Chapter 157: Results of Practice
Sliding. A seemingly endless, plunging slide into the abyss.
For Harry, Ron, and Draco, the descent was nothing short of a waking nightmare. The massive pipes were slick with foul, slimy moss and littered with the jagged bones of unknown creatures—centuries of accumulated, rotting filth scraping against their robes.
But for Tamara...
When that familiar, bone-deep chill enveloped her body, she felt a long-lost, almost intoxicating sense of peace. These ancient, winding pipes were the blood vessels leading directly to the heart of Slytherin. This was her secret kingdom, the subterranean domain she had explored alone for countless nights in a past life. Down here, there was no suffocating surveillance from Dumbledore, no need for hypocritical smiles or forced etiquette. There was only pure, unadulterated power and the comforting embrace of darkness.
'Truly nostalgic...' Tamara sighed softly in her mind. She shifted her weight, adjusting her posture to glide down the slime-coated chute with effortless, aristocratic elegance.
A few seconds later, the chute spat them out.
She landed lightly on her feet, her leather boots touching down on a thick carpet of small animal bones with a crisp, satisfying crunch. Before them stretched a massive underground tunnel. The damp stone walls were carefully carved with clusters of entwined serpents, their stone scales slick with moisture. Patches of green fluorescent moss clung to the masonry, casting a sickly, faint illumination over the cavernous space.
"Bloody hell..." Ron tumbled out of the pipe a moment later, landing in an undignified heap. He scrambled to his hands and knees, dry-heaving at the stench of decay. "This place is even more disgusting than Snape's potions dungeon."
Harry picked himself up beside him, raising his wand. A bright, steady light flared from the tip, cutting through the gloom and illuminating the path ahead. Draco followed, brushing frantic hands over his robes with an expression of absolute revulsion.
A few paces away, Gilderoy Lockhart was unsteadily picking himself up from the muck. His once-immaculate lilac robes were smeared with black sludge, and his perfectly styled golden hair now resembled a frantic bird's nest. He looked a complete, pathetic mess.
Yet, as he straightened his spine, the expression on his face shifted entirely.
He was no longer the smirking, camera-ready buffoon. The weeping, terrified coward from just moments ago had vanished. As his gaze locked onto the students who had followed him into the depths, a sharp glint of cunning and naked malice flashed through his eyes.
They were miles beneath the castle. Deep underground, where no one could hear a scream. No one would ever know what truly happened down here. As long as he dealt with these meddling brats, he could fabricate any story he pleased. He could spin a tragic, heroic tale of how he valiantly defeated Slytherin's monster, but tragically, heartbreakingly, failed to save the poor students in time.
"Thank you for leading the way, children," Lockhart said, his voice dropping its usual theatrical cadence.
He suddenly spun around. His wand, which he had managed to keep hidden until this very moment, was leveled directly at them. A twisted, ugly smile stretched across his face.
"But I'm afraid this little adventure ends here."
"You simply know too much. Think about it—if the wizarding world found out I was shoved down a dirty pipe by a twelve-year-old, how would my books sell? What would happen to my pristine reputation?" He raised his wand higher, pointing the tip squarely between the eyes of Harry, who stood at the front of the group. "So, I'm going to have to erase a little bit of your memory."
Tamara's crimson eyes narrowed, the temperature around her seeming to plummet.
'Seeking death.'
A mere waste of magic—a pathetic fraud who built a career plagiarizing the triumphs of actual wizards—dared to raise a wand against the greatest Dark Lord in history? Here? In the most sacred, ancient Chamber of Secrets of Salazar Slytherin?
And this clown actually dreamed of erasing her memory?
It was, without a doubt, the most hysterical joke she had heard since her resurrection. Her current vessel might be physically weak, and her magical reserves were less than half of their former glory, but that hardly meant she couldn't casually dispose of trash like Lockhart. In a fraction of a second, she could rip his mind apart. She could show this preening buffoon what true, agonizing terror felt like.
Tamara's pale fingers tightened around her wand. A bloodthirsty, feral red light flashed in the depths of her eyes. A hundred exquisite, excruciating methods of torture surfaced in her mind, her magic humming with lethal intent.
But before the first syllable of a dark curse could slip past her lips...
"Expelliarmus!"
A fierce shout exploded right beside her ear.
Harry's reaction was astonishingly fast—almost unnaturally so. The very instant Lockhart's arm twitched upward, Harry had already completed the fluid sequence of drawing his wand, locking onto his target, and snapping out the incantation.
