CHAPTER 47

After passing through the heavy gate, Adrian Blackwood entered a vast, open chamber carved entirely from stone. It was a rectangular hall, at least ten yards square by his estimation. He cast Lumos Maxima, letting the bright orb of light float to the ceiling. The chamber had an exotic architectural style not native to the British Isles—distinctly Indian in influence. The floor was tiled with polished turquoise stone, cool and glossy even under the layers of dust and grime. Just past the threshold stood an obelisk, narrow at the base and widening upward before terminating in a pyramidal tip, its surface etched with arcane script and geometric symbols unfamiliar to Adrian.

The decorations, though weathered, suggested opulence—intricately carved bas-reliefs lined the stone walls, once vivid in color but now faded by time and neglect. Faint outlines of four-armed warriors could still be discerned, driving chariots with three wheels—an unusual and deliberate deviation from the standard iconography Adrian had encountered in his studies. The metallic inlays had been pried from the walls, and complex geometric patterns were marred by cracks and missing chunks of copper, leaving only the impression of what must once have been ritualistic grandeur.

Adrian's eyes lingered on one of the four-armed masculine figures carved into the stone. It reminded him of the Moon God fragment mentioned in Albert's translated field notes—the one supposedly worshipped by an obscure cult of magical ascetics who practiced divination through lunar eclipses. Yet the depiction here didn't align entirely with traditional Vedic iconography. The anatomy was exaggerated, the weaponry inconsistent, and the proportions were stylized in a way that suggested an attempt at imitation—likely the work of a British wizard trying to recreate Eastern symbolism without understanding its context. The result was a blend of cultures, incongruent and distorted.

Three enormous stone doors stood embedded into the walls—one each on the left and right, and the third directly ahead, all appearing to lead deeper underground. Each was marked with different runes, some in Sanskrit, others in runic alphabet, and one in a corrupted Latin script often found in old spell inscriptions.

Outside, thunder roared and lightning cracked like a whip across the sky, the sound muffled within the stone walls but still present. Wind howled down the corridors behind him, and rain hissed as it struck the ground. Despite the storm's fury, the room appeared solid and secure. Only a faint trickle of dust sifted down from a crevice in the high ceiling during particularly violent thunderclaps.

Then came a loud, rhythmic banging—coming from the stone door on the far left. It trembled with each roll of thunder, and with one final, ear-splitting boom, the aged door cracked apart. Stone and dust exploded outward with a splitting crash, and Adrian instinctively ducked behind the obelisk. In the haze, a large swarm of rats poured from the breach. At first, they appeared to be retreating from the collapse, squeaking and scattering in every direction.

But something was wrong.

These were not ordinary rats. Their eyes glowed an eerie crimson, and red-brown mucus coated their oversized, yellowed teeth. They squealed not in fear, but with unrestrained frenzy. They bit anything that moved—including each other. As they scurried forward, they left behind trails of black, tar-like feces, viscous yellow urine, and dark red streaks that looked suspiciously like blood. Their hindquarters twitched and spasmed unnaturally, and foul-smelling slime oozed from their anuses with every leap and bite.

Adrian gagged as bile rose in his throat. He realized with a sick lurch that this wasn't natural behavior. These rats hadn't been startled by thunder—they were infected. Some dark disease or magical affliction had turned them rabid, maddened beyond control.

Still cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm, Adrian gripped his wand tightly, slowing his breath and remaining absolutely still. He waited. No larger creature followed the rats. No footsteps. No hiss of breath. Just the squeals and slaps of tiny feet on stone.

When he was certain nothing else had been alerted, he shifted slightly. The movement caused one of the rats to pause, sniffing. The spell masked sight, but not scent or sound. Within seconds, several rats turned in his direction, baring sharp chisel-like teeth, quivering with hostile intent.

Adrian quickly scanned the chamber. There were no tapestries, draperies, or other flammable objects in the vicinity—just bare stone, dust, and the remnants of ancient magic. He exhaled, and dropped the Disillusionment Charm.

"Glacius Immobilis!" he intoned, slashing his wand through the air in a sweeping arc. The advanced freezing charm—one featured in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, but mentioned by Flitwick as part of an extra-credit assignment—surged outward in a burst of violet light. A wide cone of force struck the rats mid-charge. Dozens were instantly frozen, their bodies locked in place, fangs bared, tails stiff. Only their glassy, twitching eyes remained animated.

