, Professor McGonagall was having none of it.
Madam Pomfrey stood nearby, lips pressed tight, arms crossed, and a large pot of potion in her hands. Her glare was enough to silence any argument. One wrong word, and she'd have no problem injecting the entire lot of it into anyone bold enough to protest—Muggle needle and all.
Neville, Jerry, and the others exchanged one glance and bolted down the corridor, not daring to look back.
Hermione lingered for a moment. "Be careful, Ted. Rest, all right?" she said softly before turning toward Ravenclaw Tower.
Today had been too much.
Far too much.
It had started with a plan to visit Hagrid, to learn what had happened fifty years ago.
Instead, they had run straight into Minister Fudge, Lucius Malfoy, and even Dumbledore—just in time to see their Headmaster forced out and Hagrid dragged away in chains.
Then, following Hagrid's vague instructions, they had wandered into the Forbidden Forest—only to be chased by hundreds of monstrous Acromantulas, barely escaping with their lives.
Returning to the castle brought no peace.
News came swiftly—Malfoy had been taken by the so-called Heir of Slytherin. Lockhart had been roped into a rescue mission, and together they had entered the Chamber.
What followed had been a brutal fight—a duel against ancient magic, a basilisk, and the shadow of a young Voldemort himself.
Now, with the battle over, the mere memory of the basilisk's stench still seemed to cling to their clothes.
And Tom Riddle's presence—that sinister, charming, and terrifying figure—felt like it still lingered in the air.
Ted sat back against the hospital bed frame, exhaustion settling into his bones. He wanted to sleep, to shut it all out, but he couldn't—not yet.
Too much remained unfinished. The professors would be working through the night, and he, too, had one last matter to settle.
He uncorked a small vial of vitality tonic and drank, forcing himself to focus. The day had been long, but there were still gains to account for.
Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, had already flown back, having done all it could. The Sorting Hat had been taken away by Professor McGonagall, but Gryffindor's sword remained with Ted—gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Yet he knew it would be only for this night.
The blade was not his to keep.
It was a priceless heirloom of Hogwarts, a legacy of one of its founders. Besides, Ted wasn't much of a swordsman.
Courage and valor might be noble qualities, but he had always felt more at home as a spellcaster.
Let Neville—or Harley—wield blades if they wished.
He would rely on magic.
Still, the craftsmanship fascinated him.
Ancient goblins had forged this blade, and to this day, goblins still argued that ownership of crafted items remained with their makers—not their bearers. The dispute had caused no end of trouble in the past.
Ted smirked faintly, thinking of how Gryffindor had taught the thieves a hard lesson back then. Some things never changed.
The basilisk, too, was a founder's legacy—left behind by Salazar Slytherin himself. Perhaps, in its original design, the creature was meant to defend the school in times of invasion. But like so many things touched by Voldemort, its purpose had been twisted.
Ted's gaze shifted toward the charred remains of a certain diary—Tom Riddle's diary, pierced through and drained of its magic by Gryffindor's sword. Once, it had been an ordinary Muggle journal.
Then Riddle had written in it for five years, pouring his essence into it, before finally turning it into a Horcrux—a vessel for his soul.
Even destroyed, it radiated an unnatural chill, the lingering taint of dark magic clinging to its ruined pages. Ted kept it secured in his bag, but he knew he couldn't hold onto it.
It had to go to Dumbledore. It was cursed, dangerous, and evidence of crimes long hidden.
And it was only the beginning.
This diary, for all its darkness, had been one of Voldemort's earliest Horcruxes—simpler, lacking the deadly defensive spells of his later creations.
But the others… those were monsters in their own right.
Dumbledore himself had nearly died retrieving one, forced to use his own life to spring the trap it held.
Ted shivered slightly, thinking of what lay ahead. He knew of another Horcrux—a crown hidden deep in the Room of Requirement—but he wouldn't dare attempt to claim it. Not yet.
Voldemort's path after leaving Hogwarts had been one of calculated cruelty.
He had worked for years in Borgin and Burkes, using his position to charm, deceive, and ultimately murder—a wealthy witch who possessed two priceless relics:
Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's golden cup.
After creating the Horcrux, Voldemort traveled across the world for ten years, encountering countless dark wizards along the way.
In his relentless pursuit of power, he conducted a dangerously dark experiment on himself—transforming from the once-handsome young Tom Riddle into the twisted figure later known as Voldemort.
