Chapter 13 – And A Happy New Year

The next two weeks that bled into the New Year sped by, and in what seemed like no time at all, the twelfth of January had arrived. Scott had awoken to his sister bursting through the door, her cries of "Happy Birthday!" rousing his Walkman into action.

"Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday dear Scott

Happy Birthday to you!"

Lindsay looked at the device confusedly, momentarily distracted. "It knows your name?"

"The Remembering Charm Mum put on it's mixed interestingly with the new Cassette Deck I got for Christmas," Scott explained, sitting up in his bed. "Anyway," he said teasingly, "I thought I was the main focus here?"

She rolled her eyes and threw herself at him, nearly squeezing the air out of him as she embraced him tightly. Scott found his face covered in frizzy dark hair, which made his nose itch uncontrollably. She pulled away and put her hands on her hips. "You'd better hurry up and get your presents, by the way. We need to leave soon."

"Fine, I'll race you," he challenged. "Last one there's a Flobberworm."

Lindsay leapt into action at once, not intending to give him a chance to prepare. Luckily, he'd expected this, and scrambled to his feet on his bed and bounded across its length. The springs creaked as he took a running jump, executing an impressive landing ahead of his sister. He stood in the doorway, blocking her path to the corridor beyond. She answered his impish grin with her own, and swiftly ducked under his arm.

Scott spun around, cursing, as she manoeuvred out of his reach. She dashed down the hallway, her light footsteps thudding quietly as she went. Scott made to follow, but realised that she was simply too fast. Thinking quickly, he gripped the long expensive line of carpet that extended down the hallway. He mustered up his strength and yanked as hard as he could, pulling the carpet out from under Lindsay's feet. She screamed and tumbled to the floor as he ran past, laughing uproariously. She gave a great war cry and launched herself at his legs, latching on with a grip like iron.

"Already practicing for being a Flobberworm?" Scott asked, as his sister was dragged along the floor by his shuffling feet. He just needed to reach the staircase – there was no way she'd let herself be dragged down the stairs.

Beverly glanced up as another round of shouts and thuds went up. She glanced at Nathan, who was taking a sip of his tea. "Where did they go so wrong?" she asked in mock-exasperation.

"I still say it's your influence," her husband teased.

The chaos came closer until eventually the door to the sitting room burst open, and through it came her daughter, followed closely by her son.

"Scott's a Flobberworm!" Lindsay cried victoriously.

"Scott's also twelve today," Nathan pointed out.

Lindsay's eyes widened, as if she'd somehow forgotten the reason she'd gone upstairs to wake her brother. "Oh yeah! Happy Birthday Flobberworm!"

"Happy Birthday, dear," Beverly said, standing and giving her son a hug.

Nathan repeated the sentiment, hugging Scott as well. "I'll grab the presents, shall I?" he offered, breaking away and heading out of the room.

"We got you plenty of lettuce this year, Flobberworm," Lindsay crowed.

"That's enough, dear," Beverly told her daughter mildly.

Nathan soon returned with three packages, the largest of which Beverly knew Scott would instantly recognise. Sure enough, Scott's ecstatic shout of: "Yes!" signalled that he'd guessed that his brand new Cleansweep Seven had arrived. He set to work at once, tearing the package open and admiring the broomstick from multiple angles.

She'd initially been resistant to buying him a new broomstick only three years after buying his Comet 260, but he'd assured her that there was a marked difference between the two. He'd actually demonstrated the difference when he'd flown first on Alex's new broom, and then on his own. The Comet, they had decided, was far more suited to quick manoeuvres, turns, and spins. The Cleansweep - while just as fast as the Comet - was far sturdier, and had a better acceleration time. For Beating, the Cleansweep was a clear winner, and she'd be damned before she let her son return to his house team without a winning broom. Nathan had quite agreed.

The other presents were a new book by Gilderoy Lockhart; 'Year with the Yeti,' and a new Broomstick Servicing Kit, both of which pleased Scott immensely.

"I'll definitely be reading this on the drive down to London," he said, waving the Lockhart book excitedly. Its cover was mostly dominated by the author's name and grinning face. Every now and then, Lockhart's face would turn steely and heroic as an enormous furry white figure lumbered into frame.

"Actually," Nathan corrected, "that might not be possible."

Scott looked confused. "Why?"

"We're Flooing to London, today," Beverly said.

