The afternoon light slanted through the high windows of Hogwarts, washing the corridors in mellow gold. It was one of those serene Sundays when even Peeves seemed half-asleep and the students wandered the halls like ghosts of leisure.
But serenity was never something I wore comfortably. After a morning spent being utterly distracted by Aurora's smile and the faint memory of wine on her lips, my restless mind needed something else to conquer, something grand, something dangerous, something as big as my ego.
So naturally, I went to the one place in the castle that always delivered exactly what one desired, and occasionally, what one deserved.
The Room of Requirement materialized with its usual whisper of stone and magic, reshaping itself as I walked its perimeter. When the door finally solidified, I stepped inside to find a vast, circular chamber filled with bookshelves that reached the vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of dust, parchment, and barely restrained secrets.
What I asked for was information on augmentation rituals, because if I wanted to catch up with the strongest wizards before everything went downhill, that was the only way to do it. Sure, I could probably get there with relentless training… but that was time I didn't have.
Rows upon rows of ancient tomes lined the shelves, some glowing faintly, others chained shut. It felt less like a library and more like a dragon's hoard of knowledge. And there, in the center, bathed in a shaft of amber light, stood a single pedestal.
On it lay a crimson leather tome, its spine cracked with age and embossed with the proud, roaring sigil of a lion.
[Of Flesh, Spirit, and the Blood of the Brave.]
"Well now," I murmured, approaching reverently. "This looks promising. Always trust a title that sounds both inspiring and mildly threatening."
As my fingers brushed the cover, a faint pulse of warmth spread through my hand, not welcoming, but assessing. When I opened the book, the ink shimmered faintly, rearranging itself until the ancient script became legible to me.
The first page bore a bold declaration written in Godric Gryffindor's unmistakable hand: [Power won by trickery is hollow. Power earned through blood, fire, and courage is eternal.]
Below it, several marginal notes in smaller script, some faded, others written with a heavier hand, as if by a man who thought through his quill.
[Note: A blade is allowed, courage does not forbid steel, only cowardice. Thus, I had mine forged by the goblins of Ragnok's clan, tempered in dragonfire.]
I couldn't help but grin. "Ah, the famous sword. So this is where it began."
The next few pages outlined the ritual in lavish detail, a fusion of magical theory, ancient runes, and raw defiance of mortality. Its purpose was clear: to awaken the "sleeping potential" within wizardkind, to strengthen both body and spirit through a single act of unyielding bravery.
And yet, Gryffindor's writing carried the distinct air of a man who expected few would survive it.
[The aspirant must slay a creature of great strength and wickedness, not by spell, but by will and hand alone. Let no charm, potion, or hex taint the trial, else the rite fails and the spirit recoils from the unworthy.]
[Salazar called it ridiculous, as according to him, without augmentation or enchantment, this ritual was nothing more than assisted suicide.]
[And yet, I completed it.]
I laughed aloud. "Oh, I can practically feel the pride oozing from the letters."
Turning the page, the text continued, but now it was accompanied by diagrams and commentary that grew more personal, more obsessive. Gryffindor had written about Slytherin's attempts to cheat the ritual, each one ending in failure.
[Salazar tried to bind the beast in magical chains before striking the blow, but the runes rejected him.]
[He tried again, using potions of might, Re'em's blood to swell his body's strength, phoenix tears to recover mid-fight, the ritual burned the false power from his veins.]
[At last, he realized the truth: courage cannot be borrowed.]
I found myself smiling at that. There was a nobility to it, yes, but also a touch of lunacy. Gryffindor had created a test so absolute it defied every practical survival instinct.
The next section, written in thicker ink, seemed almost like a warning.
[Beware, the creature must not be hunted for vanity's sake. Its blood will not yield its strength to cruelty. Only when the aspirant defends his life, or the life of another innocent, shall the ritual accept the offering.]
My brow furrowed slightly. "So it's not just suicidal, it's moralistic too. Splendid."
Still, I read on, fascinated.
The ritual circle itself was described in painstaking detail: runes of vitality, sigils of purification, and a blood sequence meant to merge beast and man through fire, not domination.
At the bottom of the page, Gryffindor had written one final note, half boast, half epitaph:
[Salazar called it madness. Helga wept. Rowena said it was beautiful but too dangerous to attempt. I say it is truth. Only through facing death can a man know if he deserves life.]
I leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Only someone as crazy as Gryffindor himself would design such a suicidal ritual."
The room gave a soft creak, like it agreed with my words.
