Chapter 162: The Sword
The second-floor corridor outside the girls' bathroom was suffocatingly quiet. Neville Longbottom paced the damp, slippery flagstones, his heavy footsteps echoing off the walls like an ant trapped on a hot pan. Inside his robe pocket, Trevor the toad squirmed and kicked, but Neville completely ignored the frantic amphibian. His hands were trembling too violently to worry about a pet right now.
"What to do... what to do..." he muttered, his breath hitching.
Cold sweat stung his eyes, and his round face twisted in agony. It felt like an eternity since Tamara, Harry, and the others had vanished down that pitch-black pipe. At first, the only sound drifting up from the abyss was the hollow, rhythmic dripping of water.
But just a moment ago, a dull, heavy thud vibrated through the soles of his shoes, threatening to shake the very foundations of the castle. A split second later, a shrill, blood-curdling roar tore up from the depths of the earth. The sheer, suffocating malice in that sound hit Neville like a physical blow, forcing him back against the edge of the porcelain sinks.
"They're in danger... they must be..."
Neville stared at the gaping black maw of the pipe, his throat working as he swallowed hard. He needed to go down. He had to help. But then Tamara's cold, unquestionable gaze flashed in his mind, freezing him in place: 'You need to stay here and guard the entrance. This task is crucial, understand?'
He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He was a Gryffindor. So what if he always forgot the common room passwords? So what if his cauldrons always melted into toxic sludge in Potions? So what if he couldn't even cast a basic Levitation Spell without causing a disaster? Hiding up here in safety while his friends faced a life-and-death crisis... this felt worse than dying!
"Someone help them..." Neville squeezed his eyes shut in despair, hot tears spilling over his eyelashes and cutting tracks down his pale cheeks. "Whether it's a Professor, or... or anyone else... someone help them... even if it's me. If only I could be as amazing as Tamara..."
He sent out a desperate, painfully sincere prayer into the damp air.
Just then, the gloom of the bathroom was banished.
A blinding burst of crimson and gold fire erupted without warning. An ethereal, piercing cry echoed off the tiled walls, a strange and beautiful song that seemed to reach straight into his soul. The freezing dread in his chest melted away, replaced by a sudden, rushing warmth.
Neville's eyes snapped open. A magnificent bird hovered in mid-air, its massive wings beating a rhythmic wind against his face. Long golden tail feathers trailed behind it, and clamped firmly in its sharp beak was a ragged, filthy piece of cloth.
It was Headmaster Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes.
And that hat...
"The Sorting Hat?" Neville breathed, his jaw dropping.
Fawkes opened its talons. The moldy, patched hat plummeted perfectly into Neville's waiting arms. The phoenix fixed him with a steady, intelligent stare from its bright black eyes, let out one last encouraging trill, and dove straight down the dark pipe, a streak of living fire swallowed by the abyss.
Neville scrambled to clutch the pile of dusty rags to his chest.
"Why give me this?" he sobbed, staring blankly at the frayed brim in absolute despair. "Does Professor Dumbledore think the thing I need most right now... is to go down and sort that monster into a house?"
Just as he stood there, completely at a loss, a sharp, metallic clink sounded from deep within the folds of the hat.
Neville froze. Slowly, almost against his own will, he reached his hand into the dark, bottomless crown. His fingertips brushed against something freezing cold. Hard metal. The smooth, faceted surface of a massive ruby.
He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled. Silver light spilled into the bathroom, reflecting off the wet tiles as the long, gleaming blade emerged from the ragged fabric. Engraved deeply into the crossguard beneath the ruby was an ancient, noble name:
Godric Gryffindor.
This was a divine weapon forged by goblins, a legendary artifact that would only manifest its physical form before a truly brave Gryffindor in their darkest hour.
The second his skin met the hilt, an explosive surge of heat and power rocketed up his arm, flooding his chest. The terror and confusion that had paralyzed his legs evaporated like a receding tide. A reckless, death-defying fervor took its place.
"...I'm coming!"
Without wasting another breath, the normally timid boy hoisted the heavy sword—a blade longer than his own arm—gripped it tightly with both hands, and hurled himself into the pitch-black hole without a shred of hesitation.
Deep within the Chamber of Secrets, the stagnant air was finally settling.
The violent, thrashing chaos had ended. With the remnant soul scattered to the damp winds, the colossal Basilisk, previously a terrifying engine of death, now resembled a giant, wronged earthworm, dragging its heavy coils slowly across the flooded stone floor.
Harry stood near the beast, his eyes closed, hissing in a soft, rhythmic cadence. "Go back... go back to your hole... there's no danger anymore..."
He had zero intention of hurting the creature. Firstly, he was not bloodthirsty by nature. To Harry, this ancient monster was no different from the Brazilian boa constrictor at the zoo—just a misunderstood animal forced to do terrible things by a terrible person. Now that the evil voice was gone, it was just a very large, very tired snake that wanted to go home and sleep.
Secondly, and far more practically—how exactly were they supposed to kill it?
