Talking Chess Pieces

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The common room buzzed with hushed chatter, as students leaned in close to whisper about what had just happened — Professor Lockhart had been attacked by Peeves the Poltergeist.

In the middle of it all, Harry and Ron were locked in a game of wizard chess, while Hermione sat nearby, curled up with a thick volume titled The Complete Guide to Healing Spells, flipping through its pages with deep concentration.

Harry's chess set was the one he'd received last Christmas, and frankly, it still hadn't learned to obey him properly. More often than not, his pieces did the exact opposite of what he told them.

A few curious students had gathered around to watch the match. Harry's own chess pieces were shooting him disgusted looks, as though they couldn't quite believe they were stuck taking orders from him.

"E4," Harry said, hesitating.

His White King immediately threw his hands over his head. "Oh, not again! This move's got me killed at least eight hundred times already!"

Beside him, the White Queen rolled her eyes. "By Merlin's socks, can't you learn a thing or two from that boy across the board?"

On the other side, Ron's chess pieces were standing tall and proud. His Black Knight even gave his spear a good polish, readying himself to charge.

"Watch this," Ron grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Knight to F6."

At once, the black knight spurred his horse forward, galloping across the board in a graceful arc and landing squarely on the designated spot. On the way, he gave Harry's Pawn a well-aimed kick, sending it flying off the board.

"Your turn, Harry," Ron said smugly, biting into a sausage. He and Harry had smuggled it out of the Great Hall earlier, stuffed inside a little crystal bottle.

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow. "Alright then… Bishop to C5."

"What?!" his White Bishop shrieked in horror. "Have you lost your mind? That black knight will slice me clean in half!"

The piece clung tightly to the edge of the board, refusing to budge.

"Come on… just this once, please," Harry whispered, trying to coax him along.

"No way!" the bishop barked, plopping himself down stubbornly in the center of the board. "Send him! If he dies, who cares?"

He jabbed a finger toward a nearby pawn, who promptly rolled his eyes in protest.

Ron's chess pieces burst out laughing. The Black Castle was shaking so hard with mirth that bits of stone dust crumbled from its walls. "Give it up already! You don't stand a chance!"

Hermione finally looked up from her book. "Want me to—"

"No!" Harry and Ron shouted in perfect unison.

At that moment, Harry's white queen suddenly shot to her feet and, without a word, delivered a swift kick that sent the bishop flying straight onto the C5 square. "I've had enough of this nonsense! I'm taking over this game!"

She turned sharply to Harry. "Shut it, kid. Just sit back and watch how it's done."

Ron raised both eyebrows so high they nearly vanished into his hairline. "Whoa… your pieces really have a mind of their own."

For the next ten minutes, Harry's chess set completely ignored his commands. They bickered among themselves, argued over strategies, and made their own loud, chaotic decisions without so much as glancing his way.

At one point, the white knight got into a full-blown shouting match with the black castle, after the latter sneered that his horse looked more like a mule than a steed.

"Checkmate!"

The white queen swept across the board in a graceful glide, trapping Ron's Black King in the far corner with a perfectly executed move.

"This isn't fair!" the black king shouted, his voice rising in protest. "They're cheating!"

Harry could only spread his hands helplessly. "What can I say? My chess pieces have too much personality…"

The crowd that had gathered to watch gradually drifted away, and once the room quieted down, Harry and Ron glanced at the time and decided there was still enough of the evening left for another round.

Just as they were setting up the pieces again—

"Come… over… kill… tear apart…"

The fire in the hearth suddenly let out a sharp crackle, sending a spray of glowing sparks into the air. The strange whisper, hoarse and echoing, slithered out from the flames like something alive.

Harry sprang to his feet so fast he knocked the entire board over. His knee struck the table, and pieces went flying in all directions. The white king let out a shrill scream as he tumbled, landing headfirst in Ron's goblet with a loud splash.

"What was that?" Harry's voice barely rose above a whisper, but his green eyes were wide with shock, and his whole body had gone stiff.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a bewildered glance. "Are you alright?"

Hermione closed The Complete Guide to Healing Spells with a soft snap. "You look really pale…"

"Y-You two… didn't hear it?" Harry's fingers drifted unconsciously to the scar on his forehead, brushing it lightly as though trying to confirm something. "That voice… it came back. It said it was going to kill someone…"

His voice trailed off, getting quieter with every word, because he could see that the expressions on his two friends' faces had shifted — no longer puzzled, but visibly frightened now.

The freckles on Ron's pale face stood out sharply against his skin. "Mate, the only thing we heard around here was your chess pieces swearing. It's been so quiet otherwise you could probably hear the Fat Lady snoring two floors up."