Scott looked even more befuddled. "I thought you're supposed to get there by car? Stops Floo congestion, and makes Muggles think less of a strange crowd, and all that?"

Nathan was smirking now. "True, but we'll be heading off a few hours before eleven. We've got some things we need to do before you head back to school."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "What things?"

Beverly just smiled. "You'll see."

"You're joking!"

"Nope, not joking," his mother said.

"But is it open yet?"

"Not till ten, normally."

"Then how - ?"

"It's all been ironed out," she assured him.

The four of them made their way up the stone stairs that led to the grandiose neoclassical pillars set before the building's entrance. The British Museum was famous – or infamous – on a worldwide level. Both Muggles and Wizards knew of the museum, and it was here that several million items of significance were stored and displayed.

They stepped up to the front doors of the museum, Scott barely restraining himself from simply rushing in. Before he could do anything, however, his mother pulled out her wand, glancing about for anybody who could be watching. Scott was about to utter a warning regarding the security camera that had its lens focused on them, when his mother pointed her wand at it. The camera seemed to whirr into life, and shifted side-to-side, taking the four of them in. After a few moments, a clear, feminine voice trilled out from nowhere in particular.

"Clearance for Nathan George Carter, thirty-nine, confirmed. Clearance for Beverly Jameson Carter, thirty-nine, confirmed. Clearance for Scott Howard Carter, twelve, confirmed. Clearance for Lindsay Christie Carter, nine, confirmed. Have a very nice day at the British Museum, Department of Magic."

They were suddenly engulfed in a swirling mass of colour, writhing like a fluorescent whirlwind. Scott felt his feet momentarily leave the ground, before he was gently placed back to Earth. He blinked the colour out of his eyes, and saw that he was no longer standing before the front doors. He was in a great atrium, constructed from polished timber that gleamed reflectively in the light of the stunning chandelier that hovered overhead. Scott was too busy admiring the chamber to notice the figure that had moved towards them, until they spoke.

"And the Carters have arrived!" a genial voice cried. "Happy Birthday Scott."

The voice was familiar to Scott, and sure enough, the proprietor of the Ice-Cream Parlour on Diagon Alley; Florean Fortescue came bustling up to them. It immediately occurred to Scott that there was a reason the man was here before opening time.

"Florean!" Scott said. "You're the curator?"

The man shook his head. "Not quite, I'm afraid. I was recently lucky enough to be awarded the title of Trustee on the Museum Board." He sounded remarkably proud of this.

"Florean here is who you have to thank for opening early for you," Scott's father said.

Florean shrugged in a display of humility. "Oh, it was nothing. Besides, the parlour can get by without me for a few hours." He focused his attention onto Lindsay. "Christ on a bike, Bev's cloned herself!" he cried, making a show of leaping backwards in shock.

After they'd finished exchanging pleasantries - and in the case of Lindsay, proper introductions – Florean offered to show them about the many displays. Scott soon learned that the Department of Magic had several sub-departments that mirrored the Muggle museum, with areas for artefacts of Antiquity, relics of the Renaissance, and long conserved curios. A great monolith dating back to the Middle Kingdom of Egypt emanated an energy that the protective casing about it could not entirely disguise, an ominous series of Sumerian statuary shifted to always gaze at the nearest person when no one was watching, and a separated pair of Incan siku piped hauntingly on their lonesome – longing to be rejoined and played together.

Scott was fascinated with every minute display, spending an inordinate amount of time with his nose an inch from the glass encompassing each wrested artefact. His family members were surprisingly non-argumentative at his obstinate desire to gaze at chunks of old marble, likely in part due to the actual significance of the relics on display. Not even the low attention span of Lindsay could prevent some level of interest in what was exhibited. Scott's mother was finding some degree of intrigue in some displays, too, though her outlook wasn't quite as positive.

She had bent over to examine a display from the Caribbean, and had engaged Florean in conversation. Scott could hear what was being said from where he was, only a few feet away.

"So, Florean," his mother was saying, "I suppose there's been no luck with the rest of the Board?"

Florean sighed. "I'm sorry, Bev. I've raised the concern, but they won't hear it. The Director shuts it down every time I try." Scott could see him gazing at the same display regretfully. Inclining his head ever so slightly, Scott could make out a large clay pot.

