Chapter 159: Courage
A low, bone-rattling grind of ancient stone echoed through the damp air. The circular wall, deeply engraved with two intertwining serpents, slowly fractured down the middle. It parted to reveal a cavernous, pitch-black maw that looked less like a hidden room and more like the gaping throat of hell itself.
It was a gargantuan stone chamber. The sheer scale of it was enough to crush a person's spirit. Towering pillars, carefully carved with coiled serpents, lined both sides of the aisle, stretching endlessly into the suffocating darkness.
Bathed in an eerie, sickly green luminescence stood a statue as massive as the cavern itself. It depicted the ancient, monkey-like visage of Salazar Slytherin, complete with a sparse, sweeping stone beard that cascaded all the way down to the hem of his sweeping robes.
And there, lying motionless between those colossal stone feet, was a tiny, fragile figure.
"Ginny!"
Ron tore his throat raw with a heart-wrenching scream, throwing caution to the wind as he sprinted forward.
Ginny Weasley lay flat on her back against the freezing stone floor. Her face was ashen, drained of all vitality, her lips a bruised, bloodless white.
But far more chilling was the dense, writhing black mist shrouding her small body.
The shadow had not yet formed a complete human silhouette. Instead, it clung to her like a starving, greedy parasite. It frantically siphoned wisps of raw life force from Ginny's nose and mouth, desperately attempting to weave those stolen threads into a physical form.
"Is this... that thing?" Harry choked out, his green eyes wide with absolute terror as he stared at the shifting vapor.
Tamara wrinkled her nose, her upper lip curling in deep disgust.
Having lost its original host, the soul fragment now resembled nothing more than a rabid, starving beast. It was entirely devoid of reason, driven solely by the most primitive, pathetic survival instincts.
'How ugly,'Tamara evaluated coldly in her mind, her dark eyes narrowing.'It is a complete disgrace to me.'
As if sensing her silent judgment, the black mist abruptly ceased its feeding.
It possessed no physical eyes, yet Tamara could distinctly feel a heavy, suffocating gaze lock onto her—a stare dripping with pure malice and burning jealousy.
It recognized a soul of the exact same origin, but one that was vastly more complete, infinitely more powerful than its own fractured existence.
To the mist, she was a lethal threat. And yet... she was also the most delicious, intoxicating nourishment imaginable.
"Speak to me... Slytherin... the greatest of the Hogwarts four..."
A sharp, rasping hiss tore its way out of Ginny's tightly closed mouth, the voice utterly alien to the young girl.
An instant later, the entire Chamber of Secrets began to quake violently. Dust showered from the ceiling.
Salazar Slytherin's massive stone mouth slowly ground open, revealing a bottomless black void within the statue's face.
Something gargantuan was shifting inside. The wet, heavy rustle of thick scales dragging against rough stone echoed through the cavern, a sound so unnatural it made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.
A monstrous green serpent, its body as thick as the trunk of an ancient oak tree, slithered out from the statue's gaping maw. It dropped heavily onto the stone floor with a deafening crash, kicking up thick clouds of centuries-old dust.
The beast reared its massive, armored head high into the air. In the suffocating darkness, its huge, yellow vertical pupils ignited like twin lanterns of sudden death.
"Merlin's beard... what the hell is that?!"
Ron's eyes bulged, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak of sheer terror. He had grown up surrounded by various magical creatures at the Burrow, but he had never encountered a monster that radiated such suffocating, primal dread.
"A Basilisk."
Tamara spat the word out with icy precision, as though casually introducing an old acquaintance. Beneath her feigned calm, her tone carried a faint, unmistakable edge of arrogance and dark fanaticism—a reverence only a true Slytherin could fully comprehend.
"Slytherin's... gift."
"A Basilisk?!"
The moment the name registered, the very last drop of color vanished from Draco's face, leaving his skin a sickly, translucent white.
As the pampered heir to the House of Malfoy, he had been forced to memorize countless encyclopedias of Dark creatures since childhood. He knew exactly what that monstrous title entailed.
"Close your eyes! Don't look into its eyes!"
He shrieked, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words. He slapped both hands tightly over his own face, squeezing his eyelids shut, yet he still managed to blindly reach out and grab Tamara's sleeve, yanking her back.
"The ancient texts say... as long as you meet those yellow eyes, your soul is instantly ripped from your body! It is a literal instant-death curse! Even catching a glimpse of its reflection will turn you to solid stone!"
The parasitic mist clinging to Ginny did not intend to give them a moment to strategize. It immediately hissed out a frantic, bloodthirsty command.
"Kill them all... tear them apart..."
The Basilisk unhinged its massive jaws, revealing rows of venom-dripping fangs sharper than curved scimitars. It coiled its thick muscles, preparing to lunge directly at the closest target—Ron.
"Stop! You are not allowed to eat people!"
In that critical split-second, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and roared at the top of his lungs.
The words left his mouth as a series of harsh, spitting hisses. Parseltongue.
The charging Basilisk slammed on the brakes.
