Ch: 22

Four months had passed since the attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick.

During that time, there had been no new incidents, and Hogwarts gradually began to regain its vitality. There's a saying: "Once past your throat, you forget the heat," and the students were trying to forget their fear of the heir in much the same way.

The culprit still hadn't been found, and most students had convinced themselves—without any real basis—that he never would be.

However, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Edith continued their investigation, determined to uncover the heir's identity.

Easter was no exception. Just like every other day, the four of them huddled around a library table, sharing theories and discoveries.

"Maybe we should ask Hagrid after all," Ron said, closing his book with a frustrated thud. "We're getting nowhere as things stand."

They were currently investigating the monster's true identity. Two possibilities remained: the furry creature Harry had seen in Tom Riddle's diary, and the snake Edith had theorized about. The former seemed more likely—after all, Harry had actually witnessed it in recorded memories from the past, while Edith's snake was mere speculation.

At the very least, they knew the furry creature existed.

If it was indeed Slytherin's monster, then Hagrid would know it best.

"But do you really want to ask him about getting expelled?" Harry's voice carried obvious reluctance, and Edith nodded in agreement.

The expulsion was the last thing Hagrid wanted to remember. Whenever they'd tried to bring it up before, he'd deliberately changed the subject. They really didn't want to force him to relive that pain.

"Actually," Hermione said, flipping through her book, "I'd like to investigate this 'snake' theory Edith mentioned."

"Come on, Hermione, that's just speculation," Ron protested. "We should focus on the furry thing Harry actually saw."

"Ron's right, but..." Hermione paused, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Something about it bothers me."

She had Harry's eyewitness account of a furry creature and Edith's theory about a snake. Strangely, she found herself leaning toward the latter. She couldn't explain why, but when she'd heard the word "snake," something had clicked in the back of her mind—like a puzzle piece she couldn't quite place.

"Well, hopefully the monster stays quiet," Harry said, his mood brightening. "We have Quidditch next week."

"Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff," Edith added with a dejected sigh. "I suppose Gryffindor will take the Cup this year."

Harry couldn't hide his excitement for the match, while Edith's disappointment was obvious. Slytherin had already lost to Gryffindor, and their path to victory looked increasingly unlikely. Of course, if Gryffindor lost to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, Slytherin might still have a chance—but it was a slim hope at best.

Harry's talent was so exceptional that even Mirabelle acknowledged it. No ordinary player could compete with him.

As they talked, time slipped away. Hermione glanced at her watch and stood up.

"It's almost time for class."

"Oh, is it that late already?" Harry gathered his books.

"See you later, Edith," Hermione called as she left the library with Harry and Ron.

Edith followed behind them toward their joint class with Ravenclaw. She walked through the unnecessarily long corridor and up the staircase filled with its usual magical tricks and traps.

Halfway there, she heard a strange sound—something sliding, scraping against stone.

What was that?

She lifted her head and looked around, but saw nothing unusual. The corridors were nearly empty; most students had already headed to their classrooms.

Then the sound came again—that unmistakable slithering—and Edith's heart lurched.

It's not my imagination!

Her first thought was Peeves playing a prank. But she quickly dismissed the idea. After Mirabelle had thoroughly beaten him in their first year, the poltergeist generally avoided her and her friends.

Next, she considered Malfoy, but that felt wrong too. She couldn't explain it rationally, but a bone-deep chill had settled over her. Something inside her was screaming warnings.

This was no simple prank.

I don't know what's happening, but I need to get out of here!

Following her instincts, Edith ran. She needed to find teachers—anyone in authority. She sprinted down the corridor, not caring about being out of breath, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

But the slithering sound persisted, and worse—it seemed to be following her.

"At this rate...!"

Edith changed direction, heading for a window. Classes could wait; losing house points was a small price to pay for survival. She'd go outside, get to the equipment shed where the first-years kept their training brooms, and escape into the sky. Whatever was pursuing her couldn't follow her there.

She reached the window and placed her hands on the frame, ready to push it open.

That's when she saw it—reflected in the glass like a dark mirror.

"I see it," she whispered.

A strangled sound escaped her throat.

Behind her loomed a massive serpent, easily fifteen meters long, with a crimson tongue flicking from its mouth. Its slimy green scales caught the dim light, and vertical yellow pupils burned with ancient malice.

The moment their eyes met—even through the reflection—Edith lost all control of her body.

Sensation drained from her fingers and toes as consciousness began to fade. In her final moments of clarity, she realized she'd been right all along.

But the revelation came too late. She wouldn't have time to tell Hermione the truth.