"Incendio Maxima."

A torrent of fire erupted from his wandtip. Controlled but intense, it swept over the immobilized swarm like a purging wave. Fur caught fire. Flesh sizzled. The sharp crackle of burning meat mixed with the noxious hiss of greasy smoke rising from the turquoise floor. Adrian winced at the stench of charred excrement and hair, but he did not falter. The freezing charm had been necessary—if the rats had still been mobile, they would have scattered, setting the whole chamber into chaos.

When the last ember died out, Adrian surveyed the damage. Piles of scorched remains smoldered in black heaps, darkening the turquoise stone with greasy soot. He grimaced.

"Ventus Vortex."

A controlled gust spun outward in a tight spiral, lifting the ashen debris into a small, contained whirlwind. Dust, soot, and bones were swept up and funneled into a corner before vanishing into a summoned waste-disposal pouch.

Satisfied, Adrian turned toward the center door—the one directly opposite the entrance. The storm had eased slightly outside, but the chamber's oppressive silence remained. He crept forward into a long, narrow corridor, wand lit and steps cautious. The passage descended at a gentle slope. At its end stood another stone door, much like the one before.

He approached it carefully, pressing the wand's tip against the stone while cupping the butt to his ear—a modified version of the Auditus charm he had read about in Auror field manuals. A soft murmur trickled through the stone—this time, not silence.

Voices.

Human voices.

"…You lose. You can't just toss raw Devil's Chili at them—it makes the rats worse. You've got to blend it into curry. Then it's potent but palatable."

The speaker had a thick Indian accent, his English lilting and accented with unusual cadences. Another voice responded—British, high-pitched, slightly nasal.

"Oh, brilliant. So when they calm down, you can clean them up."

The first man chuckled. "You'll thank me when your nose still works. Now hand me the rat tongues—we'll need those for the next stage of infusion."

Adrian frowned. This wasn't just a tomb or hideout. Someone was actively performing magical experiments—dangerous ones. He adjusted his grip on the wand, spell at the ready, and prepared to breach the door.

"That won't work! I won the bet—we made a magical gambling contract, remember? You agreed, and now you have to drive those deranged rats to the spider nest!" the Indian-accented wizard insisted firmly, his enunciation clipped but passionate. "What, now your proper English gentleman pride is going to flake on a magically binding agreement?"

"Oh, fine! Bloody stupid bet…" came the grumbling reply, the voice unmistakably British, thick with resentment. "I never should've made that wager with you, Rajesh." A dull thump followed, like someone had kicked a stone table in frustration. Heavy footsteps began behind the stone door, stopping a few times—as though the speaker was dragging his feet, reluctant to go.

"Howard, don't be a coward," Rajesh called out from within. "The spiders' appetite isn't that insatiable. There are more than enough rats in there—plus that intruder we tossed in a few days ago. They won't be in a hurry to hunt you, especially if you don't make sudden movements. And really, they're just spiders. Are you seriously afraid of them while holding a wand? Your mum made me promise to keep you alive, not to wrap you in anti-spider charms! They're not Puffapods, they won't bloom when stepped on."

"You haven't been bitten by one, Rajesh!" Howard snapped as his voice drew closer. "You get chatty on Firewhisky and end up volunteering me for your curses and creatures… I swear, one more drop and I'll drown in your curried nonsense."

Adrian Blackwood, pressed silently against the cold stone wall just beside the doorframe, readied his wand. The stone door creaked open. The room beyond was cluttered with ruined furniture—shattered wooden tables, tarnished cauldrons, and rusted alchemical tools lay strewn across the floor and surfaces. By the dim torchlight, Adrian glimpsed the source of the voices.

The man emerging into the hallway—Howard—was short and clad in tight-fitting black robes. He wore a wide-brimmed, pot-shaped hat atop a mop of frizzy hair, and his prominent nose peeked beneath the brim like a hooked beak. He had the look of a wizard from an old London quarter, perhaps with Eastern European heritage, though his nervous shuffling and muttered curses were thoroughly British.