A dazzling flash of scarlet light erupted from the yew wood, instantly striking Lockhart's wrist with a sharp crack.
Lockhart's wand was violently ripped from his grasp, tracing a high, helpless arc through the damp air before clattering away into a dark, inaccessible corner of the tunnel.
The Disarming Charm itself did not possess great lethality, but Harry had poured an immense, desperate focus into the cast. The sheer kinetic force of the spell did more than just knock the weapon away; it hit like a physical sledgehammer. The impact slammed into Lockhart's hand, violently jerking his entire upper body sideways.
The famous, dashing professor let out a high-pitched, ugly shriek. He clutched his rapidly swelling wrist, stumbling backward in a frantic panic. The underground tunnel was treacherous, the floor slick with centuries of slime and shifting animal bones. Lockhart's expensive boots lost their grip. His feet flew out from under him, and he crashed hard onto his backside in the muck.
While the spell hadn't sent him flying across the room, the heavy, clumsy fall was more than enough to leave him completely dazed, his eyes rolling in his head.
Blinking away the stars in his vision, Lockhart realized his hands were empty. The murderous, calculating predator vanished in a heartbeat, instantly replaced by the pathetic, cowering fraud. He scrambled backward through the slime, throwing his hands over his face and curling into a tight ball.
"Wait! Don't be impulsive, children!" he squeaked, his voice cracking. "I... I was merely testing you! Yes, that's right! It was a live-combat drill! I simply wanted to evaluate your reaction times in a high-stress emergency!"
Tamara's wand hand froze mid-air, the lethal curse dying on her tongue.
She cast a look of utter disdain at the shivering, weeping Lockhart on the ground, then slowly turned her head. Her gaze locked onto the wand in Harry's hand, the tip still emitting a faint, curling trail of white smoke.
It was yew.
During that bizarre accident at Ollivander's wand shop before their first year, their destined wand materials had undergone a strange, fateful swap. She had claimed the holly wood, a core symbolizing protection and rebirth, while Harry had walked away with the yew wood—a timber symbolizing death, dark magic, and fierce dueling.
Yew wands never submitted to the mediocre. They granted their masters a power that was highly aggressive, volatile, and explosive.
No wonder. No wonder a mere basic Disarming Charm, cast by this oblivious, messy-haired savior, could erupt with enough concussive force to physically knock a grown wizard off his feet. That wand was simply born for battle.
But more... wasn't this brat's casting speed a bit excessive?
Even if Expelliarmus was a foundational spell, the ability to draw, cast instantly, and hit a target with dead-center accuracy during a sudden ambush was absolutely not the level of a normal second-year student.
Sensing Tamara's intense, inquisitive stare, Harry lowered his wand. He scratched the back of his messy head sheepishly, offering a sincere, almost apologetic look.
"Well..." he started, his cheeks flushing slightly. "You're the one who told me to practice it."
Seeing the genuine blankness on Tamara's face, Harry quickly elaborated.
"Don't you remember? That day in the library... I kept asking you about the dead roosters, and you sternly lectured me. You said that instead of worrying about the lives of a few stupid poultry, I should be practicing my Expelliarmus."
"I thought about it, and I realized you were completely right. In these perilous times, I don't just need to find clues. I need the actual ability to protect myself so I don't always end up holding you back." Harry's green eyes shone with earnest determination. "So, from that day on, I've been practicing this spell every single day. Against the stone walls, against the training dummies in the Room of Requirement..."
Harry glanced down at the sniveling Lockhart, then looked back at Tamara, flashing her a bright, sunny smile.
"It seems... it was actually somewhat useful, right?"
Tamara stared at him. She fell completely silent.
Looking at Harry's beaming face, which practically screamed, 'Look at me, I'm so obedient and hardworking, please praise me,' Tamara felt a sudden, suffocating tightness in her chest. It felt exactly as if she had just swallowed a live, wriggling slug.
Of course she remembered saying that. But it had been a purely sarcastic remark! A dismissive insult she had tossed out just to shoo him away like an annoying fly because he wouldn't stop pestering her!
And yet, this absolute, monumental idiot...
He had actually taken her venomous mockery as some sort of sacred imperial decree and executed it with flawless, military precision.
A deep sense of absurd, suffocating helplessness welled up in her dark heart. She stared at the boy who lived, her mind warring between the urge to strangle him and the practical utility of his new skill.
After a long, heavy silence, the corners of her mouth twitched. She forced her facial muscles into a complex, stiff smile that didn't reach her cold eyes.
"...Well done."
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