"The Jamaican Ministry trusts me to press this," Scott's mother said. "I don't want to pressure you, Florean. You only just got the position. But if you can't get the repatriation to go ahead, I want to speak with The Director – directly."

Scott knew that tone of voice well. Whoever this Director was, they ought to be scared for their very soul, Scott thought. Florean looked scared, too, though his face seemed to purvey anxiousness, as opposed to pity for this Director figure. "Bev, I know this is personal for you, but I wouldn't get too far up his..." He glanced in Scott and Lindsay's direction. "...arse. Skeres can make your life into a living Hell."

Scott suddenly dropped all pretence of not listening in, snapping his head around to face them directly. "Skeres?" he asked with a little too much intensity.

Both his mother and Florean turned to look at him in surprise. "Er, yes, Titus Skeres. You know of him?" Florean queried.

"I know the name," Scott answered grimly, thinking of the manticore the man called a daughter. "Isn't he the Editor of the Daily Prophet? He's on the Board of Governors at Hogwarts."

"Co-Editor," Florean corrected. "He's Director of the Board of Trustees here, too. Elected just before I joined."

Scott's mother looked no less determined. "I don't care how many fancy titles he's got. He'll hear what I've got to say, or so help me God, I'll do something he'll regret."

Florean's anxiousness was no less elevated by this proclamation. "Beverly, Skeres isn't someone you want to cross. The man's ruthless, and respected by everyone. He makes Rita Skeeter look like an insignificant insect, and could get you dismissed from the Confederation if he felt like it. Leave this to me, I've got it handled."

Evidently, this did nothing to assuage Scott's mother's concerns, judging by the gimlet eye she turned on the man. She opened her mouth, an intake of breath preceding what was sure to be a fascinating tirade, when a throat being cleared interrupted her. They all looked around at Scott's father, who was standing off to the side, holding Lindsay's hand.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we're not alone anymore." He inclined his head towards the smattering of elderly wizards who had entered the hall.

Scott's mother glanced in his direction, sighed, turned back to Florean, and nodded. "Alright, Florean. I'll let you handle this for now," she muttered fretfully.

"I'm sorry, Bev," Florean said, and he looked like he meant it. "I promise that I'll keep you in the know."

Conversation dried out after this, so Scott occupied himself with reading up on some of the Anglo-Saxon exhibits while the last few minutes until they were due to leave ticked away. He heard Florean approach from behind.

"Interesting piece isn't it?" he said, indicating the rune-inscribed set of armour that Scott had been examining. "A fairly recent find, too. Our foremost expert on British archaeology, Michael Foley, is to thank for this one."

"Professor Foley found this?" Scott asked excitedly.

"Ah, that's right. I'd forgotten he was teaching at Hogwarts this year," Florean said, smiling. "How's his project coming along? I haven't heard from his team in a while."

Scott considered. "Well, he managed to find something big. Last I checked, he had fairly high hopes for whatever it was. I might ask when I get back tonight."

"I'll make sure to check with my cousin, Tristan," the older man said. "He's on the team with Foley, you know."

Scott continued to look at the set of armour, though his attention was partially divided. He glanced back at his mother, who was far enough away to not overhear. "So, Florean, what was all that about just before?"

"I presume you heard the whole thing?" When Scott nodded, Florean continued, "Maybe you've heard, but this museum has a great many artefacts that were possessed under... less than favourable conditions. Certain relics that are considered culturally or historically significant ended up back here over the years. The countries we took them from are now asking for them back."

Scott was reminded of what Professor Foley had told him. "But... surely they're still being robbed to this day? Don't Curse-Breakers make a living in tomb-raiding? So this hasn't ended, it's still going on!"

Florean adjusted his robes awkwardly. "Well, yes, I suppose. Though that's a whole other can of Flobberworms altogether. Not much that can be done about that."

Scott was about to disagree, simply on principle, but his father was approaching.

"Well, I hate to tear you away, son, but you're going to miss your train if we don't head off." He flashed his gold watch, which gave indication that eleven o'clock was soon arriving. Scott's insides squirmed as he tried not to consider to watch's origins.

"Alright, fine," he acquiesced querulously.

They each made their way back to the atrium, where they bid farewell to Florean. From there they stepped out the front doors, only to find themselves somehow emerging from the Muggle front doors that the camera had been hanging over. The sun was higher in the sky now, and signalled their imminent need to away to King's Cross Station.