Its massive, armored body froze mid-strike. The giant serpent tilted its head, a distinctly confused expression crossing its reptilian features.
The signal source on its left was screaming: "Kill them all!"
The signal source on its right was shouting: "Shut up! Lie down!"
And most crucially of all, standing dead center in front of it was Tamara. She had not spoken a single syllable, yet she radiated an overwhelming, suffocating aura of "I am your absolute ancestor" from the crown of her head to the soles of her shoes.
Tamara merely stared coldly at the beast. That pure, unadulterated suppression stemming directly from her bloodline made the Basilisk's instincts scream at it to grovel and submit.
Consequently, the scene devolved into a state of chaotic, utterly comical absurdity.
The Basilisk would snap its jaws open to bite, then abruptly snap them shut and attempt to lie flat, only to immediately try and twist its massive neck into a respectful bow toward Tamara.
Its ancient, not-particularly-developed reptilian brain completely short-circuited.
Frustrated and thoroughly confused, the Basilisk began to thrash. It whipped its heavy, spiked tail wildly through the air. Because its movements were so violently contradictory, the giant serpent actually managed to tie its own impossibly long body into a massive, tightening knot.
Crack!
Its flailing tail slammed with devastating force into a towering stone pillar nearby.
The ancient support column snapped like a dry twig. A massive chunk of solid rock, accompanied by a deadly shower of jagged shrapnel, came whistling down from the ceiling, aiming directly for the top of Tamara's head.
Facing a crushing blow that would easily reduce a normal human to bloody paste, Tamara did not even blink.
Her expression remained a mask of absolute freezing indifference. She smoothly raised her wand, her wrist flicking with practiced, aristocratic elegance.
"Wingardium Leviosa—"
Her current physical vessel might be infuriatingly weak, but that did not hinder her flawless, surgical control over magic.
The massive boulder abruptly halted in mid-air, suspended by an invisible hand. Then, with a violent, dismissive flick of her wand, the rock was swatted away. It hurtled across the chamber, smashing into the far wall with a deafening boom and exploding into a cloud of harmless dust.
It was a display of magic that was cool, ruthlessly efficient, and entirely befitting the style of a Dark Lord.
However.
She was, tragically, not at her peak.
While she had effortlessly deflected the fatal boulder, the chaotic spray of secondary shrapnel proved slightly too dense.
A tiny, razor-sharp fragment of stone sliced through the air, grazing her cheek.
A thin, stinging line of red instantly bloomed across her flawless, pale skin. A second later, a drop of warm liquid slid slowly down her jaw.
Tamara froze.
She slowly raised her hand, her fingertips brushing lightly against her cheek. She lowered her hand and stared at the glaring, wet crimson staining her finger pad.
Blood.
This fragile, filthy physiological reaction—a pathetic vulnerability reserved exclusively for mere mortals—caused the temperature in her dark eyes to plummet to absolute zero.
'...Disgusting.'
The sight of her own blood shattered her illusion of invulnerability. It was a visceral reminder that she was no longer a high-and-mighty god, untouchable and eternal. She was currently trapped in a mortal shell that could be injured, broken, and killed at any given moment.
This suffocating fear of mediocrity, this looming shadow of death, was infinitely more unbearable to her pride than her current lack of magical reserves.
Just as a second wave of jagged rubble broke loose from the ceiling, raining down toward them, Tamara drew a sharp breath. She tightened her grip on her wand, preparing to focus her irritation into blasting the debris into atoms.
Suddenly, a small figure threw himself directly into her line of sight, blocking her completely.
"Protego!"
The incantation was shouted with a slightly immature, cracking voice, yet the intent behind it was exceptionally firm.
A translucent, light-blue magical barrier flared to life above them. It looked dangerously thin, shimmering unsteadily, but it held its ground, catching the dense hail of falling stones.
Pitter-patter. Crack.
The sharp rocks rained against the shield, sending violent ripples across the blue light.
Tamara slowly lowered her wand, her dark eyes widening in genuine, uncharacteristic surprise.
Draco Malfoy stood firmly planted in front of her. His pale face was contorted in absolute terror, his eyes squeezed shut, but his trembling hand gripping his hawthorn wand did not lower a single inch.
A Shield Charm?
This was an advanced defensive spell, typically not taught until the fifth year at Hogwarts.
It appeared this spoiled young master, who usually spent his days boasting about his father's wealth and influence, had actually put in a grueling amount of secret practice over the holidays just to ensure he didn't disgrace the Malfoy name.
In reality, Draco's heart was hammering against his ribs so violently he thought he might vomit.
He was terrified out of his mind.
Lucius Malfoy had drilled one absolute rule into his head since birth: A true Slytherin must always assess the situation, focus on self-preservation above all else, and never, under any circumstances, stick their neck out for another person.
Self-preservation was the core dignity of a pure-blood noble.
Yet, the exact second he saw that drop of blood slide down Tamara's cheek, his body had moved entirely on its own, completely bypassing his brain.
