Chapter 223: Basilisks and the Ancient Tune
Dumbledore was momentarily stunned, then asked,
"So… the Black family inherited one of them?"
Phineas shook his head.
"No. According to the Slytherin diary I found at the Gaunt house, one of them was killed—and eaten—by the four founders."
Dumbledore looked dumbfounded. Eaten?
A basilisk—one of the most dangerous magical creatures in existence—was just a meal to the four founders?
Seeing the disbelief in Dumbledore's eyes, Phineas shrugged.
"Honestly, I can't believe it either. But the Gaunt family diary includes the account. Supposedly, it tasted pretty good."
Slytherin had been known to cultivate basilisks—something few dared to attempt. Their sheer size was already problematic, but their true danger lay in their lethal gaze. Like a physical manifestation of the Killing Curse, a basilisk's eyes could kill instantly. Not to mention their venom—rare and nearly unmatched in potency.
Even if one managed to raise such a beast, controlling it was another matter. Most who tried were killed before their creations could mature. Yet Slytherin managed to raise not one, but two. His ability to control them confirmed his deep connection to serpent-kind.
With such creatures at his command, Slytherin could have ruled half the magical world, especially in an era when witch hunts ran rampant.
And yet—he ate them.
Just because the four founders wanted to try basilisk meat.
Dumbledore changed the subject, though a trace of exasperation crossed his face.
"And the venom? Where did you get it?"
"In the Black family's vault," Phineas replied casually. "Probably collected by one of our ancestors. I found it in a pile of junk."
Dumbledore rolled his eyes. He immediately knew Phineas was lying. Basilisk venom degrades with time—exposure to air causes it to crystallize and eventually evaporate. Yet the vial Phineas had given him was perfectly preserved. Even sniffing it had made him slightly dizzy, indicating its potency was intact.
This venom hadn't been lying in a vault for centuries.
And besides, Dumbledore had a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black—Phineas's great-grandfather—hanging in his office. If the Black family had possessed something as rare as basilisk venom, that arrogant Headmaster would've certainly boasted about it.
Still, Dumbledore didn't press the issue. The fact that Phineas had access to fresh basilisk venom revealed plenty. Either he had a basilisk under his control—or he knew someone who did.
Given that the Black family carried diluted Slytherin blood, and Phineas had undergone blood sublimation last year, awakening his serpentine talent didn't seem impossible, however unlikely.
And if he didn't raise the basilisk himself, that narrowed down the list to a handful of obscure bloodlines in Europe—families known for speaking Parseltongue, such as the Gaunts and the Visissebalm lineage.
But in truth, the venom didn't come from any of those sources. Phineas had bought it through the System. When considering how to destroy Hufflepuff's golden cup, he'd browsed toxic substances—and discovered the same venom used in the destruction of the Horcrux in canon. It was an obvious choice.
During the recent System upgrade, he'd also stumbled upon other interesting items—like basilisk eggs. Yes, the very kind hatched under a toad, though some claimed it required a male egg. The debate was endless. Regardless, the Ministry had long banned basilisk breeding after too many ended up devouring their creators and then starving to death.
Seeing that Phineas wouldn't disclose the truth, Dumbledore dropped the subject. He uncorked the vial and, in Phineas's presence, slowly poured the venom onto Hufflepuff's golden cup.
The black liquid oozed over the cup's surface. Immediately, thick smoke hissed upwards. A tortured wail echoed through the room—a chilling scream that pierced the ears and sent a wave of dread, headache, and despair crashing over them.
From within the cup, a monstrous black head formed from the smoke and lunged toward Dumbledore and Phineas.
But they remained still, calm. The smoke dissipated before reaching them.
In that brief glimpse, Phineas saw a twisted, noseless figure thrashing and screaming. It was Voldemort—his soul fragment releasing its final dying cry.
Once the cry faded, the golden cup emitted a low hiss. Smoke continued to curl upward, not from the destroyed soul, but from the cup itself. The venom was burning through the metal.
Dumbledore quickly conjured a wide-mouthed container and carefully emptied the remaining venom into it. Once he confirmed no trace remained on the cup, he handed it back to Phineas.
As for the venom—it stayed with Dumbledore. A sample so rare, with only vague references in magical literature, had to be studied. As a potioneer and alchemist, he couldn't pass up the opportunity.
Phineas reminded him to be careful—it was dangerously toxic. Just a drop on skin could kill.
Strangely, when the venom first touched the golden cup, Phineas had felt a tremor in his soul—as though something cracked but didn't quite break. A sense of unease flooded him, as if a restless kitten were spinning inside his chest.
An irrational urge stirred in him—to return to the Black family's ancestral castle and demand answers from the elders. He knew they wouldn't tell him anything useful if something truly was wrong with his soul—but wizards were intuitive beings. And since awakening his Sight, Phineas had learned that these strange urges often meant something.
He decided he'd go back at the end of the term. Maybe even attempt another blood sublimation, however unlikely it was to work.
Cup in hand, Phineas didn't waste time. Christmas break wasn't over yet. After leaving Dumbledore's office, he summoned Puff and returned to the strange underground cave.
Examining the right sculpture carefully, he finally noticed a shallow groove—exactly the size of the golden cup's base. He placed the cup in the slot.
Nothing happened.
He waited. Still nothing.
Clearly, this wasn't the trigger to open Hufflepuff's legacy chamber. He'd destroyed a Horcrux, spent precious System points, and wasted an entire day for nothing.
Frustrated, Phineas searched the two sculptures again, growing more desperate. He nearly dismantled them piece by piece. Eventually, he noticed something—on the sculpture to the left, the cup it held contained some kind of liquid.
A clue.
Unlike the real golden cup, the sculpted one wasn't empty.
Could that be the key? Was he supposed to fill the real cup with the same liquid? But what was it? Did the specific liquid matter?
He tried a theory. Turning to Puff, he said,
"Go to the burial grounds beneath the Hogwarts kitchens—the place where house-elf remains are taken. Fill the golden cup with the corpse oil they use to refine the house-elf candles. Bring it back."
Given Hufflepuff's affinity for food and house-elves, it seemed worth a try.
Puff returned with the cup filled—but it didn't work. The chamber remained inert.
In hindsight, it was obvious. Corpse oil? On a banquet sculpture? The idea was absurd.
He was just too agitated to think clearly. Normally, he might've noticed the obvious detail about the liquid—or remembered that he could use his Sight to divine the correct method.
But frustration clouded everything.
And in his irritation, Phineas missed the next clue entirely.