Harry Potter: Westeros’s Plant Life 0142 Destroyed

That evening, Adrian made his way to the eighth floor of the castle. He paused right at the entrance where the Room of Requirent would appear.

Behind him was the infamous tapestry of "Troll Clubbing Barnabas the Barmy".

'A room where flas cannot spread,' He thought with clarity.

He began pacing, back and forth along the seemingly blank wall. On the third pass, the stone began to shimr like heat waves over sumr street. Gradually, as if erging from deep water, the outline of a door appeared.

Inside was a circular room built of smooth stone blocks. Apart from that, it was completely empty.

Adrian surveyed his surroundings with satisfaction—this was exactly what he wanted. The Room of Requirent actually had this kind of room, which made him feel sowhat amazed.

After looking around and confirming that everything was made of stone, Adrian took out the diary from his robes and placed it in the center of the room on the floor.

Next, Adrian carefully retrieved a transparent small bottle from his pocket, containing so deep blue liquid.

[Na: Liquid Fiendfyre]

[Warning: Do not pour it all out at once]

That's right, this was the liquid Fiendfyre that Adrian had prepared for Ravenclaw's diadem last term. Although it hadn't been useful then, now was the perfect ti to use it.

Fiendfyre was among the most destructive forces in the magical world. In its liquid form, concentrated and stabilized, it beca even more devastating.

Adrian was confident that under such heat, even the most powerfully enchanted artifacts would crumble to ash.

After making his preparations, Adrian slowly unscrewed the bottle cap. The deep blue liquid swayed slightly in the bottle, emanating an eerie glow.

Adrian carefully tilted the bottle mouth, letting a few drops of blue liquid fall onto the diary's cover.

Hiss—

The sound was soft, almost gentle, like rain on hot stones. But the effect was imdiate. The blue liquid soaked into the diary's leather cover disappearing completely in a mont.

For a mont, nothing happened.

Then ca the fire.

A pillar of blue fla erupted from the diary's surface, shooting up. The fla squird and danced, reaching toward the stone ceiling. The heat hit Adrian forcing him to shield his face with his sleeve.

Almost instantly, the fla gradually changed from blue to the appearance of ordinary fire—red mixed with yellow. This was also a sign that Fiendfyre was changing from controllable to uncontrollable.

Seeing this, Adrian satisfactorily put away the liquid Fiendfyre in his hand. With just a small spark, Fiendfyre could spread throughout the entire room.

The red and yellow flas greedily devoured the diary like living creatures. Soon, the temperature in the room rose to Adrian's limit, and flas had filled the entire room. In just a mont, not even ash would remain of the notebook.

Adrian backed toward the door, never taking his eyes off the magnificent destruction, he had unleashed. The Fiendfyre roared and crackled with the voice of a living thing, filling his ears with the sound of pure annihilation.

By now, Voldemort's second Horcrux had been reduced to ashes obliterated in the cursed flas.

The mont Adrian stepped through the doorway; the stone chamber sealed itself. Behind the barrier, the Fiendfyre would burn until it exhausted itself, The Room of Requirent had done its work perfectly.

Standing in the corridor, Adrian allowed himself a mont to savor the sensation of cool air against his heated skin. Now, Voldemort's second Horcrux should be completely dealt with.

But his mont of relief was short-lived.

As Adrian turned around the corner into the main corridor, two familiar figures appeared from the shadows ahead.

The sight of them together struck him as odd—Professor Lockhart's golden hair caught the torchlight, while beside him, Filch's skinny body hunched forward with his typical suspicious posture and clutched his ever-present oil lamp.

At this mont, the two seed to be discussing sothing. Adrian slowed his pace, to catch their conversation.

"I tell you, Mr. Filch," Lockhart's voice carried clearly down the stone corridor, "if you truly want to successfully use magic, you must follow my thod. Honestly, that Kwikspell correspondence course is completely useless. You'd be far better served spending that ti reading my autobiography. Magical contains insights that could revolutionize your understanding of spellwork!"

The desperation in Filch's voice was obvious.

"Please, Professor Lockhart... stop bringing that up, would you? Just... please." Filch said in an almost pleading tone.

But Lockhart seed ignorant to his distress, or perhaps simply chose to ignore it.

He placed what he probably thought was a comforting sympathetic hand on Filch's shoulder. "I completely understand your feelings, dear Filch. The longing to cast spells, the burning desire for magic, yet finding yourself powerless to achieve it—believe , I know that particular pain all too well!"

Adrian watched as Filch's face twisted with a mixture of humiliation and rage. His hands trembled around his lamp handle, and his eyes took on the wild look of a cornered animal.

'Why had I been foolish enough to let my Kwikspell enrollnt form fall where this preening peacock could find it?'