Before the door shut, Adrian caught a flash of the second wizard. Tall and thin, Rajesh stood barefoot on a stretched reptilian hide fixed to a wooden frame, apparently dissecting or enchanting it. His saffron robes and silver-rimmed wand suggested he had trained in an Indian magical academy—perhaps Uagadou or a lesser-known Himalayan order.

Adrian weighed his options. Rushing in would cause unnecessary chaos, and he needed information—not corpses. Instead, he pivoted silently and followed Howard down the hallway.

Howard walked stiffly at first, suspicious at the lack of mice in the corridor. He muttered about the peppers being too strong and his mother always nagging him to eat less spicy food, then concluded that the rats had probably retreated during the thunder.

By the time he reached the shattered door to the earlier chamber, Howard's pace slowed. His eyes darted to the floor. There were no dead rats. No blood, no mess—only clean turquoise stone.

Howard froze. "That's… not right."

He turned, intending to alert Rajesh, when—

"Chiropteram Incantare!" came a sudden childlike voice from thin air.

A chilling sensation shot up his spine.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the cry caught as a horrid tickling sensation blossomed from inside his nasal passages. Within seconds, hundreds of tiny bat-like creatures began wriggling their way out of his nose, their claws scraping the inside of his sinuses. The first bat burst free, flapping into the corridor. Dozens followed, their wings wet with mucus.

At the same time, Howard's wand arm was yanked violently backwards. A hand—small but powerful—clutched his wrist. He gasped, tried to scream again, but the bats emerging from his nostrils blocked his breath and choked his throat. He struggled, tried to cling to his wand, but the grip tightened.

Suddenly—snap—a sharp pain surged through his hand as his little finger broke, a clean fracture. He yelped in agony, and his wand slipped from his grasp.

But there was no clatter.

The wand had already been caught mid-air by Adrian, who stepped into visibility with his wand aimed steadily at Howard's chest.

Howard's eyes widened in horror as more bats slithered from his nose, now emerging from his ears and hairline too. His whole face was a mass of wings and shrieking creatures. He clawed at his head, trying to shake them off, but they multiplied rapidly, flapping around his skull, biting and blinding him.

Adrian remained calm, precise. He had deliberately avoided using a Stunning Spell or Petrificus Totalus—he needed answers. The Bat-Bogey Hex, taken from The Book of Spells by Miranda Goshawk, was originally meant to be disruptive rather than dangerous. Miranda, the ninth child in a large family, had invented the spell to silence her sisters long enough to get a word in. Though some wizards criticized its inclusion in school curricula due to its borderline dark magic tendencies, Miranda defended its utility as a non-lethal deterrent—less harmful than the average jinx, and more effective than most tickling hexes.

Adrian agreed. It was the perfect tool to humiliate and disable someone without permanent damage. And in this case, it would buy him the time to extract vital information.

This place—where intruders were fed to spiders, where magical pathogens like the rats' plague had likely originated—was far too dangerous to rush blindly into. Were it not for Albert's connection, logic dictated he report this immediately to a trusted adult or the Auror Office.

But logic also reminded him of something else: his brother might be running out of time.

And logic could only take a Ravenclaw so far before courage—or desperation—had to take the lead.

Adrian exhaled deeply, narrowed his eyes, and raised his wand once more. With precision, he drew a narrow, hourglass-shaped funnel in the air—the required motion for a localized binding hex from The Practical Defensive Spellwork Series, Volume II. The magic surged from his wand and struck Howard square in the chest, locking him in place like a pillar of twitching stone.

Author's Note: The hourglass motion for binding hexes is mentioned in supporting lore on official companion materials and wizard dueling guides, often referenced in advanced magical theory classes at Hogwarts.

The captured wizard convulsed in agony, his body bowing sharply as he clutched his chest with both fists. Blue veins bulged beneath his skin as he spasmed, his robes slipping to reveal a hairy chest heaving under the strain. Then, with a guttural wheeze, he collapsed onto the cold stone floor. His limbs contorted unnaturally, and jagged bone spurs pushed from beneath his skin, twisting his joints and spine into grotesque angles. Each spur pierced delicate nerve endings and vital organs, sending unbearable waves of agony through his body like a thousand knives stabbing at once.

