Chapter 106: Moaning Myrtle 

To be honest, everything that had happened tonight had completely surpassed the professors' expectations.

First, Harold had been mysteriously petrified by some unknown Dark Magic within Hogwarts. Then he'd been struck by a ghostly unicorn, only to inexplicably recover moments later. And before they'd even had time to process any of it, Harold dropped yet another bombshell:

"A basilisk?"

Professor McGonagall echoed the word, stunned into silence.

Nearby, Professor Flitwick clutched at what little hair he had left.

Even Lockhart, for once, said nothing. He stood there dazed, seemingly trying to figure out which of his published adventures he could squeeze a basilisk into. But none of them really fit… also, what exactly was a basilisk again?

"You're saying… you saw a basilisk?" Dumbledore was the first to recover.

"Yes," Harold nodded. "A snake at least fifty feet long, with eyes the size of lightbulbs."

"Nonsense!"

Snape scoffed coldly. "There's no way a basilisk is hiding in Hogwarts. You must have been so terrified that you started hallucinating."

The other professors weren't as blunt, but their expressions clearly showed skepticism.

A basilisk? Those creatures had supposedly gone extinct centuries ago. And now Harold was saying he'd just seen one in the castle? It was hard to believe.

"But… according to the books, anyone who looks into a basilisk's eyes should die instantly," Dumbledore said softly. "Can you tell us how you survived?"

"The soul of the unicorn," Harold said. "I saw the basilisk through it. That's how I'm still alive."

"That sounds… quite plausible," Dumbledore nodded, glancing around.

The ghostly unicorn had disappeared. No one had noticed exactly when.

"So you knew not to look it in the eye? Or was it just a stroke of luck?"

"I—I read about basilisks," Harold admitted.

"So the vial of mandrake essence was yours, then?" Dumbledore asked, continuing, "The one meant for brewing the restorative potion?"

"Yes." Harold rolled up his sleeve, revealing a Mystic-Pattern Chameleon pouch. "I made this over the holiday. Mandrake juice is a key ingredient."

"Ah, a Mystic-Pattern Chameleon pouch," Dumbledore murmured, recognizing it immediately.

As an alchemist, he understood at a glance. Mandrake juice was essential in crafting such pouches. It made perfect sense that Harold would carry it around.

Then Dumbledore rose and began walking down the corridor. He suddenly stopped.

"We're going to the second floor."

"Dumbledore, you're not really buying this story, are you?" Snape snapped. "This could just be an elaborate prank. Someone may have simply used an unusual Petrification Charm on Mr. Ollivander."

It was clear Snape couldn't believe Harold had just miraculously recovered—without counter-curses or potions—simply by passing through a ghost. If it really had been a basilisk, how could it all end so easily?

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said kindly, "I'm inclined to believe Mr. Ollivander."

"But still—"

"I suggest you look at this," Dumbledore interrupted, bending down and picking something off the ground.

It was a small, greyish object, about the size of two coins.

"Snakeskin?" Snape identified it first.

The shredded outer layer of a snake. As a Potions Master, he knew it instantly. Many ingredients used it.

But why would there be a shed snakeskin in the middle of the castle?

And judging by the scale patterns—it belonged to something very large.

Could Harold be telling the truth after all?

Snape fell silent.

"Let's go," Dumbledore said grimly.

At his words, every staircase in Hogwarts shifted direction, forming a clear path straight to the second floor.

"Mr. Ollivander," Dumbledore turned to Harold, "we may be heading into danger. You've just survived a terrifying attack. I advise you return to the Gryffindor common room."

"I'm fine." Harold stood up immediately, dragging his broken arm behind him as he led the way. "I can guide you. It'll be quicker."

His determination was clear.

If he hadn't reacted fast enough… if he hadn't had the unicorn spirit stored in Silvermane… he could've been dead.

Or, at best, stuck as a statue for the rest of the term.

There was no way he was letting this go.

Besides, Harold couldn't shake the feeling that the basilisk had targeted him. He didn't know why—but once was more than enough.

He didn't care about the diary anymore.

But the basilisk had to die.

"Come back here, Mr. Ollivander—" McGonagall called after him, but Harold ignored her and picked up his pace.

"I'll protect him!" Lockhart called out. "I once killed a basilisk in Peru, you know. Planning to include it in my next book. Just leave this to me—"

"No need, Professor Lockhart," McGonagall said, brushing past him.

She had just started to chase after Harold when Dumbledore raised a hand to stop her.

"It's alright, Minerva," he said quietly. "Don't worry. No one will be harmed tonight."

His voice wasn't loud, but no one doubted its certainty.

If Harold had been there to look, he would've seen that the wand Dumbledore now held was not the one he remembered from last year.

"Let's go. Hopefully we'll resolve this before dawn."

Dumbledore climbed the staircase, then paused and turned. "Professor Lockhart, would you mind staying here? If any students are tempted to wander tonight, do remind them it's not a good time."

Lockhart had just lifted a foot to follow when Dumbledore's words landed.

He froze.

Of course he wanted to follow them—everyone knew that the safest place in the magical world was within ten feet of Albus Dumbledore.

But stay behind?

What if that thing came back?

"I, uh… I'd prefer to help, really…"

Dumbledore didn't wait for an answer.

The others followed.

When Lockhart found himself alone on the eighth floor, he hesitated only a moment—then gritted his teeth and ran straight back to his office.

Meanwhile, Harold had already reached the girls' bathroom on the second floor.

The professors weren't far behind.

"This is it," Harold said, pointing at the door. "The basilisk came from here."

His mind was full of the serpent—he didn't notice the strange looks some professors were giving him.

They had passed three corridors on the second floor. Harold hadn't hesitated at all. No pause. No need to think.

He'd led them here directly.

How did he know the location of a girls' bathroom so well? they wondered silently.

Had he been here before… many times?

"You're sure?" McGonagall finally asked.

He'd been petrified on the eighth floor, six levels up and across multiple corridors.

How had he outrun the basilisk all that way without them hearing anything?

"I saw it," Harold answered firmly.

He was the only witness—the only one who had faced the creature and survived. Whatever he said, no matter how absurd, had to be accepted.

Then Snape found another snakeskin—this one right in front of the bathroom.

Identical to the one from upstairs.

Clearly from the same serpent.

No one could deny it now.

Dumbledore glanced at Harold, who was having his broken arm bandaged by McGonagall.

"Stay close," he said, and pushed open the door.

A loud, high-pitched wail greeted them.

It was a ghost, sobbing on a toilet seat.

"Good evening, Miss Warren," Dumbledore said.

"Who's there!?"

The ghost lifted her head at the unfamiliar address.

She froze when she saw Dumbledore—completely forgetting she'd been crying.

"Oh, Headmaster! What brings you here?"

Moaning Myrtle floated toward him, hastily straightening her robes, completely ignoring the other professors.

"Something unfortunate happened at school tonight," Dumbledore said. "Can you tell me what had you so upset?"

"Someone was in my bathroom! They chased me out using some spell or something! They probably thought watching me get bullied by Peeves was hilarious!"

"And when did this happen?" Dumbledore asked.

Myrtle thought for a moment.

"About an hour ago, I think."

McGonagall frowned.

An hour ago?

So someone had come to this bathroom around 8 p.m.—just after the Halloween feast ended, when everyone should've returned to their dormitories.

Who would come all the way down to this bathroom?

Was someone controlling the basilisk?

The idea chilled McGonagall to the bone.

Someone had entered this bathroom… and then the basilisk emerged?

That couldn't be a coincidence.

But who was it?

A student? A teacher?

The thought that followed made her spine go cold. She clenched her fists tightly.