The people over there planned to take advantage of Senior Tom's immaturity and arrogance, and in the end, they stabbed him in the waist.
Here, Ted finally saw his chance.
The basilisk, worn down by the relentless crowing of Anzu the rooster, had begun to weaken. Its massive muscles trembled, its flesh quivered and shuddered as if tearing itself apart. The once fearsome creature now looked ragged, on the verge of collapse.
Most importantly—it had lowered its guard.
[Predict Enemy's Movements (Blue)] — Ted whispered the used the card on himself. The spell sharpened his senses and reflexes, raising the chances of a successful strike.
He had prepared for this. A Level 5 Silent Blade spell shot forth from his wand, invisible and deadly. The shimmering blade arced through the air, slipping past the basilisk's thrashing coils, before piercing straight into its last remaining eye with precision.
Ted was too cautious to leave even one eye intact. He wasn't about to risk luck against a basilisk. Destroying it outright was the only option.
The eyeball burst with a sickening pop. Ted let out a long breath of relief. At last—the counterattack could begin.
"Frost Arrow Rain!" he shouted.
Though he had not yet mastered the full Blizzard spell, a signature of the legendary mages of Azeroth, he could still summon a deadly storm of ice bolts.
Dozens of shimmering arrows of frost appeared above him, streaking downward in a storm.
They struck the basilisk's massive body in rapid succession, ripping open seven or eight deep wounds. Corrupted black blood oozed from the holes, made worse by the constant crowing of Anzu.
The rooster truly was the unsung hero of the battle.
"Diffindo! Diffindo ! Diffindo!" Ted invoked the spell thrice, his attacks carving long, fifty-centimeter gashes across the monster's scales.
The serpent's legendary hide offered no defense this time, and more black blood poured freely, splattering across the stone floor.
The sight was brutal, almost unbearable.
But this was Slytherin's ancient pet, a basilisk that had lived for a thousand years. Its weaknesses were undeniable, but killing it outright would not be so simple. Even with Anzu's crowing breaking its will, the beast still had enough strength to fight on.
And fight it did.
The basilisk realized death was closing in. Instincts kicked in—if it was going to die, it would fulfill its master's final order and drag its killers down with it. It roared silently, blood gushing from its ruined eyes, and lunged at Ted with terrifying speed.
Ted's reflexes saved him. He slid backward across the icy ground he had conjured beneath his feet, gliding two or three meters just as the serpent's massive tail smashed into the stone floor.
BOOM! A pillar a meter thick shattered instantly, cracks splitting several meters up its length. The basilisk had nearly torn the chamber apart.
It no longer cared about pain or blood. Sightless, furious, it charged wildly, determined to crush Ted into the earth.
Ted, skating gracefully across the ice, conjured jagged spikes and blades in his wake. Rows of ice thorns erupted behind him, ready to cut into the serpent's flesh. But the basilisk ignored them, barreling through and crushing the icy defenses, tearing its body even further in the process.
Anzu, terrified, fluttered desperately to the side, keeping a safe distance while continuing to crow. His voice cracked and faltered, but he refused to stop. The sound kept the basilisk weakened, even as the rooster's wings beat frantically in his attempt to stay alive.
Blood poured freely now, the basilisk leaving a gruesome trail as it pursued Ted relentlessly.
"This way—Ted, over here!" Ron hissed urgently from the shadows. He had joined the fray, firing a spell at the basilisk. But the curse splashed harmlessly against its scales, vanishing without effect.
Ron froze in shock. "It's useless… I'm useless…" he muttered, despair filling his voice.
Ted, panting, quickly cast [Restore Energy (Green)] on himself, refreshing his body and lungs. "Ron! Stay back! This snake's gone mad!"
But Ron's pride burned at his own helplessness. He gritted his teeth and suddenly remembered something.
If his spells couldn't pierce the basilisk, then he could turn the battlefield itself against it—just like during the troll fight months ago.
Transfiguration… Yes.
Focusing with all his will, Ron aimed his wand at a massive chunk of rubble—over a meter wide.
He had never tried something so difficult before, but desperation fueled him.
His magic surged, flowing through Lockhart's old cherry wood, dragon heartstring core wand. The wood hummed and glowed faintly as if responding to Ron's determination.
The boulder shrank, compressed to the size of a basketball.
Ron's eyes widened in disbelief, but he didn't stop. He flicked his wand and, with a burst of the Levitation Charm, hurled the shrunken stone directly at the basilisk.
As it sailed through the air, the magic broke—the rock expanded instantly back to its original size, slamming into the serpent's side with a deafening crack.
The impact was devastating. Flesh burst, black ichor spraying everywhere. The basilisk's body convulsed as the massive stone nearly tore it in half. Its colossal head slammed heavily against the floor, limp.
"Yes! Hahaha!" Ron shouted in triumph, his voice echoing across the chamber.
But Ted's instincts screamed danger. His heart dropped. "No—Ron, look out!"
Even broken and bloodied, the basilisk's head jerked up violently. The dying beast wasn't finished yet.
The vitality of a creature like a snake is strange and unnerving.
