The castle had gone still.
Hours after the discovery of the message, the torches burned lower, their light flickering weakly across the damp stone outside the second-floor bathroom.
Inside, the staff of Hogwarts stood in a tight half-circle. The air reeked faintly of old magic and the sharp tang of fear. Myrtle hovered near the ceiling, muttering to herself, while the engraved serpent on the sink gleamed in the wandlight like it was watching them.
"Then we're agreed," McGonagall said, her voice clipped and brittle. "The creature is a Basilisk."
"A thousand-year-old Basilisk," Flitwick corrected in a shaky squeak.
Sprout shuddered. "The founders built the castle on leylines. If it's feeding from that magic—"
"It could live indefinitely," Snape finished, his eyes dark and hard. "Yes. We are aware."
There was a long, cold silence. Then a new voice broke it — loud, self-assured, and utterly misplaced.
"Well, really," said Gilderoy Lockhart, sweeping into the room as though arriving for a publicity event, his plum-colored robes gleaming even in the dim light. "No need to panic! I've handled worse serpents in my time — in the Yunnan Province, if memory serves. Giant pythons, venomous, terribly cross."
Every head turned toward him.
McGonagall's expression could have frozen fire. "Handled, Professor?"
"Oh yes!" he said cheerfully. "Wrote about it, too. Chapter sixteen, Wrestling With the Serpents of Shandong. A real page-turner."
Snape's mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "Fascinating. I assume, then, you'll have no trouble descending into the Chamber of Secrets and dispatching the creature?"
Lockhart blinked. "Ah, well— that is to say— one doesn't want to deprive one's colleagues of the chance to—"
"No, no, by all means," McGonagall interrupted, voice dangerously sweet. "We would hate to stand in the way of your brilliance."
Sprout folded her arms. "You did write the book, after all."
Flitwick nodded gravely. "Several books."
Lockhart's smile faltered. "Well, I… suppose if it's a basilisk, it could be— well— slightly more dangerous than your average garden snake—"
Snape's drawl cut him off like a knife. "How fortunate that Hogwarts employs such a distinguished expert."
For one perfect, painful moment, silence reigned — broken only by the distant dripping of the faucet.
Lockhart adjusted his collar, visibly sweating now. "Yes, well! Never let it be said that Gilderoy Lockhart shirked from danger. I'll… just… gather my things, of course. A few defensive charms, a suitable robe, perhaps a comb for the memoir photos afterward."
He attempted a jaunty bow, nearly slipping on the wet tile. "Back in a jiffy!"
And before anyone could stop him, he scuttled out of the bathroom, his forced grin collapsing into panic the second the door shut behind him.
McGonagall exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He's going to lock himself in his office until this is over."
"Let him," Snape said coolly. "At least then he'll finally be useful — as a locked door."
Even Dumbledore, who had been silent until now, allowed himself the faintest, tired sigh. "Sometimes, Severus, sarcasm is its own kind of courage."
Snape arched a brow. "Then I am the bravest man in this castle."
An hour later, muffled through the closed door of his office, Lockhart's voice could be heard muttering anxiously. Quills and scrolls lay scattered across the desk, and half-packed suitcases lined the walls.
"Basilisk, honestly," he whispered, pacing in circles. "Impossible to fight one without a mirror — terrible lighting underground anyway—"
A knock interrupted his ramble.
"Professor Lockhart?"
Two Gryffindor voices — unmistakably Potter and Weasley.
He froze. "Ah, boys! Terribly busy at the moment, dreadful business, I'm sure you understand—"
They pushed the door open.
Lockhart blinked at them, plastering on his usual grin. "Harry! Ronald! Not to worry, I'm just— er— preparing my— well, my expedition!"
Ron's eyes swept the suitcases. "Looks more like you're leaving."
Lockhart's laugh was brittle. "Ha! Leaving? Me? Never! No, no — one must be properly equipped for heroics! Hair care potions, memory journals—"
Harry's tone was sharp. "You're not going after Ginny, are you?"
Lockhart faltered. "Well… not personally, no. I thought I'd— er— let the professionals handle that sort of thing—"
"You are the professional!" Ron shouted.
For a moment, all the bluster fell away. Lockhart's face crumpled into something raw and small.
"I never did any of it," he said quietly. "Not the banshees, not the vampires, none of it. I just… wrote it down. Took their stories. Used a Memory Charm. They never remembered it was theirs."
Harry stared at him, stunned.
"You're a fraud," Ron said flatly.
Lockhart gave a weak, trembling smile. "An extremely successful fraud."
The silence that followed was absolute — the kind that precedes disaster.
Then, somewhere deep in the castle, the wards shuddered — a faint hum of awakening, like something massive stirring below the stone.
Lockhart paled. "What— what was that?"
Harry's jaw set. "The Chamber."