"Yes, yes, we're all impressed," Ethan said, rolling his eyes at them.

They were seated in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, hurtling north into increasingly snow-coated scenery. Scott and Alex both had their matching broomsticks out, and were loudly lauding the lengths of wood and twigs. Ethan was feasting upon Scott's birthday cake (of the carrot variety), despite his usual complaints regarding Scott's choice in birthday confectionery.

The pair of them had already given Scott his birthday presents – predictably, they had given him books. Scott could hardly complain, in fact he quite appreciated the gifts. Ethan had purchased a bound collection of historical beast-related accounts, as well as the biography of Newt Scamander. Alex's books were entirely Muggle in origin, but no less appreciated - she had bought him a book on music theory, and one on ancient architecture.

Ethan had taken on another mouthful of cake when the compartment door slid open. For possibly the one and only time, Scott was delighted to see Scarlett Skeres standing before him. At her side was the looming form of Graham Montague, whose mouth was hanging gormlessly as he gazed at the two pristine broomsticks in the compartment. Skeres was openly staring, too, though she looked far shrewder.

Alex piped up, "Hi, can we help you?"

Scott exchanged glances with her, grinning.

"Those are broomsticks," said Montague, rather stupidly, Scott thought.

"Well spotted," Scott confirmed for him.

Skeres huffed impatiently. "First years aren't allowed brooms, you idiots." Her face split into an evil grin. "Shall we confiscate them for you? We'll make sure a teacher gets them."

"Oh don't worry," Scott said, barely holding back laughter, "the teachers already know." He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket, and handed it to her. It was worn from being read so many times over the holidays, whenever Scott had wanted to fantasise about this exact moment. He could recite it from memory at this point, and so he did so.

"To Scott Carter and Alexis Wroxton," he began, as Skeres started reading the slanted writing, "It has come to my attention that due to your recent special circumstances – specifically, your appointment as Ravenclaw's newest Beaters –" - Scott paused a moment to savour the dawning look of horrified comprehension on her face - "you are in need of broomsticks of your own. It is due to these circumstances that I permit an exception to the No Broom Policy in order for you to perform to the Hogwarts standard in your future endeavours. Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year, Albus Dumbledore." He finished with a flourish of self-satisfaction in his voice, as Skeres furiously balled up the letter in her fist.

"So," she spat out, "you used your Teacher's Pet Privilege to break the rules. Congratulations."

"It's funny what you can do when people can stand to be around you," Scott said, his lips curling up at her expression. "On that note, don't you have somewhere else to make miserable?"

Ethan guffawed from beside the compartment window, though Skeres' dangerous glare shut him up quickly.

"Graham," Skeres began in a sickeningly coy voice, not taking her eyes from the three in the compartment, "would you mind checking for any prefects?"

The boy turned to and fro, and then grinned. "No one in sight."

"No one to interrupt then," she said, pulling out her wand at the precise moment that Scott did.

"Colloportus," Scott incanted. The compartment door suddenly slid shut quicker than Skeres' attempt to enter. A squelching sound met their ears as it closed, and Skeres and Montague were left on the other side, fruitlessly attempting to tear the door open. Scott, Alex, and Ethan proceeded to laugh themselves silly as the pair of red-faced and panting Slytherins eventually gave up.

"This isn't over!" Skeres raged through the glass.

Scott mimed deafness, whilst the other two waved an enthusiastic goodbye, still laughing uproariously. Skeres and Montague eventually stormed off - no doubt, Scott assumed, to harass someone else.

He sighed with satisfaction. "That was worth it, even if I can't actually remember the Counter-Charm to that spell."

Ethan and Alex suddenly stopped laughing.

The cavernous chamber was lit only by the gleaming yellow orbs that hovered over the group's heads. They were a fascinating crew, garbed in steel chain or robes, and numbering twenty-two. Many of the men had beards - some dark, some light, some ginger. Among their number moved but one woman, raven-haired and austere.

In the darkness beyond their sight, a distant echo reached the group; quiet as a whisper, but as threatening as a war cry. One man spoke, his tongue melodic, and overtly Gaelic. "What was that?" he breathed in his language.

"Merely the sound of our steps, reflected back at us," said a brown-haired man in dark robes, his tone bolstering, if harsh. "We must not fall to craven temptation when our destiny draws near. The Vault must lie just ahead," he continued. "If our party needs sight, further light may be necessary."