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath.

The chess pieces, now dripping wet from their plunge into the cocoa cup, were crawling back onto the table, shaking off droplets as they went, and glaring at him with unmistakable hostility, as if blaming him for the mess.

Meanwhile, that chilling, sticky whisper — the voice that had slithered out of the fire — had vanished completely, leaving not the faintest trace behind.

"Maybe… maybe it was just Peeves playing one of his pranks," Harry muttered, stretching his mouth into a weak smile, though his fingertips were still trembling.

Ron's chess pieces took advantage of the distraction and began sneakily shuffling back to their original positions, only to be caught red-handed by Hermione's sharp, disapproving glare.

"Are you really alright?" Hermione asked again, lowering her voice. "Do you want to go see Madam Pomfrey—"

"No!" Harry answered a bit too loudly, startling both of them. Embarrassed, he quickly added in a softer tone, "I think… I'm just tired, that's all."

After that, time passed quietly. Meanwhile, Sargeras's progress in deciphering the new spell continued steadily and without incident.

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Late that night, in the Restricted Section of the library.

Sargeras ran his fingertips lightly along the spine of a yellowed, ancient tome, the fragile leather crumbling slightly beneath his touch.

Inside, scrawled across the parchment in hurried, slanted handwriting, was a grim note:

In the year 1432, a wizard named Aemon Blade attempted a variant of the same magic-draining spell during a duel. The result — his body exploded like a shattered glass vessel, with shards flying in every direction, still glowing faintly with blue magical residue.

"What a… wonderfully instructive example of failure," Sargeras murmured to himself, his voice soft and calm.

The glow from the tip of his wand danced across the open pages, casting flickering shadows that moved restlessly along the margins.

The psychological trauma from his last attempt at time-travel still clung to his bones, as if etched deep into the marrow. This time, he would take no risks. Everything had to be perfect.

His quill scratched swiftly across the parchment, writing out a new list of possible dangers:

1. Magical overload resulting in bodily explosion

(Reference: Aemon Blade case)

2. Magical backlash from the drained subject

(Requires redesign of the energy buffer)

3. Contamination of the magical circuit

(Must reinforce with an alchemic array)

Sargeras suddenly paused mid-sentence. This was the most troublesome issue of all: the spell required the alchemic array to be inscribed directly onto the caster's own flesh.

Not only was this incredibly difficult, it would also be excruciatingly painful. Still, that part didn't bother him much. Pain, after all, was temporary. As far as he was concerned, any problem that could be solved by simply enduring pain wasn't really a problem at all.

The real challenge lay in the complexity. The spell demanded the flawless engraving of over seventy magical rune circuits, along with more than two thousand individual alchemic glyphs across the outer array. There was no room for even the slightest mistake — it had to be done perfectly in one go.

He remembered seeing an old wizard back in Uagadou, whose entire body had been covered in glowing runes, shining faintly beneath his skin. The man had looked like a walking magical array.

Unfortunately, Sargeras didn't trust anyone else to help with the process. He only dared to do it himself.

"Looks like I'll need to pay Hagrid a visit… wonder if he's got any of the materials I need."

He muttered the thought under his breath, already making a mental note to head over to Hagrid's hut and ask. If Hagrid didn't have everything on hand, he'd have to make a trip to Diagon Alley for the rest.

But as it turned out, the very next afternoon, just as he was preparing to leave for Hagrid's, he ran into someone unexpected… Draco Malfoy, who had come looking for him.

The month-long detention Sargeras had assigned him had started the day after the original incident. But because the punishment was stretched out over such a long time, Malfoy had to serve three to five days of detention under nearly every professor at Hogwarts.

Sargeras stared at him in silence. His expression was calm, but his gaze was sharp, and Malfoy visibly shrank under it. Though his instincts screamed at him to turn and run, he clenched his fists and forced himself to stay.

Finally, with a small flick of his hand, Sargeras summoned a cascade of books from the shelves behind him. They came tumbling down in a neat stack, landing with a thud.

"From today onward," he said flatly, "you won't need to report to any other professor for your detention."

It didn't take long for Malfoy to realize what he meant. The stack of books was already taller than he was, and judging by the titles alone, he wouldn't have time for anything else if he intended to finish even half of them.

All the books Sargeras had selected were written by Muggles. He didn't want to punish Draco with chores or lectures—he simply wanted to give this pure-blood-obsessed boy a jolt of perspective. A bit of honest, unfiltered knowledge straight from the Muggle world.

Something to shake him…

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[Chapter End's]

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