"Mira...Belle..." The name slipped from her lips in a barely audible whisper.

Whether it was an unconscious cry for help or simply a final thought, even she couldn't say.

Before she could ponder it further, darkness claimed her. Her body hardened like stone, and she collapsed to the floor.

The school erupted into chaos—worse than four months ago.

What terrified the students most wasn't just that the monster had struck again, but that the victim was a Slytherin. They'd assumed the "Slytherin Monster" would only target non-Slytherins, but that assumption had been shattered.

Even Slytherin students panicked, creating an atmosphere of uncontrollable terror.

"W-why?!" voices cried out. "Slytherin students weren't supposed to be attacked!"

"Why would the Heir of Slytherin attack one of their own?"

"I can't stay here anymore! I'm going home!"

Screams echoed through the corridors as students clustered together, chattering frantically. At the center of the commotion lay Edith's petrified form, eyes wide open, silent as carved marble. No one dared approach; they formed a wide circle around her, keeping their distance even when teachers tried to intervene.

The panicked students refused to listen, only growing louder and more hysterical.

Then a single voice cut through the chaos—clear, commanding, impossible to ignore.

"Stop panicking, you fools."

Even amid the uproar, every word reached their ears with crystal clarity. The students fell silent, as if the voice itself held magical power—the absolute authority of a ruler's command.

Only one person in the school could achieve such an effect.

"Make way."

"Lady Mirabelle!" someone gasped.

The owner of that commanding voice—Mirabelle Beresford—pushed through the crowd with regal certainty. Students scrambled aside as she entered the circle and knelt beside Edith's fallen form.

She checked the symptoms methodically, confirming that her friend was alive, not dead.

The Slytherin monster—the Basilisk's gaze—was deadly beyond measure. Direct eye contact meant instant death. But indirect contact, such as seeing its reflection, reduced the effect to petrification rather than death.

Edith had seen the basilisk's eyes reflected in the window. That's what saved her life.

But why had she been targeted?

"B-Beresford! What's happening here?!" Malfoy's voice cracked with fear.

"It's simple," Mirabelle replied quietly. "The monster attacks those who aren't pure-blooded. Slytherin students were no exception."

Her answer was matter-of-fact, almost clinical. If you thought about it rationally, Edith's attack made perfect sense.

"She wasn't pure-blooded."

Looking back, the signs had been there from the beginning. Mirabelle remembered their first meeting at last year's Sorting Ceremony with perfect clarity.

"You had quite the presence during the sorting... Do you come from some special background?"

"My name is Edith Reinagle. I come from three generations of pure blood."

The first thing Edith had done was ask about Mirabelle's background, then immediately emphasize her own pure-blood status. Even then, it had seemed strange—desperate, almost, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as others.

"I'm pure-blood, so please don't discriminate against me."

In Slytherin, those without pure blood were called "tainted" and faced cruel discrimination. Edith had known this, which explained her unnatural introduction.

Mirabelle recalled a conversation from months earlier: "There are students in Slytherin who aren't pure-bloods, but they never admit it. Some spend their entire school career pretending, lying about their heritage, mocking Muggle-borns alongside the others, all while secretly fearing discovery."

The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. Edith's behavior had been practically a cry for attention—as if she'd wanted someone to see through the lie and accept her anyway.

Perhaps she'd hoped someone would notice and affirm her true worth.

But that vulnerability, that desperate hope Edith had revealed, had been mercilessly crushed by Mirabelle's cutting words. That's why the distance between them had grown, why they'd become estranged.

"I see! So Reinagle had impure blood after all," Malfoy said, his voice gaining confidence. "Well, it's only natural she'd be attacked. Filthy pure-blood pretender—"

His words cut off abruptly.

Without warning, it felt as if his head had been severed from his shoulders.

What?!

No—his neck was still intact! But for one terrifying moment, the killing intent directed at him had been so intense, so absolute, that he'd been certain he was about to die.

And it wasn't just his imagination. If he'd continued speaking, Malfoy was convinced it really would have happened.

Without even glancing at the frozen boy, Mirabelle lifted Edith's motionless body into her arms.

"I take back what I said, Reinagle," she murmured softly. "Mine were the despicable thoughts of a coward."

She cradled Edith carefully and swept her gaze across the surrounding crowd. Students retreated under that golden stare as if pushed by an invisible force.

Then she walked away as if nothing had happened, leaving the scene behind.

No one dared call out to her. Right now, she looked so dangerous that touching her felt like an invitation to be cut down where they stood.

A week later, the day all students had been anticipating arrived: Quidditch day.

Students filled the stands while players prepared on the pitch. Despite the festive atmosphere, Hermione remained in the library, buried in research.

