41 - The Invitation

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The Basilisk—this ancient and formidable creature—was a treasure trove of powerful materials, each part imbued with immense value and magical significance.

Its resilient, gleaming scales formed an armor unlike any other, nature's own gift to ward off spells and strikes. These scales were the ideal foundation for crafting enchanted protective gear, highly sought after by wizards and warriors alike.

The deep crimson of its blood shimmered unnaturally, holding within it the power to augment spells, enhance potions, and weave enchantments beyond ordinary means. This was no mere beast—its very essence was magic incarnate.

Yet, despite the legends dismissing it, the Basilisk's flesh was a delicacy lost to time. Tender, infused with the strength of the monster itself, consuming it was said to fortify the body and sharpen the mind. Few ever dared to claim such a feast, but those who did never remained the same.

But the true prizes—the Basilisk's haunting eyes, which held the power of instant death, and its venom-dripping fangs, sharpened to pierce both flesh and magic—these were beyond value. To possess even one of them was to wield an unparalleled weapon.

Wes stood over the enormous corpse, his breath measured but heavy. He had slain the beast, but now came the challenge of harvesting its remains. His hands were steady, yet his heart pounded with the weight of the task before him. The great golden eyes, now dull and lifeless, still held the echoes of their former menace. He carefully extracted them, treating them with the reverence of a sacred relic.

With utmost caution, he placed the eyes into a specialized magic container, ensuring their vitality would not fade. One day, they would become a tool of immense power—whether for defense or destruction was yet to be determined.

The Basilisk's fangs were next. Long, curved, and brimming with venom that even the strongest antidotes struggled to counteract, they were perfect. Wes envisioned them reforged, honed into twin daggers that would carry the beast's deadly legacy forward.

Sweat lined his forehead as he worked, the task grueling. The Basilisk's massive form was difficult to maneuver, and even with the assistance of magic, hours passed before he had gathered the most valuable materials. By the end, his robes were soaked, his body aching, and the stench of the creature clung to him like a second skin.

The moment he returned to his chambers, he stripped off his ruined clothes and stepped into a steaming bath. The warmth seeped into his weary muscles, washing away both the filth and the tension of the night. As he exhaled deeply, he allowed himself a brief moment of respite.

Yet peace was fleeting.

When he emerged, dressed in fresh robes, he found two figures waiting outside his door—Dumbledore, his ever-serene presence unwavering, and Lucius Malfoy, his features composed but betraying a flicker of unease.

"Everyone in the Ministry is gone?" Wes asked quietly, meeting Dumbledore's gaze.

The old wizard gave a slight nod.

Wes opened the door and gestured for them to enter. The room, dimly lit by a single lantern, cast elongated shadows over the polished wood.

Dumbledore, ever at ease, sank into a chair, his fingers absently running through his silver beard. "Hagrid's name has been cleared," he announced, his voice warm with satisfaction. "For once, the Ministry has done the right thing."

Though pleased, he could not resist a wry remark. "Stupid politicians finally managed to stumble upon competence."

Wes allowed himself a small smirk but said nothing. The battle was far from over. The Basilisk was vanquished, but the true enemy still lurked in the shadows.

Dumbledore placed an old, worn diary on the table between them. The room's temperature seemed to drop slightly as it landed with an almost imperceptible weight.

"Ordinary weapons and magic cannot harm it," Dumbledore murmured. "I have tested it myself. Tom Riddle's Horcrux is resilient."

Wes met his gaze, unwavering. "I don't use ordinary weapons."

Without hesitation, he withdrew one of the Basilisk's fangs, its lethal tip gleaming ominously in the dim light. With a swift motion, he plunged it into the diary.

A sharp, tearing sound echoed in the room as black ink spurted like blood. The diary trembled violently in protest, and then—flames. Black fire erupted from its pages, coiling and writhing as though alive. The scent of something ancient, something malevolent, filled the air.

Tom Riddle's spectral form emerged in the fire, his eyes burning with hatred and fear. He struggled, as if reaching out to grasp at life, but the destruction was absolute. The diary crumbled, and with it, the echo of a dark past.

Dumbledore remained calm, his expression unreadable. Wes, too, stood firm. But Lucius—Lucius trembled. His fingers clenched at his sides, his breath uneven. He had chosen to betray Voldemort, but the fear embedded in his soul was not so easily cast aside.

Wes noted the slight quiver in Lucius's stance. If he were to infiltrate Voldemort's ranks, he could not afford to show weakness. A single misstep, a single moment of hesitation, and the Dark Lord would see through him.

Without a word, Wes reached into his pocket and tossed a ring toward Lucius. The older man caught it, frowning at the deep sapphire embedded within.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

"A tool," Wes replied. "It will help you shield your thoughts. Occlumency. If you go to Voldemort in your current state, you won't last a day."

Lucius slid the ring onto his finger. He muttered something about needing time to adjust, but Wes simply nodded. He understood. Fear was a powerful thing, but so was resolve.

"Voldemort won't stop at this diary," Wes said, turning back to Dumbledore. "We need to find the rest of his Horcruxes before he returns."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled with something like pride. "Indeed," he mused. "Tom Riddle is nothing if not a perfectionist. This diary was only the beginning."

A moment of quiet settled between them, but the battle had only just begun.

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Two weeks later, the Daily Prophet's front page sent ripples through the wizarding world.

"SHOCKING DISCOVERY: A THOUSAND-YEAR-OLD MONSTER HIDING WITHIN HOGWARTS!"

"MINISTER FUDGE, BRAVE AND FEARLESS, LEADS THE CHARGE TO SLAY THE BASILISK!"

The articles were filled with praise for Cornelius Fudge, painting him as the hero of the hour. Nowhere in the pages was Wes's name mentioned. Dumbledore, too, was condemned—branded as irresponsible, blind to the dangers lurking under his own school.

Some parents sent furious Howlers. Others threatened to withdraw their children from Hogwarts altogether. The panic was palpable.

Yet Dumbledore, ever the tactician, soothed the unrest with effortless finesse. Watching him work, Wes understood why the Ministry feared him. Power was not merely about magic—it was about influence, about control. And Dumbledore, in his quiet, calculated way, wielded both with precision.

Meanwhile, the students of Hogwarts were alight with newfound curiosity, their minds filled with tales of the Chamber of Secrets. Gryffindors formed search parties, convinced they could uncover its mysteries. Even Quidditch was momentarily forgotten in the frenzy.

But Dumbledore had already sealed the chamber's true entrance. The students would search in vain.

As Christmas approached, Wes received an unexpected invitation.

From the Weasley family.

For the first time in a long while, he found himself hesitating.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this war had not completely stolen the warmth of the world from him.