A basilisk, in particular, clung to life in ways that seemed impossible. Sometimes, if left to soak in wine for weeks, it could stir back to life. Even decapitated, its fangs could still deliver death.
Ron, careless in his relief, hadn't expected the basilisk to lash out again.
With one violent swing of its massive head, the basilisk snapped its jaws wide and struck—its mouth large enough to swallow Ron whole in a single gulp.
"Ron!" Harley screamed, her heart dropping.
"Ah!" Ted roared, summoning every ounce of his willpower. Psionic energy surged around him, condensing into a sharp, translucent spike that shot forward at impossible speed, piercing into the basilisk's head.
Mental Spikes!
The serpent's tongue, forked and glistening with venom, was already brushing against Ron's face when the psychic strike landed.
With a guttural screech of agony, the basilisk recoiled violently, shaking its massive head. The force of the movement flung Ron across the chamber like a ragdoll.
But Ron wasn't done. Even as he was hurled through the air, his hand fumbled and threw something—a faintly glowing stick, his battered old wand.
In the split-second before losing his grip on consciousness, Ron unleashed the one spell he had struggled with for weeks. The spell Tom Riddle had once shown him in arrogance—the Thunderbolt Explosion. His wand, cracked and nearly useless, shone with finality as he hurled it into the basilisk's gaping maw.
BOOM!
The basilisk's mouth erupted in a thunderous explosion, sending fragments of its fangs flying in all directions.
Seizing the chance, Ted used a tenfold Mage Hand, invisible and forceful, to yank Ron away to safety, dragging him several meters out of reach.
"Ron, are you alright?!" Ted dropped to his knees, supporting Ron's pale body.
Ron gasped, clutching his thigh. "M-My leg… hurts…!" His face twisted in pain where the serpent's strike had slammed him.
Then he froze. A hot, sticky sensation ran down his arm. Dark red blood trickled across his hand, dripping onto his leg.
"B-Blood?" Ron stammered, twisting his arm. A long gash, at least ten centimeters, carved across his flesh.
The wound wasn't deep, but the blood running from it shimmered a darker, unnatural red.
Ted's stomach clenched. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though his voice stayed steady. He quickly fished out a small vial from his pouch—a bubbling, light-green potion—and poured it into Ron's mouth.
Ron gagged and let out a strangled sound as the potion slid down his throat.
"It's the antidote," Ted assured firmly.
Ron's eyes widened. "I-I've been poisoned?"
"Yes. But don't panic, you've already taken the antidote. Just rest… sleep, and you'll be fine." Ted's voice softened, though worry gnawed at him.
Ron's head dropped as his eyelids fluttered. "Oh… alright then…" And with that, he slumped into unconsciousness.
The basilisk, writhing and weakened, was already spent. Tom Riddle's spectral form had begun to fade, his notebook falling lifelessly shut.
The battle was ending.
But Ted's fear was only beginning.
He shook Ron gently, then shouted, "Neville! Neville! Call for help!"
His homemade antidote could only delay basilisk venom—it couldn't cure it.
Neville, sprinting toward them, saw Ron's limp state and felt dread pierce his chest. "Who—who do I call?!" His voice shook as he met Ted's frantic eyes.
"Call someone! Call Dumbledore! Hurry! We need him!" Ted's composure cracked, his desperation spilling through. "NOW!"
Ron felt lighter in his arms—terrifyingly so. Ted's hands shook as he held him. It was as if the boy's very life was slipping away.
Neville's panic boiled over. He cupped his hands to his mouth, voice breaking as he screamed, "Dumbledore! Dumbledore! We need help! Somebody, please save Ron!"
Their friends came rushing over—Hermione, Jerry, Harley—all with fear written across their faces. Jerry stumbled forward, tears already streaking his cheeks. "What's happening to Ron?! What's wrong with him?!" His voice cracked as he reached out helplessly.
Ted's gaze locked on the far end of the chamber, his heartbeat hammering like a war drum.
A brilliant glow flared in the distance—a streak of crimson light, cutting through the gloom with breathtaking speed.
Relief crashed over Ted like a wave. His entire body sagged, knees threatening to buckle.
Hermione caught him, holding him upright.
A fiery red phoenix soared above them, its cry pure and echoing, carrying warmth through the cold chamber.
With a shimmer of golden light, something small and worn dropped from its claws, landing squarely on Neville's head.
"Ow!" Neville yelped, rubbing his scalp as the Sorting Hat tumbled into his hands.
But no one had eyes for the hat. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, landed gracefully before Ron. The bird's sapphire eyes glowed with compassion. Lowering its head, it pressed its beak gently to Ron's arm. Then, with a mournful song, it let fall glittering tears—tears bright as crystal.
Phoenix tears. The one cure for all poison, even that of the basilisk.
Ted's chest heaved. His vision blurred, the weight of fear and relief threatening to knock him out entirely.
"Dumbledore…" he whispered hoarsely, clutching Ron tighter. "I owe you one."
"Ha! Haha! Hahahaha! I get it now! I know why! So that's it… haha, hahahahaha!"
Tom's spirit, half a body and translucent, floated weakly in mid-air.
He could still laugh, but his strength was gone—he could no longer fight, only taunt.