She had good reason. The Slytherin monster's true identity had finally been revealed.

"I knew it," she whispered. "Edith was right."

The book before her depicted a massive serpentine creature—the Basilisk, feared as the King of Serpents. A monster so terrible that mere eye contact could steal your life.

It had taken far too long to reach this conclusion. She should have arrived at this answer when Edith first suggested a snake. But Hermione hadn't quite believed her—she'd harbored doubts that Edith, as a Slytherin, might be trying to mislead them.

What cruel irony. It had taken Edith's petrification to make her finally listen.

"Excuse me," a voice said nearby. "Aren't you from Gryffindor? What are you doing here? The Quidditch match is about to start."

Hermione looked up to see an older Ravenclaw student with a prefect's badge—Penelope Clearwater, if she remembered correctly. The girl's expression showed obvious disappointment at missing the game.

"Prefect!" Hermione exclaimed, relief flooding her voice. "Thank goodness!"

"Pardon?"

"You need to tell the teachers immediately! The Slytherin monster's true identity—it's a Basilisk!"

Penelope gasped at the unexpected revelation.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes! We need to inform the staff right away!"

Knowing the creature's identity would make defensive measures possible. Professor McGonagall should be told immediately so she could alert the entire school. Simply knowing not to look directly at it would dramatically increase survival odds.

"Y-yes, let's go at once."

"Wait, take this first." Hermione handed her a small mirror. "The most dangerous moment when fighting a Basilisk is turning corners. If it's waiting around a bend, you can't help but make eye contact. But with a mirror, you can check safely—and even if it's there, you'll only be petrified instead of killed."

"Use this when you turn corners," she instructed.

"I understand."

The precautions were in place. All that remained was reaching the teachers. The two girls walked cautiously from the library, mirror in hand.

As they approached the first corner, Penelope raised the mirror to check their path.

But just as she did, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Stop it, Granger."

Hermione's blood ran cold. She turned to see Mirabelle leaning against the wall, arms crossed, wearing her characteristic mocking smile.

"You don't want to end up like that woman, do you?" Mirabelle nodded toward the prefect.

"What—?"

Hermione spun around to find Penelope collapsed on the floor, motionless as stone. She'd been moving just moments ago, but now she lay like a corpse.

The implication hit Hermione like a physical blow.

Her face went white. "No way..."

"Yes, it's around that corner," Mirabelle confirmed. "Close your eyes. Now."

Without hesitation, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and dropped to a crouch.

Confirming this, Mirabelle also closed her eyes and stepped forward to face the Basilisk.

Though she couldn't see, it didn't matter. The pressure against her skin, the piercing killing intent, the ear-splitting sound of scales against stone—all of it announced the enemy's presence.

"So we meet at last, Slytherin's final fool."

Hissing sounds that might have been words emerged from the serpent's throat, but Mirabelle, lacking Parseltongue, couldn't understand them.

Still, she could guess their meaning from the waves of murderous intent washing over her.

"You simply can't resist the urge to kill me, can you?"

The presence shifted within her darkened awareness, and the pressure intensified. Wind from the creature's movement stirred her hair as killing intent surged.

It had recognized her as an enemy and was attacking.

But Mirabelle remained perfectly calm. She sidestepped the Basilisk's strike by mere inches and immediately pointed her wand at it.

"Obscuro!"

The spell struck home, covering the Basilisk's eyes and equalizing their conditions. Now both fought in absolute darkness.

But Mirabelle wasn't finished. Even with blocked vision, the basilisk still had its sense of smell. Sealing that would give her a decisive advantage.

She pulled a Weasley twins' invention from her pocket—a dungbomb purchased from their joke shop—and hurled it toward the sound of the creature's breathing.

The explosive stench bomb detonated near the Basilisk's nose, filling the air with such a foul odor that neither creature nor girl could smell anything else.

Suddenly deprived of both sight and scent, the Basilisk became disoriented and stopped moving.

Basilisks possessed highly developed vision and olfactory senses, but lacked heat-sensing pit organs. There was almost no way for it to locate Mirabelle now.

She would never waste such an opportunity.

"There!"

Without an incantation, she cast a cutting spell, wrapping it around her wand and sweeping it in a wide arc. The weapon transformed into a razor-sharp blade that sliced easily through the basilisk's scales, sending fresh blood spraying across the corridor.

The creature's otherworldly scream echoed through the castle, making Hermione cower even more.

"Where are you aiming?!" Mirabelle taunted as the basilisk charged blindly in the wrong direction.

She followed its movements by sound and struck again with her transformed wand.