By the time he realized he had just committed an act of reckless, Gryffindor-level stupidity, his panicked mind began frantically scrambling to justify his actions.
'This... this is an investment!'Draco ground his teeth together, screaming desperately inside his own head, desperately trying to reframe his impulsive bravery into a cold, calculating Malfoy-style transaction so he wouldn't feel like a complete idiot.'That's right! Father always said to secure the most valuable allies! Tamara is terrifyingly strong; she is absolutely going to be a massive figure in the wizarding world! As long as she owes the House of Malfoy a life debt today, this risk is completely worth it!'
He clung to this desperate rationalization, pouring every ounce of his magical strength into the trembling blue shield.
Besides, he told himself fiercely, he wasn't some pathetic liability like Potter, who only knew how to stumble into mortal danger and wait to be rescued.
He was Draco Malfoy. Everything he was doing right now was a calculated move for the long-term prosperity of his family!
Tamara stared at the back of Draco's head. He was clearly frightened half to death, yet he stubbornly maintained his brave front. She shifted her gaze to his Shield Charm, which, despite flickering wildly, refused to shatter.
She raised her wand and lightly tapped the glaring bloodstain on her cheek.
"Episkey."
A soft, warm white light pulsed from the tip of her wand. The stinging cut that had dared to ruin her physical perfection knitted together instantly. Her pale skin smoothed out, returning to flawless jade without leaving even a microscopic scar.
To the Dark Lord, fighting with an open wound was a glaring sign of incompetence. She would never permit a single flaw to remain on this perfect vessel of hers.
Lowering her wand, she cast a nonchalant glance at the trembling boy shielding her. The corner of her lips twitched upward in a microscopic, almost imperceptible smirk.
'Still somewhat useful.'
He might be a half-baked amateur, but his calculated loyalty made him infinitely more pleasing to the eye than the two screaming Gryffindors across the room.
Speaking of the two screaming Gryffindors.
Although the Basilisk had temporarily tied itself into a massive, scaly knot, it remained a lethal threat.
Harry, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, was still desperately trying to negotiate with the monster using his rusty Parseltongue. But reasoning with a crazed, ancient beast clearly required time they did not have.
"Damn it! It's not listening to me at all!" Harry shouted, cold sweat pouring down his forehead.
"Harry! Forget about talking to it!"
Ron scrambled up from the dusty floor.
He stared at the terrifying, thrashing serpent. His knees were knocking together so hard they rattled, but then his gaze flicked to his little sister, still lying lifelessly on the stone floor.
"You just keep yelling at it! Leave the rest to me!"
Ron instinctively reached for his robes, his fingers brushing against his wand. But the moment he felt the thick layer of Spellotape holding the splintered wood together—wood that was currently emitting faint, ominous sparks—he gritted his teeth and snatched his hand away.
That cursed, broken stick was a liability. Even on a good day, it turned feathers to ash during a simple Levitation Charm. If he tried to cast a spell at the Basilisk now, he was far more likely to blow his own eyebrows off or end up vomiting a bucket of slugs.
In a life-or-death situation like this, blunt physical trauma was vastly more reliable than unpredictable magic!
Without a second thought, Ron dropped to his knees, grabbed a jagged chunk of fallen masonry, reared back, and hurled it with every ounce of strength he possessed directly at the Basilisk's massive head.
Bullseye!
The heavy rock slammed squarely against the thick scales near the beast's yellow eye.
"Hiss—!"
The Basilisk recoiled, letting out a deafening, furious screech of pain. Its attention instantly snapped away from Harry's confusing hisses. The massive, armored head whipped around, locking onto the red-haired boy.
"Hey! Look over here! You ugly, overgrown, rotten shoelace!"
Ron scrambled backward, desperately grabbing more loose stones from the floor and hurling them wildly to keep the monster's attention focused entirely on him.
The Basilisk was thoroughly enraged.
It completely abandoned the chaotic, conflicting commands echoing in its brain. It unhinged its jaws, releasing a sickening gust of wind that smelled of rotting meat and centuries of decay, and lunged straight for Ron.
Ron's back hit the cold stone wall. He was completely cornered. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, crushing bite.
Just at that absolute critical moment.
A flash of vibrant purple and gold suddenly vaulted out from the shadows.
"Look at me!!"
A voice overflowing with absolute, unshakeable confidence—bordering on pure, theatrical fanaticism—bounced off the damp walls of the Chamber of Secrets.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The memory-wiped, thoroughly brainwashed Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor stood tall, a blindingly brilliant, picture-perfect smile plastered across his handsome face.
He carried no wand.
He possessed absolutely no magical defenses.
His mind was entirely consumed by a single, artificially implanted obsession: 'I am going to make the front page of the Daily Prophet. I am the ultimate hero.'
Facing down a venomous maw large enough to swallow a fully grown cow whole, Lockhart did not flinch. Instead, he dramatically threw his arms wide open, struck his most iconic, bestselling book-cover pose, and flashed his trademark, award-winning grin.
"I am Gilderoy Lockhart! The owner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award! And this... is a close-up of true Courage!"
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