Anzu staggered toward the diary, scooping it up with trembling claws before fluttering over to Ted and dropping it at his feet.
But the Raven's feathers were falling out in clumps—side effects from that promotion card. Ted frowned, hoping Anzu's feathers would grow back in time.
The diary landed beside Ted's boots, Tom's echoing laughter still ringing from within its pages.
"Keep laughing!" Ted shouted, his eyes blazing with fury.
Tom's smirk twisted wider. "Haha! I'm immortal! I made sure of it. You'll never defeat me, because—haha—I won't tell you how!"
"Shut it!" Ted snarled. He raised the gleaming sword of Gryffindor and, with a single furious strike, drove the blade down through the diary.
Ink spurted like blood, black and foul, spilling across the stone floor.
"AAAAHHH!" Tom shrieked, the most pitiful scream he had ever given. His figure warped and dissolved, vanishing into wisps of smoke.
At that moment, the chamber itself seemed to echo with strange chimes:
[Ding ~ You have slain the basilisk of a thousand years.]
[Ding ~ You have destroyed Voldemort's Horcrux diary.]
[Ding ~ Quest Complete: [Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets – Red] Reward granted.]
Ted forced himself to stay composed, crouching to scoop up the magical cards that scattered from the diary's destruction.
Their colors glowed brightly, though he didn't have time to study them.
He straightened, breathing heavily, and for a moment wore Tom's defeated expression as though it were his own.
His friends watched, dazed and uncertain. "Did we… win?" one of them whispered.
Nearby, Brother Cock and Anzu were circling Fawkes suspiciously, feathers bristling. "Who are you? Name yourself!"
The phoenix trilled softly, a beautiful, mournful song. "Coooo…"
Ted blinked, confused. "Wait—what sort of greeting is that?"
He muttered under his breath, "Back when I was ready to burn your ashes, would you have minded if I took a pinch for myself?"
The Sorting Hat, still perched on Neville's head, wobbled and spoke up cheerily, "Ha! Well done, lads! A true Gryffindor victory, one worthy of the sword itself!"
Then, as if unable to help itself, the Hat burst into song.
Its voice echoed off the stone walls, loud and terribly off-key.
Jerry groaned, cradling Ron's head carefully in his lap. "Can't you give it a rest? Or at least let us rest? Listening to you sing is worse than fighting two basilisks at once!"
The Sorting Hat sniffed indignantly. "Hmph! You've no taste at all. Gryffindor loved my singing!"
Everyone exchanged glances.
'Did Gryffindor really? Or was he just being polite?'
The journey back up from the Chamber was much harder than their descent. Going down had been easy—it was all downhill.
But climbing back up after such a brutal fight was punishing.
They were exhausted. Their magic drained, their bodies aching.
Ted's potions and enchanted bread gave them some strength, but not nearly enough.
Worse still, they had two unconscious burdens to carry: Ron and Malfoy.
Fortunately, Brother Cock and Fawkes helped guide the way.
Without them, the group might never have made it back to the surface.
Anzu, feathers half-shed, wasn't much help compared to Brother Cock, but he did his best to keep pace.
On the way up, they found Professor Lockhart, still dazed and useless. His memory charm gone wrong left him little more than a babbling child.
He was so uncooperative when carried on Brother Ji's back that Harley, nerves stretched thin, snapped.
With a swift strike of the flat of her blade, she knocked him unconscious.
Sure enough, Lockhart stayed blissfully asleep the rest of the climb. And honestly, that was the best version of him.
When at last they emerged from the Chamber, professors were already waiting—Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Flitwick.
Relief washed over the group at the sight of them.
Explanations could wait. The professors hurried to the injured first.
Malfoy's life force was dangerously depleted—if not treated immediately, he could suffer permanent damage.
Ron, though stable, had been weakened by the venom and still couldn't wake. He was rushed to the hospital wing for observation after a restorative potion was given.
And then there was Lockhart… who was, as McGonagall muttered under her breath,
"A bigger problem than any basilisk."
Hogwarts was not a nursery, and having to care for a grown man with a child's wits was a burden none of them wanted.
Professor McGonagall listened to Ted's hurried account, her eyes narrowing.
She didn't scold them—though she clearly wanted to. Instead, she spoke firmly, "This isn't the time for punishment. We must reach Dumbledore at once."
"Professor," Ted pressed urgently, "we need the Headmaster to take charge, and the truth must be told to the public. The school can't keep being slandered—we need to reclaim control of the story."
McGonagall's sharp eyes softened slightly. Still, she fixed him with a stern glare. "You will stay here and tend to your friends. Do not wander off again, Mr. Ted. I will contact the Headmaster—and the parents. This isn't over."
Ted watched as she swept away, Snape and Flitwick with her, already making arrangements.
The Weasleys and Lucius Malfoy would have to be notified.
There would be outrage, fear, politics—but for now, what mattered most was that they had survived.
Once, a hero of old had slain a white serpent and sparked the rise of empires.
Now, centuries later, a boy named Ted had cut down a basilisk deep beneath Hogwarts.
And the stars above seemed to tremble, as though acknowledging the shift in fate.
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Word count: 2707
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