One slash! Two! Three!

Each strike painted the hallway red as the basilisk's blood decorated the ancient stones.

But Mirabelle showed no mercy.

She leaped in front of the creature and unleashed a barrage of spells at its face.

The battle was devastatingly one-sided, though in truth, the power difference between Mirabelle and the Basilisk wasn't that great.

So what decided the outcome?

The basilisk had barely eaten in fifty years and was severely weakened. Moreover, it had underestimated Mirabelle, treating her like any previous opponent.

As a result, its vision was blocked, its body shredded, and finally even its greatest weapon—its deadly gaze—was destroyed when Mirabelle's blade found its eyes.

A rat named Peter, who had been watching the entire battle from the rafters, leaped onto Mirabelle's shoulder and squeaked triumphantly.

Mirabelle smiled with absolute certainty of victory and opened her golden eyes.

There was no longer any need to block her vision. The Serpent King's deadly gaze was gone.

"How pathetic, Basilisk," she said, looking down at the creature with a cruel smile that revealed her true nature. "Even as the king of snakes, you're nothing more than an oversized serpent."

The basilisk was covered in blood, its eyes crushed, completely disoriented as it tried desperately to flee.

The victor was obvious.

But Mirabelle didn't relent.

If she could understand Parseltongue, she would have heard the basilisk's pleas for mercy. She would have known it begged, "It wasn't my will!" and "I was being controlled by the heir!"

But even if she had understood, Mirabelle wouldn't have stopped. She continued her assault without the slightest hesitation or mercy.

Once someone became her enemy, she wouldn't be satisfied until she had completely crushed them, regardless of who they were.

In fact, the stronger the opponent, the higher their status, the more she relished seeing them brought low.

How could she not feel ecstatic watching someone fall from grace, overcome by pitiable fear?

What's more, this creature had dared to attack one of her precious few friends.

There was no way Mirabelle would let such a transgression pass.

"Now, Basilisk, flee in shameful terror! What's about to happen isn't a battle—it's a one-sided slaughter where I'll simply torment you for my amusement!"

She raised her wand with theatrical flourish.

Blood splattered across Mirabelle's robes and painted the corridor walls.

"Scream!"

A horizontal slash split the basilisk's hide open. She drove her wand into the exposed flesh, gouging holes that made the creature cry out in agony.

"Shriek!"

Fire spells burned its wounds. Lightning crackled into its mouth. Ice froze portions of its body before she shattered them with brutal efficiency.

Punches, kicks, tearing claws—she knocked it down and struck again.

Once her opponent had lost the will to fight, she didn't grant a quick death. Instead, she prolonged its suffering with calculated cruelty.

"And die!"

Hermione remained face-down, trembling uncontrollably.

But the object of her fear had changed.

She'd initially hidden from the basilisk, but now she was terrified of the unfathomable girl who was systematically torturing it.

Hermione could only lie there in horror, tears streaming down her face at the overwhelming brutality.

This girl was the real monster!

Her heart was a bottomless, pitch-black abyss!

"The Slytherin Monster" had never referred to the Basilisk.

Mirabelle Beresford was the true "Slytherin Monster"!

"Ahahahaha! Ahahahahahahaha!"

The monster in the form of a beautiful girl continued to laugh with manic glee.

As if finding the basilisk's desperate attempts to escape endlessly amusing, she sneered with heartfelt joy, overpowering and trampling the serpent king while painting herself with its blood in an extraordinarily cruel execution.

There was no one to stop her.

Even if there had been, no one would have dared lay a hand on her.

After all, she was the monster who ruled this place.

It was a full eight minutes before the Basilisk finally drew its last breath and was released from its agony.

Throughout that time, the creature's screams and the girl's maniacal laughter never ceased.

---

Author's Note:

Basilisk: "I was just being manipulated!"

Normal protagonist: "That's terrible! Become my ally!"

Basilisk: "Thank you for your kindness! I pledge my loyalty!"

Basilisk: "I was being manipulated! Help me!"

Mirabelle: "I don't care. Die."

Basilisk: "She's the worst!"

Good evening, everyone. This time we had Edith's petrification and Mirabelle versus the Basilisk. The Basilisk gets executed before Harry can even enter the Chamber of Secrets. What is he even doing?

Well, Tom Riddle is still the final boss, so it should be fine... I think.

Mirabelle has a terrible habit of getting too excited and going overboard in fights. What an awful protagonist...

I was thinking of making the Basilisk an ally, but that's been done so many times in other stories. If a good original protagonist would befriend the Basilisk, then villain Mirabelle would do the opposite—and this disaster is the result.

***

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