"The Speaker commands the Vault," another man said. "I would call on the Snake-Blooded to provide."

The black-robed man who had spoken turned to look at the woman. She gazed back, and nodded, then proceeded to draw in a breath. Her eyes rolled back into her head momentarily, before returning; her pupils no longer a dilated circle, but a pair of serpentine slits. The sounds that issued forth from her mouth were bizarre – a hissing, clicking, and spitting approximation of a language.

"I speak to the Heart, from the heart,

In chamber dark, your light impart!"

It was apparent from the unnerved expressions on the group's faces that they had no clue what she could possibly be saying, but a moment later, the large chamber answered her demands. The group blinked rapidly as the chamber burst into illumination, their eyes adjusting to the light. The woman's eyes returned to normal, their usual humanity restored.

A scan of the room revealed that there wasn't much to speak of, capacity-wise. The small crowd that stood within stood alone in what seemed to be a wide, empty hall. The walls were decorated with great carvings, with stonework looking as fresh as the day it was first carved. The length of the chamber was otherwise sparse, with no furnishings or decorations to speak of, excluding the great pillars interspersed along the sides of the chamber. Each pillar seemed to separate a section of relief carving, the details of which were not visible from the distance the party stood at. On the opposite end of the chamber was a wide staircase, atop which was a large archway. The archway led to a door, much like the silver-locked one the party had entered through.

"Let it be known that this is the queerest structure that I have laid eyes upon in all my years," a bearded man in chainmail voiced.

"No doubt," said another.

The party of one-score plus two made their cautious way across the chamber, their footsteps reverberating ominously as they went.

The dark robed man with brown hair spoke again, "I do not wish to alarm you, but I fear that we may not be alone in this chamber."

As he said this, a horrible sound of cracking stone went up, and the group spun around to find that three of their number had undergone a horrible transformation. The trio of men were transfixed, their heads turned upwards towards the ceiling, expressions of frozen terror upon their faces. They did not move a muscle - indeed, their muscles had all been calcified; the men had been transformed into statues.

Foolishly, several more men turned their gaze upwards out of instinctual fright. A short series of screams later brought eight more to join the stone statuary.

"Do not look, you fools!" cried the dark robed man. "The beast's gaze is deadly!"

The quickly thinning party tried to make a sprint for the door that would take them beyond the chamber, but before they could make any real progress, they found their path blocked. A serpentine form descended before them, lowering itself down by the great scaled wings on its back. Its great tail coiled upon the stone floor, a seat for its feminine form, which rose up over them, wings outstretched. Its hair was a sea of serpents, and its glare was venomous. It hissed furiously, its words going unheard by most of the frightened group before it.

"Interlopers, leave this place!" it spat.

The creature's sudden appearance had rendered five more among the party into a state of petrification. The remaining six raised wands, and proceeded to cast blindly in the direction of the beast. Many of their spells missed - the casters' eyes tightly shut as they were prevented any accuracy. The spells that did hit had minimal effect, but the monster's screams of rage and pain were enough of a sign that it was time to run.

Passing the creature, the remnants of the once mighty group dashed up the stairs, and burst through the door to the next room. The door, thankfully, was not locked, but when the dark robed man attempted to use a spell to lock it, it had no effect.

"You are not welcome!" the monster hissed. It was upon them in a moment, and a man was dragged from the chamber, his screams of terror cutting short quite suddenly. The last five survivors did not see their friend's fate, as their eyes were tightly shut again, but they could reason a guess regardless.

The woman who could speak in hisses screamed out at the creature, desperation lacing her snake-like voice.

"Serpent-hybrid of ancient make,

Retreat now, and spare us the snake!"

Her words had no effect, and the creature merely continued towards them. The dark-robed man cried out, "Síle!"

He reached out and grabbed her, dragging her out of the monster's reach. It had crossed the threshold now, and was now bearing down upon them. Again, the woman tried to speak in the serpent-tongue.

"Serpent-hybrid of ancient make,

Retreat now, and spare us the snake!"

The creature suddenly froze, looming over them as if about to strike. The rage-filled expression suddenly left its face, replaced by an oddly blank look. It seemed to droop, losing the threatening demeanour it had just had. It spoke, "Yes, Speaker."

It then turned, and proceeded to return to the large hall where their many frozen compatriots still remained. The dark robed man sighed with relief. They survivors were clearly all in shock, hardly daring to believe their luck. The moment of reprieve was broken, however, as a hideous screech sounded from the hall.

