Chapter 158: The Basilisk's Slumber
Harry lowered his voice to question the basilisk, feeling a twinge of guilt and keeping an eye on the professor nearby. His hissing whispers sounded like students passing secret notes in class.
The conversation was halting and uneven.
Though the basilisk could communicate in Parseltongue, its long slumber had dulled its mind. It hadn't spoken to another creature in ages, and complex sentences overwhelmed it. Only simple yes-or-no questions elicited clear responses.
The answers to these basic questions confirmed Hermione's earlier theories.
Long before they began investigating Myrtle's death, Professor Levent had already been in contact with the basilisk. Over the past few months, he'd been feeding it Acromantulas at regular intervals.
The night Harry heard the basilisk's murmurs in the dormitory was when the professor had lured it through the pipes with spiders.
"Why didn't your gaze kill us?" Harry asked.
"That man put a spell on my eyes," the basilisk replied.
Harry looked up at the basilisk's eyes, noticing a thick membrane covering its pupils, like a pane of glass.
Combining the basilisk's answers with Dobby's revelations, Harry pieced together the full picture:
Lucius Malfoy knew about the Chamber of Secrets incident from years ago. For reasons unknown, he tried to use it to disrupt the school. His house-elf, Dobby, overheard the plan and sought Harry out, causing a string of complications.
Meanwhile, Malfoy approached Professor Levent, likely through their dealings at Borgin and Burkes. The professor learned about the Chamber but, for some reason, couldn't reveal the truth directly, so he guided their investigation instead.
Many events were orchestrated by the professor, but some unexpected twists fell outside his script.
Professor Levent had neutralized the basilisk's deadly gaze, but he hadn't anticipated Lockhart's vanity-driven scheme to take credit by luring the entire drama club into the Chamber, leading to the chaotic group battle.
"Did the professor tell you not to harm us?" Harry asked.
"I don't understand human speech, and he doesn't understand mine," the basilisk answered.
"…"
So the basilisk had nearly lost control, and the professor had almost caused a disaster?
A chill ran through Harry.
Not far off, Melvin wandered among the stone pillars, checking overlooked corners for traces of rats.
He found nothing.
The stone floor, the transfigured pillars, and any dust or debris had been thoroughly cleaned by the Repairing and Scouring Charms he and Dumbledore had cast. The results were impeccable—not even his own footprints remained, let alone signs of a rat.
Yorm poked its head out of Melvin's soft hat, flicking its tongue toward Harry and the basilisk, seemingly intrigued by their Parseltongue conversation.
It can't even speak human words, and it wants to learn Parseltongue? Melvin thought, silently pressing the young snake's head back down. He glanced at Hermione, who was watching him, and continued his search.
No matter how complex Parseltongue was, questioning a rat shouldn't take this long. Melvin had sensed something off about the conversation minutes ago but didn't interrupt, wanting Harry and the others to uncover some truths themselves.
A sharp witch like Hermione had already noticed suspicious details. Constantly brushing off their doubts would make them think all their adventures were prearranged, sapping their drive to seek the truth.
Letting them glimpse some behind-the-scenes truths could spark their curiosity.
Besides, as a living Horcrux, Harry was meant to face harsh trials to build the courage to confront Voldemort and death itself. But with Melvin's meddling, the past two years' adventures had been thrilling but safe, failing to provide the intended tempering.
Melvin circled the Chamber, deeming the timing right. He cleared his throat. "Are you done? It's taking ages to ask about a single rat."
"Almost… almost done!" Harry stammered, flustered, scrambling for an excuse. "The basilisk's eaten so many rats, I was describing Scabbers' features."
"…"
Melvin burst out laughing.
Since waking, the basilisk had been fed by him. The first few weeks, it ate game from Hagrid, then switched to Acromantulas for the past two months. Its palate had grown picky—it only ate roasted spiders now. Rats? Unlikely.
He didn't call out the lie. "What did the basilisk say?"
Harry finally asked about Scabbers. "Have you seen Scabbers, a scruffy rat missing a toe?"
"With roasted Acromantulas to eat, who'd touch a filthy rat?" the basilisk replied.
In the dim Chamber, lit only by greenish mist and the silver glow of Lumos, the basilisk lowered its head. Harry saw blatant disdain in its glowing yellow eyes.
"Judging by your face, the answer's not promising," Melvin said, approaching with his hat in hand. "Hermione, Ron, search the area. Harry, stay here and help me put the basilisk back to sleep."
Ron walked off, disappointed, thinking of his missing Scabbers with a heavy heart.
Hermione didn't stray far, pacing absently nearby, unwilling to miss the basilisk's slumber.
"How do we do it?" Harry asked, his expression serious.
"No rush. I want to talk to the basilisk first. Translate for me," Melvin said casually. "Ask it what orders Slytherin left when he told it to sleep in the Chamber."
