Chapter 105: The Basilisk Appears

The time Harold had recorded all the ghostly information, it was already 9 p.m. The Headless Hunt had just started another round of Headless Hockey, drawing away most of the ghosts. Harold took the chance to slip out of the dungeon classroom. Maybe there were more leads to be found, but three ghosts were plenty for now.

More importantly, curfew was fast approaching.

Harold wasn't too worried about Filch, but the dungeons were still Snape's territory—and he was a Gryffindor. Better to play it safe.

Especially after hearing about what Harry and Ron went through—Harold had no intention of ending up in detention.

Besides, the dungeon was freezing. His limbs felt numb and sluggish. All he wanted now was to get back to the common room and warm up by the fire.

Outside, he spotted that same melancholy ghost again but didn't stop. Instead, he quickened his pace through the dark corridor, heading toward the stairs to the Entrance Hall.

The candlelight on either side flickered dimly, barely more than pinpricks. With the wind blowing, they were practically useless for illumination.

"Lumos," Harold muttered, and a soft glow bloomed from his wand, finally lighting the staircase ahead.

When he reached the Entrance Hall, warmth flooded through his body. The frost clinging to his hair melted instantly, and his damp hair stuck to his forehead uncomfortably.

He wiped it off with his pointed hat and hurried toward the stairs.

The Entrance Hall at 9 p.m. was utterly empty. Even the portraits seemed to be asleep. Moonlight spilled through the doors, casting long shadows from the suits of armor.

Why does this feel so eerie? Harold thought, a sudden tension building in his chest. He quickened his pace toward the marble staircase.

His footsteps echoed through the vast, empty space, and underneath them—faintly—he could swear he heard another sound: a soft, slithering scrape.

But when he stopped to listen closely, the sound vanished.

The unease in his chest grew. Was it real? Or just nerves after spending so long with ghosts in the cold dungeon?

No time to figure it out now—he sprinted up the marble steps and didn't stop until he reached the eighth floor.

Only then did he slow down, breathing hard, leaning on the banister.

Whether it was real or imagined, it didn't matter. He was on the eighth floor now. Dumbledore's office was here. No one would dare—

"MRRROWWWW!"

A blood-curdling cat scream split the air behind him.

Harold flinched, reflexively turning toward the sound.

And in that moment, two glowing yellow orbs appeared in the darkness before him—bulging, luminescent eyes the size of lightbulbs.

At the same time, the slithering sound returned, clear now, as something enormous scraped its way down the narrow hallway.

A basilisk.

No doubt about it.

Harold froze, resisting the instinct to turn and stare.

But how?

He'd checked—there were no blood-red messages on the walls, Mrs. Norris was fine, Harry hadn't heard strange voices… everything had seemed normal. So why had the basilisk suddenly appeared—without warning—and here, on the eighth floor, right outside Dumbledore's office?

And why attack him, a pure-blood wizard?

A thousand questions flooded his mind—but there was no time.

Run.

He felt like he was back in first year, being chased across the fourth floor by a crazed Fluffy. Only now it was the eighth floor, and the three-headed dog had been replaced by something far worse.

The basilisk.

Harold dared not look back, only ducked his head and ran, stumbling down the corridor as fast as he could.

But he was only twelve—he had no chance of outrunning a basilisk. So he prepared to do what he'd done before: use the moving staircases to slow it down.

Just like he had with Fluffy last year.

But he forgot—Fluffy had been berserk, mindless. The basilisk wasn't.

He had barely turned toward the stairs when a massive tail swung at him from behind.

As thick as an oak trunk and glowing with venomous green light, the tail smashed into Harold and flung him into a wall.

Pain shot through his arm. When he managed to stagger upright, the basilisk was only steps away. He could smell its putrid, bloody stench.

He knew it must have its jaws open now, lunging for him.

It had all happened so fast—he was only now raising his wand.

A blue unicorn burst from the wandtip and galloped toward the basilisk.

Harold knew it wouldn't win. Not against a basilisk. Even a living unicorn couldn't match such a creature—what chance did a spectral one have?

But it might buy him time.

Through the glowing blue form of the unicorn, Harold finally saw the basilisk's cold, yellow eyes.

His vision blurred. His body went rigid.

Clink.

A small vial slipped from his frozen fingers and shattered on the stone floor.

The basilisk, poised to strike, halted.

It raised its upper body high, scanning for prey.

But Harold—now turned to stone—gave off no scent, no warmth. To the basilisk, he was just another statue. It wouldn't waste venom on that.

Instead, it noticed the unicorn.

Though Harold was petrified, his summoned Patronus was still glowing, still charging the basilisk, lowering its horn like a lance.

It passed straight through the serpent.

The basilisk hissed in pain, as if scalded. It tried to bite the unicorn, only to hiss again—like it had snapped at boiling steam.