But he couldn't scream.

The Bat-Bogey Hex, still in effect, forced the pain to remain bottled up. Bats clogged his sinuses and throat, muffling any sound he might have made. His lips trembled with the pressure of a suppressed scream, his eyes bulging as the full extent of the torture raged within.

Adrian Blackwood's expression darkened as he witnessed the curse take hold. He lowered his head slightly, his jaw clenched in a grim line. His brow furrowed deeply, not out of regret, but calculation. He hadn't intended the pain to be quite this severe—not on the first casting of this spell. But time was running out. He had chosen Transfiguration Torture as a precise, controlled method to force quick compliance without killing the subject—at least not immediately.

This curse was unlike the Cruciatus Curse, one of the Unforgivable Curses taught in Dark Arts Defence: Basics for Beginners. The Cruciatus inflicted unbearable phantom pain—intense suffering without physical injury—its sheer brutality often driving victims to madness if prolonged. But the Transfiguration Torture Curse was a different kind of horror. Drawing on the principles of Transfiguration, it warped the victim's bones and muscles into unnatural shapes, physically damaging the body while triggering real, excruciating pain. It wasn't just dark magic—it was anatomically cruel.

The spell's intricate wandwork and longer casting time made it impractical for direct combat, but it was devastatingly effective for controlled environments, like this one. Unlike Cruciatus, it offered a measure of control. A skilled caster like Adrian could avoid harming vital areas—particularly around the mouth and vocal cords—so the victim remained capable of speech once silenced hexes were lifted.

And the injuries, though horrifying, were mostly reversible. A combination of Essence of Dittany, Skele-Gro, and a competent Healing Charm could bring the victim back to full strength within days—provided the spell wasn't cast for too long or allowed to escalate fatally. Compared to the often irreparable damage caused by prolonged exposure to Cruciatus, this spell offered a cleaner line between life and death.

(Author's Note: In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Gilderoy Lockhart dramatically claimed that Mrs. Norris had been "killed by a deadly curse," but Dumbledore later clarified she was only Petrified. Fan speculation about the "Transfiguration Torture Curse" as an alternate explanation was ultimately dismissed—but not without debate among dark arts theorists.)

"What are you doing in a place like this?" Adrian finally lifted the curse, canceling the transfiguration effect. He didn't have time to play games in these cursed ruins. Stepping forward, he pressed the toe of his boot into the wizard's ribcage—not hard, just enough to be felt. "I'll lift the bats off your face, but if you try to hex me, I promise you won't get another chance to regret it."

The wizard nodded rapidly, twitching and writhing, the pain still etched across his face. Once the bats faded away, his breathing came in sharp gasps, but at least he could speak.

"Th-The Temple… of the Indian Moon God," the wizard stammered hoarsely. "Please… I didn't… I didn't do anything, I swear. Don't kill me, boy…"

He blinked in disbelief. Now that the bats were gone, he could see Adrian's face clearly—youthful, sharp-featured, pale blonde hair clinging slightly to his damp brow from the rain above.

"You… you're just a child…? How—what are you?"

Adrian's wand didn't waver. His voice, quiet and steady, sliced through the wizard's disbelief.

"You feed people to spiders. You and your friends. Don't try to lie. Where are the bodies? Who was the last one you threw to them? What did he look like?"

"I-it wasn't me!" the wizard squeaked, eyes darting in panic. "It was them! They said he'd been seen by the Ministry—they panicked, said he might've been followed. So they threw him into the pit—to the spiders—"

Adrian's breath caught in his throat.

"What did he look like?" he demanded, more sharply now. "Answer me. What color was his hair?"

"H-he was older than you… maybe twenty… Auror robes, I think. Pale blonde hair. Looked… a lot like you…"

Adrian's heart clenched, but his voice remained cold.

"Was his wand taken?"

"Broken—" the wizard flinched as Adrian's expression darkened. "Not by me! My companion did it—he was scared—he snapped it so the spiders wouldn't have any reason to fear!"

Adrian's eyes narrowed. He had considered destroying this man's wand earlier, but now, knowing that Albert might be down there unarmed, he decided otherwise. He tucked the confiscated wand away. If Albert could be reached in time, perhaps it could serve him.