Ron was white-knuckling a splintered wand held together by spellotape, one bad flick away from blowing his own hand off. Draco was pressed against a pillar, his legs trembling violently. Lockhart was a drooling, mindless heap slumped in the corner. And Tamara, the absolute strongest among them, lay collapsed in the shallow water, her chest heaving with exhaustion.
Attacking a sixty-foot, thousand-year-old apex predator with scales harder than dragon hide, which could kill with a single glance and was currently trying to politely excuse itself? Only an absolute idiot would pick that fight. Ron glared at the trunk-thick tail slithering past, swallowed his anger sensibly, and wisely kept his mouth shut.
The Basilisk lowered its massive horned head, obediently reversing its bulk back into the gaping stone mouth of Salazar Slytherin's statue.
Everything had finally calmed down.
A few yards away, Tamara lay flat on her back in the freezing, murky water, allowing the unconscious weight of Ginny Weasley to slump across her chest. She watched her magnificent pet slithering back into its cage, and the rigid tension in her muscles finally began to slacken.
'What a complete and utter mess,' she thought, her lip curling in a faint sneer. She had missed a golden opportunity to arrange a tragic, fatal accident for Potter. The sickeningly cheerful System in her head was still making her want to vomit. And to top it all off, she was currently serving as a mattress for a weeping Gryffindor brat.
But... the outcome was acceptable. Perfect, even. The parasitic remnant soul was eradicated. Her own soul was whole and secure. And most, her beautiful, lethal Basilisk was entirely unharmed.
'It is finally over...' Tamara let her eyelids droop wearily, fully intending to lie in this filthy puddle just long enough to regain the strength needed to banish these annoying children from her sight.
Peace was a luxury she was not allowed to have.
"FOR GRYFFINDOR!!!"
A raw, tearing scream of pure, suicidal bravery shattered the silence of the Chamber, accompanied by the echoing trill of a phoenix!
A round, flailing figure plummeted from the ceiling, whistling out of the pipe opening like a cannonball. Neville Longbottom hit the stone floor hard. He hadn't bothered to plan a landing. He rolled, bounced, and skidded through the shallow water, scraping his knees raw.
But the moment he scrambled to his feet, his adrenaline-soaked brain completely failed to process the reality of the room. He didn't see Harry calmly hissing to the snake. He didn't see Ron and Draco standing safely to the side. Through the gloom and his own sheer panic, Neville saw only three things: A massive, terrifying green monster. Lockhart, looking like a fresh corpse in the corner. And Tamara, lying motionless in a pool of water, clearly on the brink of death.
The ancient magic of the sword flooded his veins, overriding all logic. The evil beast had defeated everyone and was now trying to slink away!
"Leave my friends alone! You ugly monster!" Neville roared, spitting water from his mouth.
He lunged forward. He didn't know a single sword stance. He didn't care about tactics or observing the situation. Like a true brute, he raised the gleaming silver blade high above his head and charged on his stubby legs, aiming a suicidal, full-force strike directly at the Basilisk's neck!
"Neville?! What are you doing?! Stop!" Harry's eyes snapped open, his voice cracking in absolute horror.
But Neville was deaf to the world. In his eyes, there was only the slaying of the demon!
The Basilisk, which had been peacefully reversing into its statue, suddenly sensed the blinding, aggressive killing intent. Worse, it sensed the sharp, hateful magic of goblin-wrought steel—a scent it instinctively despised. The giant snake whipped its head around, a deafening hiss tearing from its throat. It unhinged its bloody jaws, baring fangs the size of broadswords, and lunged downward to snap the charging boy in half.
A tragedy was milliseconds away.
The silver blade was descending. The venomous fangs were closing in.
Tamara, who had been resting her eyes, snapped them wide open. Through the gloom, she saw the round-faced, bumbling idiot swinging a glowing sword directly at her most prized, irreplaceable private property.
Exhaustion? Gone. Weakness? Erased. Any lingering trace of that disgusting, tearful emotion forced upon her by the System? Incinerated in an instant.
'That is MY pet! That is the greatest legacy Salazar Slytherin left to ME!' The sheer audacity of this brainless, blundering Gryffindor trying to scratch her thousand-year-old heirloom with a ragged sword sent a shockwave of absolute, possessive fury through her veins.
"Get lost!"
A possessive instinct instantly squeezed the last drop of potential out of her body. Tamara unceremoniously shoved the unconscious Ginny aside, sending the girl splashing into the puddle. The Dark Lord, who had been too weak to lift a finger a second ago, vaulted off the stone floor. She moved with a sudden, explosive speed that completely defied biological common sense, springing up like a feral cat whose tail had just been crushed.
Crimson light flared dangerously in Tamara's eyes. She slashed her holly wand through the damp air, the tip erupting with an unprecedentedly blinding flash of magic. A vicious, overpowered spell tore across the Chamber, slamming brutally into Neville's wrists just before the blade could connect.
"Expelliarmus!"
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