Enraged but wary, the basilisk fled. But the unicorn chased it down the corridor, refusing to relent.

Soon, they vanished—leaving only the petrified Harold slumped on the floor.

And though he couldn't move, Harold found the state... strange. He could still feel his wand in hand, the familiar touch of wood against his fingers—this wasn't like total unconsciousness.

He saw a cat dash up from the lower floors and leap onto his lap.

It was Tom.

So that cat screech... that must've been him, Harold realized.

Thank goodness Tom hadn't seen the basilisk directly.

Harold wanted to pet him, but his arms wouldn't move.

Then he felt wind brush against his fingers. Was that Silvermane?

He sat there, frozen, for what felt like a full minute.

Then came the sound of running footsteps—finally, the professors had arrived.

The first wasn't Dumbledore, as Harold had hoped, but Professor McGonagall.

She scowled at the unmoving figure.

"Get up, Mr. Ollivander, what are you doing in the corridor—oh Merlin, what is this!?"

"Petrification," Snape said as he stepped forward, voice like ice. "Perhaps young Mr. Ollivander tried to stop another student from sneaking out after hours."

He didn't name names—but everyone knew he meant Harry.

Last year, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had petrified Neville to sneak out past curfew. Every professor here knew the story.

"But it's not curfew yet, Severus," McGonagall countered.

"Even so, using a Petrification spell on a classmate is no small offense," Snape said, placing his wand on Harold's chest.

Tom instantly bristled. His back arched, fangs bared.

"Back off, you stupid cat, I'm helping him," Snape growled.

"I'll handle it," McGonagall said, transforming into a tabby cat.

But before she could act, Tom instantly relaxed and stepped aside.

A brief, awkward silence followed.

"Let's get this over with," Snape muttered.

He waved his wand—silver light enveloped Harold.

"Who did this to you?" Snape asked smugly.

Harold, of course, said nothing—he was still stone.

Snape frowned, casting again. This time a soft blue light.

"Finite Incantatem!"

But the spell fizzled against Harold's body.

Nothing happened.

Snape's expression twitched.

And Tom—Tom the cat—was now looking at him with a smirk.

Was he being laughed at... by a cat?

Just then, Lockhart and Flitwick arrived, followed by a belated Dumbledore—finally breaking the tension.

Even Dumbledore couldn't reverse the petrification.

He examined Harold carefully, tapping him gently with his wand.

"This is... a very advanced form of Dark Magic," Dumbledore murmured.

"Dark Magic?!" McGonagall gasped, hand to her chest. "Are you saying a student was attacked with Dark Magic inside the school!?"

"Absolutely preposterous—who could have—?"

"I'm afraid only Mr. Ollivander knows," Dumbledore said quietly.

"If only I'd been here," Lockhart lamented. "I wrote about something just like this in Wagadou—page 312 in my memoir..."

McGonagall ignored him and pressed Dumbledore again.

"What's his condition?"

"Completely petrified."

"No cure?"

"There is a way," Dumbledore said. "Professor Sprout recently acquired some mandrakes. Once they mature, we can brew a Restorative Draught."

"Yes," Sprout nodded. "But they're still young. It'll take time."

"I'll handle the potion," Lockhart offered. "I—"

"With all due respect," Snape interrupted coldly, "that may not be necessary."

He held up a vial he'd found nearby—uncorked.

Mandrake essence.

"Not fresh," Snape noted, "but viable."

The professors exchanged baffled looks.

How convenient. Dumbledore had just said mandrake essence was needed—and now here it was, lying nearby, like someone had left it there on purpose.

But who?

Surely not the attacker.

"In any case, this is good news," Dumbledore said. "Let's move him to my office."

With a flick of his wand, Harold floated gently into the air.

The professors parted to make way—revealing something unexpected.

"A unicorn?" McGonagall blinked. "Dumbledore, does the school have a unicorn ghost?"

Dumbledore didn't answer—he was as confused as the rest.

Then, under the professors' stunned gazes, the ghostly unicorn charged.

It bolted forward, head lowered.

None of them could stop it.

With a powerful crash, it rammed into Harold.

Thump-thump.

A heartbeat echoed through the corridor.

Warmth burst through Harold's chest, spreading out like fire. In his ears, the sound of shattering glass rang.

He could move again.

And he fell—right onto his broken arm.

"AAAAH!"

The pain made him scream.

Wait. He screamed?

He was no longer stone.

Staggering up, ignoring the agony in his arm, Harold shouted:

"A basilisk! It was a basilisk that attacked me!"

He turned to Dumbledore, shouting over the stunned silence:

"I saw it! It came from the second-floor girls' bathroom—third corridor on the left. The one that always leaks. There's a ghost inside called Moaning Myrtle!"

…

(End of Chapter)