"You cannot use my Master's powers againssst me, mortal!" the half-snake, half-woman beast screamed. "I am beyond such manipulation!"

"Flee!" the woman named Síle cried, as the creature lurched back towards them, its apparent bewitchment shattered.

The others did not require a second iteration of her instruction, and they flung themselves across the large room, through yet another door, which also refused to lock behind them. The monster pursued them, hissing furiously as it went, its speed terrifying. They continued down a long corridor, until they found themselves in a large room – not as huge as the hall they'd met the beast in, but similarly grand. In the very centre of the chamber was a stone plinth, atop which sat a stone basin.

Behind them, the creature emerged. "I have but one task," it said. "You will not prevent it."

Síle drew breath again, and though her eyes were screwed shut, it was a certain thing that the slitted pupils had returned.

"Fiend of the Abyss, hear my decree,

Henceforth, know this: Your Master is me!"

The creature seemed to struggle with itself for a moment, fighting to resist the words. Whilst it struggled, the dark robed man wrested the basin from its plinth. One of the other men, sweat dripping down his brow, looked at him with shock.

"What do you think you are doing?" he cried.

The look that the dark robed man gave him was grim. "That enchantment shall not last. We must permit to defeat, and flee. Epistemus' treasure is lost to us for now, but without the memory basin, it is lost to all others, too. We return again when our strength returns to us. This is not over, I assure you."

He turned and walked past the guardian, and with some hesitation, the other three men followed. From the entrance to the stone passageway, the dark robed man called to the woman. "Síle! We must away!"

She was far too occupied with the monster, however. It looked remarkably more docile, now.

"Yesss... Master..." it hissed. It swayed slightly under its bewitchment.

"Follow," was all Síle said to it.

It began to follow, dutifully acting on her commands. They trailed along behind the men, who seemed highly uncomfortable with the creature's presence.

"Leave the monster, Síle," the dark robed man said.

"It follows my commands," she insisted. "It cannot disobey."

As they spoke, they passed through a doorway. At once, the glazed look in the guardian's eyes was lifted, and an expression of malevolence replaced it. The creature let out a quiet hiss, but otherwise continued to trail along dutifully. Once the group had returned to the hall, where the petrified forms of their companions. Síle raised her hand, calling for a halt.

"Slave," she hissed, not looking at the creature, which was eyeing her with evil intent, "is there a way to restore these victims their vitality?"

The guardian rose up on its tail, its wings spreading out. "Your friends shall have an eternity to discover an answer!" it cried gleefully. Then, it lurched forwards, and before she could react, several fangs were sinking into Síle's flesh. The hair of snakes, and the creature's own mouth, all began pouring their venom out into the screaming woman.

Without thinking, two more of the men looked around at the chaos unfolding, and inadvertently made eye contact with the guardian. Blood dripped from the many mouths of the monster, who grinned maniacally as two more morbid decorations joined the hall. The chamber looked considerably fuller now.

The dark robed man's wand lashed out, and the bleeding woman was raised into the air, and began to hover over to him. Then, he turned and began to run, the now-unconscious woman and his other companion following in his wake. The guardian laughed as they went, and began to sing in its twisted language.

"Seal the doors, that they should remain so,

Under rock it holds what none will ever know,

My master's treasure, kept deep below,

The rolling hills, lake, and meadow."

The entire structure began to rumble violently. The fleeing figures had reached the door that led out, and just as the dark robed man and the levitating woman passed through, it swung shut on its own. The last man remaining collided hard with the wood, and shrieked in terror. He pulled at the door handle, and beat at it with his fist. Using his wand, he attempted to blast it open, but instead he was knocked back. As the guardian approached, slithering across the stone floor, he balled himself up in the foetal position and began to whimper.

The structure was still shaking, and the distant sounds of crumbling stone could be heard from behind the now sealed door. The entire structure was sinking, descending deep underground. The power of the snake-tongue had commanded the complex to seal itself away, where it could not be discovered or reached again. As the last remaining man was transformed to solid rock, the guardian's victorious expression morphed into something else – a deep melancholy.

Michael Foley blinked rapidly as he emerged from the Pensieve – the very same rune-carved basin he'd just witnessed the purloining of.

"Well," he muttered, "that was certainly... something."