Lockhart seed to take pleasure in poking at old wounds, each "helpful" suggestion was another twist of the knife.

The breaking point ca suddenly, like a dam bursting under too much pressure.

"Mind your own business!" Filch's voice cracked. "Professor Lockhart, it's well past curfew now. Even if you are a professor, you can't just wander the halls at all hours—"

But Lockhart straightened up, puffing out his chest like a strutting rooster and interrupted him. "Oh, my dear fellow, you quite misunderstand my position! As Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I have a solemn responsibility—nay, a sacred duty—to ensure this castle's safety! The students depend on my vigilance!"

It was at this mont that Adrian's own footsteps, finally reached Filch's ears. Years of hunting rule-breaking students had given him senses sharp as a hunting hound's.

Filch turned around and, upon seeing Adrian, showed a surprised expression: "You are... Professor Westeros? What brings you to these corridors at such an hour?"

Adrian's expression remained perfectly composed. "Good evening, Mr. Filch, Professor Lockhart. I ca up to admire that remarkable tapestry on the eighth floor—'Troll Clubbing Barnabas the Barmy.' The craftsmanship is quite extraordinary when you examine it closely."

He paused, allowing his own curiosity to color his tone. "But what about you? What business brings you both to this remote part of the castle so late in the evening?"

The question was perfectly reasonable—the eighth floor of Hogwarts held few attractions beyond the Room of Requirent and the Headmaster's office. For two such different individuals to be found here together after midnight was indeed curious, worthy of polite inquiry.

"Routine patrol," Filch said expressionlessly. He indeed was just conducting routine patrol. However, unluckily, the course enrollnt form he wanted to send to Kwikspell had accidentally dropped in the eighth-floor corridor. Even worse, the enrollnt form had been found by Lockhart.

From that mont, the golden-haired professor had attached himself to Filch like a persistent shadow, offering an endless stream of "helpful advice" and "proven techniques" for successful spellcasting.

Each suggestion was more useless than the last, delivered with the kind of patronizing smile that made Filch's teeth ache.

'Damn the man!' Filch thought bitterly, his grip tightening on his lamp. 'I am a Squib! Every word from Lockhart's mouth is pure nonsense! If those precious "tricks" actually worked, I'd eat my own wand!'

Accepting Filch's explanation with a nod, Adrian turned his attention to the Defense professor. Lockhart's response ca with his trademark smile, the expression he'd perfected for book signings and public appearances.

"Ah! Professor Westeros! How delightful to encounter you on such a lovely evening!" Lockhart gestured toward the nearest window. "The moonlight tonight is absolutely spectacular, don't you think?"

Adrian followed the gesture and imdiately understood why Lockhart's smile had begun to falter.

Beyond the glass, rain had begun falling over the castle walls. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating storm clouds that blocked every trace of moon light.

The silence stretched uncomfortably as Lockhart realized his error. His smile froze on his face, and he cleared his throat with obvious embarrassnt.

"Um... well, you see... it actually wasn't raining just a mont ago..." The excuse sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Finally abandoning pretense, Lockhart's shoulders sagged slightly. "Very well, I'll tell you the truth. I ca up here searching for sothing I'd misplaced, but halfway through my quest, I encountered Mr. Filch. The poor fellow was in such obvious distress—you know how I've always been one to help others in their ti of need."

Adrian nodded with polite indifference, though his mind remained focused on more important matters. Lockhart's night wanderings were of no importance to him, as long as neither of them had seen him enter the Room of Requirent.

The destruction of the Horcrux must remain his secret.

"Well then," Adrian said with practiced pleasantry, "I'll leave you both to continue your evening. Please don't let keep you further."

With that, he turned and began walking back toward the main staircase.

The mont Adrian disappeared around the corner, Filch seized his opportunity for escape. "Right then, Professor Lockhart! Ti for to patrol other sections of the castle. The dungeons won't check themselves, and there's always mischief brewing in the lower levels. Good night!"

Without waiting for a response, he lifted his lamp and hurried away in the opposite direction from Adrian's path, his footsteps fading rapidly into the depths of the castle.

For a long mont, Lockhart stood alone in the corridor, surrounded by shadows and the distant sound of rain against stone.

After a while, Lockhart slowly sighed.

That one sentence, at least, had erged from the deepest part of his heart: "Wanting to cast spells but being powerless to do so—I know that pain all too well!"

Of all the lies he told, all the stories he'd stolen and claid as his own, that single admission was his absolute honesty. Behind the golden hair and perfect smile, behind the bestselling books and adoring fans, lay a wizard whose magical abilities were as limited as they were disappointing.

After standing in ponderings for several more minutes, Lockhart finally gathered himself and walked deeper into the corridor.

Author's Note: From this Chapter Onwards, There are better improved reworked chapters every chapter as I promised.

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