Still, I couldn't deny the allure. There was something magnificent about it; the audacity, the purity, the defiance of easy power. And, of course, the headlines wrote themselves in my mind:
"Lockhart Unearths Lost Founders' Ritual!"
"Performs Legendary Trial of Courage!"
"Heroic Professor Wrestles Monster to Save Innocent, Emerges Glorious and Shirtless!"
I could almost see the book cover already.
Still, practicality (a rare but persistent visitor in my mind) whispered reason. Even I wasn't about to march into the Forbidden Forest and start brawling with acromantulas. Not yet, at least.
But perhaps… someday. With proper preparation, and a good photographer nearby…
I copied the runes carefully onto a spare parchment, tracing every symbol of flame and blood with deliberate precision. The quill trembled faintly in my hand, as if the parchment itself didn't quite approve.
When I finally closed the book, the crimson leather felt warmer than before, almost alive. The lion emblem gleamed faintly in the light, not friendly, not hostile, merely watchful.
"I'll take that as encouragement," I said, smiling faintly. "Don't worry, old Godric. If I ever decide to wrestle a dragon to impress a lady, I'll make sure your name gets proper credit."
As I left the room, the door sealing silently behind me, I couldn't help glancing at the parchment tucked into my robes. The runes seemed to pulse faintly under the fabric, like a heartbeat.
"Blood of the brave," I murmured. "Well, courage may not be my strongest suit… but showmanship? That, I have in abundance."
…
I walked the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, the echo of my own footsteps sounding far too loud in the still air.
It was only when I passed a statue of an old witch holding a torch that the thought struck me, sharp and sudden, like the flare of a wandtip.
'A creature of great strength and wickedness.'
The ritual's words echoed in my head. 'Its blood will not yield its strength to cruelty. Only when the aspirant defends his life, or the life of another innocent…'
I stopped mid-step. My reflection in a nearby window looked startled, eyes wide with sudden revelation. There was already such a creature. Right here in Hogwarts.
Deep below the stones and corridors and chatter of students, slumbered a serpent so ancient and terrible that even the Acromantulas feared its shadow.
The Basilisk.
For a long moment, I simply stood there, staring out at the fading afternoon light while my mind raced ahead, connecting threads like an overexcited spider.
The Chamber of Secrets will open this year… the attacks on Muggle-borns… the monster set loose at Voldemort's command.
All those dreadful little details from the story I knew so well.
My heart gave a slow, deliberate thud.
If I could face that creature, not with spells, not with trickery, but with the courage Gryffindor demanded, then I wouldn't just survive. I would transcend.
And the best part? Fate itself seemed to have written the opportunity into the year's script.
In the original tale, young Harry Potter had pulled Gryffindor's own sword from the Sorting Hat, slaying the beast in a blaze of heroic destiny. Which meant… the sword would be available.
My lips curved into a grin.
"So the little hero uses my sword, does he? Well, perhaps this time, I'll borrow it first."
And really, it wouldn't be bad for Harry either. As a professor, wasn't it my duty to protect the students and keep them from unnecessary peril?
I leaned lightly against the stone wall, fingers tapping the parchment in my pocket as the idea settled, dangerous and glorious all at once.
It fit too perfectly, the timing, the creature, the weapon. Everything the ritual demanded.
"Blood of the brave," I whispered again, the words tasting different now. "Seems I've found just the monster to test it on."
For a while I remained there, watching the last of the sunlight die into twilight. I wondered idly what Salazar would think if he knew his pet would serve Godric's ritual.
The castle creaked softly, old and wise, as if it had heard my thoughts and found them amusing.
Still, even in my excitement, a thin ribbon of unease wound through my chest.
Facing the Basilisk wasn't a performance. It wasn't a duel or a lecture or a well-rehearsed publicity stunt. It was death given scales, venom, and Snape's wet dream, a gaze that could truly kill.
And yet… wasn't that exactly the point?
To face death, and see whether I truly deserved life. I laughed softly under my breath, shaking my head. "Only someone as mad as Gryffindor would call that enlightenment. And only someone as vain as Gilderoy Lockhart would think he could pull it off."
But the idea had already rooted itself in my mind, and I knew better than anyone: once I caught sight of a good headline, there was no stopping me.
I straightened my robes, smoothed my hair, and strode off toward my office with renewed purpose. There were runes to study, notes to prepare, and perhaps… a bit of sword training wouldn't hurt either.
After all, if destiny wanted Harry Potter to slay the Basilisk… it would have to wait its turn.
…