Harry turned to the basilisk, and their hissing exchange resumed.
Half a minute later, Harry scratched his head. "No specific orders, just to sleep here and wait for the heir to wake it."
"Is there anything else in the Chamber besides the basilisk?"
"Some documents, but they were taken by the last person who opened the Chamber."
"I see…" Melvin wasn't surprised; it aligned with his expectations. "Ask if it recognizes this ring."
He slipped a ring off his left ring finger. Under a Levitation Charm, it floated before the basilisk's eyes.
The ring was gray-black, made of an unremarkable metal, adorned with a subtle ouroboros pattern. It emitted no magical aura. In the reflection of the basilisk's eyes, its vertical pupils narrowed slightly.
"It says it recognizes it," Harry translated, his tone odd. "It's an ornament from Slytherin's wand. It says you don't speak Parseltongue, and if it weren't for this ring and the Slytherin magic in that snake egg, it would've never helped you hatch it."
"I thought it helped because I tamed it," Melvin said, shaking his head. "Tell it the current headmaster is worried it'll harm students and can't stay at Hogwarts unrestricted. It has two options: first, go back to sleep in a new lair, no set wake-up date. Second, leave the school. I'll find a remote wilderness suited for a basilisk to live freely.
"Ask which it chooses."
Harry looked at him. "Didn't you say it'd sleep?"
"That was to appease Dumbledore," Melvin said dismissively. "He's the president of the International Confederation of Wizards and has to follow international wizarding law. I'm not a Confederation employee."
"But the Ministry has magical creature protection laws…" Harry said weakly.
"I'm a foreign wizard. Ministry laws don't apply to me."
"MACUSA has them too, right?"
"I'm at Hogwarts, not in MACUSA's jurisdiction."
"…"
Nearby, Hermione overheard this outlaw talk, her jaw dropping in shock.
Harry accepted it quickly, even finding some logic in it. He relayed the options to the basilisk and translated its choice. "It chooses to sleep. Slytherin's orders were to wait at the school, and it doesn't want to leave."
"But Slytherin's never coming back."
"It still chooses sleep."
Melvin sighed. "Sleep it is, then. Order it in Parseltongue."
The basilisk began to move, coiling into a tight ring, tucking its head into the center. It suddenly paused, turning to Melvin, its eyes gleaming.
After some time together, Melvin knew that look—it was begging for food.
But today wasn't feeding day, and he had nothing in his pockets. He shook his head. "Tomorrow. I'll let you feast before you sleep."
Harry translated faithfully.
Disappointed, the basilisk didn't reply in Parseltongue. It shook its head and buried it in the coil of its body, signaling its choice.
Its glowing yellow eyes dimmed, the vertical pupils flickering faintly, like a candle in a storm. A tide of drowsiness enveloped the giant snake, as if buried by snow. Starting at its neck, its raised scales twitched, muscles relaxed, and the effect spread across its body.
A faint glimmer pulsed in the center of its pupils, like a dying candle, extinguished in the blizzard.
The basilisk slipped into slumber.
The bumpy, rugged path sent faint tremors through the coat pocket, but they weren't too jarring. Peter Pettigrew, in his rat form as Scabbers, tucked his tail in and curled his missing-toed limbs tighter, clinging to the silk lining of the young professor's pocket. He was careful not to grip too hard, wary of leaving claw marks.
Azkaban wasn't as smooth as a glass jar, but Peter was used to hiding in pockets, shrinking himself to minimize his presence. As he listened to the conversation between the female Auror and the professor, he stole glances at the surroundings.
His limited view revealed no living creatures or greenery—just barren rock. The sky and stones shared a dull, monotonous hue. The desolate island echoed only with the sound of waves crashing against rocky cliffs, splintering into white foam.
The repetitive noise and unchanging scenery made it hard to focus. Peter's mind drifted, thoughts wandering unchecked.
…
A delicate porcelain cup painted with violets held steaming pumpkin juice, its sweet aroma mingling with the misty air.
Across a wide desk, Peter sat opposite the young professor, eyes fixed on the cup, too nervous to look up.
It was early morning, and the professor had roused him for breakfast. Hogwarts' kitchen produced tantalizing food, but just ten minutes ago, Peter had been a rat, squeezed into a narrow glass bottle, his eyes darting nervously.
"This task isn't difficult," Melvin said with a faint smile. "I've prepared Veritaserum for you—crafted by Potions Master Snape. It's highly effective."
Peter's trembling hands froze mid-sip, the pumpkin juice untouched. He didn't know whether to drink or set the cup down.
A small, delicate glass vial sat nearby, no larger than half a knuckle, its thin walls transparent. Even as a rat, Peter could easily carry it. Inside was a colorless liquid, just a drop or two.
