Hogwarts Raven (Harry Potter)

The basilisk's corpse lay still and silent.

Though its flesh had yet to decay, all blood, sinew, and magical essence had been drained from the body, leaving its once-priceless hide stripped of any potion-worthy properties. Whoever had slain the ancient serpent had ensured that not a single drop of useful substance remained.

To Ian, this was nothing short of a tragedy. He had always treated the basilisk as one of his most treasured possessions, only to discover, with no warning, that it had been killed and harvested by another hand.

"Tom! It has to be Tom! There's no one else it could be!"

The foul mixture of mildew, moisture, and the metallic tang of blood filled the air, making Ian's grip tighten on his wand, knuckles pale with fury.

He had brewed countless potions specifically tailored to basilisk care, ranging from Quick Regeneration Potions to the Thrice-Daily Shedding Elixir, and even a rarely tested Rapid Fang Rejuvenation Tonic. All of these carefully crafted brews, developed through painstaking magical experimentation, were now utterly useless.

The basilisk of the Chamber was no more.

Where else could Ian possibly hope to find such a rich trove of magical potion ingredients? If one were to calculate the value of raising a basilisk across six generations, the loss easily amounted to several hundred thousand, if not millions, of Galleons.

"That wretched Tom Riddle could rise from the grave a thousand times over, and it still wouldn't repay me for what I've lost," Ian muttered bitterly as he lifted his wand and solemnly conjured an earth-burial charm over the remains.

The dim corridor ahead loomed in silence. Since he was already here, Ian decided it wouldn't hurt to explore the Slytherin Chamber further and see whether anything of value had been left behind.

Every little magical relic counted.

As for skipping his first class of the school year, Ian wasn't particularly worried. Surely Professor Flitwick would be more than willing to excuse a top student's absence with the right explanation.

Top-performing students enjoyed a certain degree of leniency, and Ian was counted among the very best. Professor Flitwick had even once signed a medical leave slip for him, for an ailment that didn't technically exist.

"Tap tap tap~"

His footfalls echoed sharply through the ancient stone passage, splashing water across the dust-laden air. The entirety of the Chamber was steeped in a cold, haunting silence.

Only the crisp sound of Ian's footsteps remained, mingled now and again with the soft drip drip drip of water trickling through ancient cracks in the ceiling, its echoes dancing across this underground vault that had stood sealed for nearly a millennium.

"The damp in this Chamber must be dreadful," Ian murmured as he came to the end of the secret path.

After turning several corners, he came face-to-face with what appeared to be a solid stone wall.

It was no ordinary wall. This one had clearly been wrought with meticulous enchantment: intricate runes woven between the carvings of two giant serpents coiling around each other. The snakes' eyes were set with massive, glinting emeralds, gleaming with a magical light not unlike the glow of the Killing Curse.

Perhaps through powerful transfiguration or ancient enchantment, the serpents appeared lifelike, their stony bodies molded with such detail that they seemed poised to strike. They clung to the wall like predators lurking in plain sight, and their carved eyes watched intruders with cold calculation. Anyone who stood before them might almost swear they heard a low, ominous "siiiiii" hissing in their ears.

"Open," Ian said calmly.

At once, the Chamber began to tremble. Mechanisms deep within the walls groaned into motion, and dust cascaded down from the vaulted ceiling.

Not a single speck landed on Ian's robes.

"That's far too much dust to have gathered in just a few decades," he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he stepped back slightly.

With a thunderous crack, the stone parted, the gateway splitting open to reveal a space shrouded in deep gloom.

The rusted creak of ancient hinges soon faded into silence.

Before him stretched a narrow corridor, leading directly into a high-vaulted room. On either side of the path were deep black pools, their surfaces perfectly still.

Massive stone columns rose from the water, supporting a vast crystal chandelier overhead. The ancient fixture still held enchanted candles, flames burning steady and bright even after a thousand years, untouched by time or moisture.

The firelight, refracted through the intricately crafted crystal, bathed every corner of the Chamber in a warm, flickering glow, clearly enhanced by enchantments that mimicked certain optical principles even Muggle scholars would appreciate.

The serpentine carvings coiled around the stone pillars seemed to writhe in the dancing light, taking on the semblance of Horned Serpents gliding silently through the black waters of the pools.

"Who says wizards are hopeless with logic and runic theory? Looks to me like old Slytherin had a fair head for both," Ian muttered, stepping inside with his wand held at the ready.

After all, no one could say what might leap out from the shadows. Things had already strayed far from the tales he recalled about Hogwarts, and caution had long since become second nature.

As Ian pressed forward, the ghostly wisps of residual magic drifted calmly, showing no sign of disturbance. He made his way straight to the far end, where a grand sculpture stood level with the floor of the Chamber.

It was the likeness of an ancient man with a pointed nose and simian features, his beard, a thin but impressively long tuft, cascading to the stone below.

Perched upon two grey feet etched into the polished floor, he gazed downward, casting a cold, disdainful eye on the small figure at his base. His proud expression seemed untouched by the passage of a thousand years.

The craftsmanship was remarkable; even the beard bore fine texture and depth, a testament to the sculptor's skill. It was far more refined than the brute grandeur of the statues buried deeper within the lower dungeons.

"Salazar Slytherin," Ian said under his breath, immediately recognising the founder. Among the four, it wasn't Gryffindor who held the crown for vanity; it was this sly old man who had once tricked him most shamelessly.

"Move aside, you smug old fossil," Ian muttered, giving the statue a light kick. He then raised his wand, ready to cast a more advanced version of the Unlocking Charm. By rights, the door was meant to open at the phrase, 'Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four,' spoken in Parseltongue, but Ian had long since refused to flatter the man who'd once deceived him with silver-tongued riddles.

Fortunately, he had spent his summer perfecting the spell. During his studies in the Twilight Realm, his secret sanctum where the spirits of the most revered witches and wizards whispered their knowledge, he had awakened a powerful trait called Deconstructing All Things, which allowed him to unravel bindings of nearly any kind with raw magical force.

Ordinarily, the Unlocking Charm only opened mundane locks, but Ian's had transcended such boundaries. His version could dismantle magical wards, unlock soul-binds, and even undo mental enchantments.

As long as something held the symbolism of a "lock" and "key," he could open it. Like other awakened traits passed down in whispers through ancient magical legacies, this power stood beyond the boundaries of conventional spellwork.

"Alohomora."

Ian's spell surged forth.

He didn't waste time calculating the intricacies of the mechanism. The barrier before him, built by Slytherin himself, was far from complex; after all, it had been meant for Parselmouths, not master enchanters.

To a worthy heir, Slytherin only wished to hear a few flattering words. He had never imagined that someone with so little reverence for his legacy would be the one to enter.

With a low rumble and an echoing creak, the statue's mouth stretched open, revealing a shadowed cavity behind it. This was the serpent's lair, where the basilisk had once slept.

It was also rumoured to be the true heart of Slytherin's secret chamber. Ian had heard as much from the phantoms he conversed with in the Twilight Realm. Without hesitation, he slipped through the opening, now unguarded by tooth or gaze.

A wave of damp, stale air met him inside, thick with the smell of earth and mildew, untouched by candlelight.

(To Be Continued…)

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