"How many people are down there? How many spiders? Size, species—talk."

The wizard, now trembling violently, slumped to the floor like a deflated balloon. His eyes stared blankly at the stone, unwilling to meet Adrian's gaze. For a moment, there was silence.

Adrian sighed in frustration. With a flick of his wand, he subtly rotated the bone in the man's leg—not enough to kill, but enough to drive a spike of agony through his thigh. The wizard let out a strangled cry as the sharp bone burst through his skin, blood staining the floor.

"I'll talk! Please stop! I'll tell you everything!" the wizard gasped, clutching his ruined leg. His pain had broken him. Now, at last, he was ready to talk.

"Don't try that with me. The next thing that comes out of your nose won't be a bat—it'll be your own cervical vertebrae," Adrian Blackwood threatened coldly as he lowered his wand again. Of course, in truth, he didn't yet have the precision to perform such advanced anatomical targeting with the Transfiguration Torture Curse, but the wizard didn't know that.

"Please—don't! I'll talk!" the Jewish wizard gasped, trembling, his voice rasping from a throat thick with fear and pain. "There are seven of us in total. We stayed here to use the altar's lunar alignment and the power of the moon phases to lift the curse sealed in the Moonstone Gem. That's all—I swear!"

His words spilled out quickly now, like water from a shattered goblet. "The spiders… I—I didn't dare get too close, but there are only a few. They were brought here by the Indian wizard—Rajesh. He bred them from Acromantulas, but these aren't nearly as large or as dangerous. They're smaller, more docile—relatively. More like magical pets than full-blown beasts."

Fear and blood loss had pushed the man into a near-hypothermic state. His face, slick with sweat and ashen with panic, had taken on the waxy pallor of a dying man. His blood-soaked robes clung to his skin, and his whole body shook violently as he tried to anticipate Adrian's next move.

Knowing Adrian was after the Auror, the wizard babbled faster, trying to win clemency. "He's in the spider chamber—we locked him in days ago. Go forward through the main tunnel, past the center door—take the far right path. He should still be alive. The Indian wizard, Rajesh, tried attracting the rats using some kind of magical instrument he played. He thought the swarm could be used to feed the spiders and cleanse the tunnel."

He forced a ragged breath, almost choking on his own exhaustion. "The spiders… they feed slowly. They aren't starving, just patient."

Adrian's eyes narrowed at the mention of Albert possibly still being alive. He allowed himself a single moment of stillness, listening. The sound of the storm had faded to distant echoes now, drowned out by the pulse in his ears. His eyes drifted—not to the wizard but to the mural on the wall, where the distorted face of a four-armed moon deity gazed down through fractured paint and timeworn stone. His wand, however, didn't rest.

"Petrificus Totalus."

The spell hit the wizard full-on. His body locked up instantly as a jolt ran down his spine. His limbs slammed against the stone floor as if every joint in his body had turned to iron. Even so, the tortured remains of his prior injuries reacted horribly to the sudden stiffness. His deformed bones cracked again beneath the magical pressure of the Full Body-Bind Curse, ripping reopened wounds along his ribs and thighs. Blood, fresh and blackened with dried clots, began to seep through the hem of his robes once more.

But Adrian didn't look at him.

Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the distant mural, as though the moon goddess herself were weighing the morality of his actions. His voice, when it came, was flat—drained of all warmth.

"Don't blame me," he said. "Feeding living people to spiders? You're worse than half the Death Eaters the Wizengamot sentenced to Azkaban. Don't act like I'm the monster here."

He paused, letting that settle before continuing more quietly.

"Howard—is that the name of the one with you?" he added. "If you're lucky—and if the person I'm looking for is still alive—he might be merciful. Maybe he'll patch you up, maybe even Obliviate the worst of it. You'll go home. You'll see your mother again."

His tone didn't change, but the bitterness underneath it was unmistakable. Adrian's face remained as pale and composed as ever, but his wand hand was rigid—too tight. He was balancing on the edge between calculated reason and emotional collapse, torn between his Ravenclaw logic and the boiling urgency of a little brother trying to save his own blood.

And yet, there was no time for moral hesitation now. If Albert was still in that chamber, every second mattered.