At that time, he returned to Hogwarts with the intention of becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But the headmaster, Dumbledore, firmly denied his request.
It was then that Voldemort left the Horcrux—a cursed diadem—hidden inside the Room of Requirement. The plan was ingenious; who would ever think to look for such a dark artifact in a place that constantly changed to suit its seeker?
If not for the uncontrolled Fiendfyre years later, it might have remained undiscovered.
Because of this, Ted had no idea what protective enchantments were still bound to it. This Horcrux was far more dangerous than the Resurrection Stone ring, the golden cup, or the locket.
As Ted pondered this grim fact, a groan came from the next bed. Ron stirred awake, wincing in pain.
"Ron, you're awake! How are you feeling?" Ted rushed to his side, concern clear in his tone.
Ron grimaced. "I… I… Ted, my butt hurts."
In the Chamber of Secrets, he had been knocked through the air by the basilisk, fracturing the humerus of his left leg and nearly dislocating his femoral head.
Half his backside was now bruised purple and blue. Pain was expected.
Ted tried to reassure him. "Don't panic, you'll be fine. Your butt was… well, let's just say it took quite a beating and landed near the mouth of the Slytherin statue. But don't worry—Madam Pomfrey will fix you right up. She can regrow bones, remember?"
Ron's eyes went wide with horror. 'Slytherin ate my—?!' He fainted on the spot.
Ted nodded in approval. "Good. Now he can rest without me casting a Stunning Spell."
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore had returned.
The Weasley parents stood nearby, tense and worried, while Lucius Malfoy trembled on the brink of rage and fear.
Lucius, his pale golden hair slightly disheveled, clenched his fists. "If—if anything happens to my son, I swear… I swear—" He glared at Dumbledore, voice quivering with guilt and fury.
Inwardly, he cursed himself. He should have taken Draco home sooner. He shouldn't have listened to the assurances of safety.
Nothing was more important than his own son—not pride, not appearances, not the Malfoy name.
But Dumbledore, over a century old and accustomed to countless crises, kept his expression calm and even. "Lucius, I understand your concern, but please, don't let fear consume you."
Despite his composed tone, there was kindness in his voice. He had no wish to torture a father with anxiety, even if Lucius had caused plenty of trouble himself.
"Draco Malfoy is safe," Dumbledore assured gently. "And so is Ronald Weasley. You may rest easy." He glanced at the Weasleys with a small, comforting nod.
The three parents exhaled almost in unison, their tension loosening as though their hearts had stopped for a moment.
Though it was past midnight, the Weasleys hurried to the hospital wing to see Ron. Nearby, Dobby the house-elf peeked nervously around the doorway, ears twitching as he waited to see if Lucius would lose his temper.
Ted had expected the families to come. He quietly stepped aside, watching as the Weasleys rushed to Ron's bedside.
Despite his lingering pain, Ron brightened visibly at their care—something he hadn't felt in a long while.
Malfoy, on the other hand, still lay unconscious. Lucius sat beside him, stroking his son's pale face with trembling fingers.
He called Draco's name softly, his voice breaking. But the boy remained unresponsive, drained of vitality after being bound to the cursed diary for so long.
Finally, Lucius's composure shattered. "Enough. We're going to St. Mungo's!" He moved to lift Draco from the bed.
Madam Pomfrey immediately intervened. "Mr. Malfoy, please, put the patient down. What he needs now is rest, not to be carried around. He's lost too much energy already. I've given him restorative potions—he should wake up within three days."
But Lucius barely heard her, consumed by fear and desperation.
Dumbledore and Pomfrey exchanged a helpless glance. They both knew logic would not sway a frantic parent.
That was when Ted stepped forward. "Mr. Malfoy," he said calmly, "I'm Ted Epifani—Draco's classmate. We rescued him from the Chamber of Secrets. In fact, Ron got injured saving him."
Lucius and the Weasleys both froze, eyes widening in shock.
They turned to look at Ron, who still looked pale and worn but alive—and, for the first time, heroic in their eyes.
Lucius swallowed hard.
Gratitude flickered in his expression. "Thank you, Mr. Epifani. Please allow me to repay your kindness later. But for now, I must take Draco to the hospital."
Ted raised a hand, stopping him gently. "I understand, but I need just two minutes of your time before you go." He reached into his robes and pulled out the damaged diary—the cursed Horcrux—its cover pierced through. He held it up for all to see.
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Word count: 1687
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