"Your job is to infiltrate Azkaban, wait for Bellatrix Lestrange to be alone, and slip the Veritaserum into her mouth to get the information I need," Melvin explained, sliding the vial toward Peter, a fine string attached for easy carrying. "She's just a prisoner, tormented by Dementors for twelve years, wandless and frail. There's no danger, and you won't need to reveal yourself."
"And you'll let me go if I do this?" Peter asked.
"Of course. We don't have some blood feud," Melvin said. "If all goes well, you can return to being Scabbers the rat or Peter the hero. If Britain feels unsafe, I can give you some Galleons to start over abroad."
"You really trust me?" Peter asked timidly.
"Of course!" Melvin looked up, then added, "But… a little precaution is necessary."
…
Scabbers raised his left forelimb. Beneath the patchy, matted fur on his inner arm, the faint outline of an ouroboros tattoo was visible.
He'd seen something similar before—a mark with a snake and a skull.
They called it the Dark Mark.
"In Azkaban, prisoners with different sentences are held separately. The ones in the fortress are serving life—mostly Death Eaters…" The young female Auror's voice was light.
Peter curled tighter, his rat eyes glazing over.
Azkaban, the prison for Death Eaters…
That person was probably here, wasn't he?
Three faces surfaced unbidden in Peter's mind, blurred by the passage of time but still recognizable.
Remus wasn't handsome—his long, thin face and pale skin gave him a frail look. His faint, weary smile and deep, complex eyes hinted at heavy secrets.
Peter hadn't heard of Remus in years. He was probably hiding somewhere, scraping by, just like himself.
James was strikingly handsome, with jet-black hair and a square jaw, always laughing freely with infectious energy. His light brown eyes sparkled with vitality, and his athletic build made him agile.
He'd never catch a Snitch again. He died twelve years ago, on the last day of October.
Then there was Sirius, with high cheekbones and gray eyes that exuded reckless defiance. He'd challenged professors, rebelled against the Black family, and bravely taken on the role of Secret-Keeper—only to secretly pass it to Peter.
The memory shifted. Those gray eyes blazed with fury, as if they could chew through bone and devour flesh.
The balding rat shuddered, curling tighter, but a glint of resolve flashed in his eyes.
"…"
By now, they'd walked some distance. The low roar of the waves grew closer, then faded again. The rocky path twisted through several bends, leading to a low stone building.
A heavy iron chain hung on the oak door, unlocked. The Auror pushed it open with ease.
Inside was a long, narrow corridor of rough limestone, flanked by cells.
Most prisoners leaned against the walls, indifferent. Only a few showed a flicker of response to their footsteps. Men and women alike were gaunt, filthy, their clothes tattered, as if oblivious to the world.
Scratched, faded graffiti and dates marked the walls.
"These are minor offenders, sentenced to a few months, a year at most," Tonks explained. "They could be bailed out with enough fines, but they don't have the money…"
No money, so they were left here to feed the Dementors.
Melvin, who'd visited Knockturn Alley upon arriving in Britain, knew of wizards living in the gutters. But seeing these numb prisoners gave him a deeper understanding of the British wizarding world.
The atmosphere silenced them. Melvin slowed his pace, in no hurry to send Scabbers to the Death Eaters' side.
After a loop through the building, they exited. Tonks deftly closed the door, rehung the chain without locking it, and led them toward the next prison.
"The security here seems awfully lax," Melvin remarked casually.
"I thought so too at first…" Tonks hesitated, then explained quietly, "Azkaban doesn't need high walls or locks to trap them. Once the Dementors torment the prisoners, few can muster the will to escape… On good weather days, the Aurors even let them out to stretch their legs."
"Those prisoners we just saw—were they recently drained by Dementors?"
"That was three days ago. They're in recovery now," Tonks said. "Minor offenders only face Dementors once a week, so they're spared for the next few days."
She paused. "If a regular wizard is fed on too often, it can damage their soul, drastically alter their personality, and make recovery nearly impossible after release."
Sustainable feeding…
Melvin felt a surreal absurdity. This wasn't just a prison for dark wizards—it was a farm for breeding Dementors.
"This is already an improvement under Minister Eldritch Diggory," Tonks continued as she led the way. "Under Damocles Rowle and Perseus Parkinson, it was worse. They let Dementors torment prisoners to death, though there were more criminals back then."
She added, "They say on stormy nights, the fortress walls weep, and those who see it smell despair…"
They continued along the rocky path, turning corners until another low building appeared.
Roughly hewn stone walls loomed, and as they approached, an ominous chill grew stronger.
"Dementors feed in batches. You're lucky, Professor—you're catching them in action," Tonks said softly, stopping at the door.
She pushed it open.
Before they could observe the prisoners, shadows gliding outside the skylight seized their attention.
They were cloaked in tattered black robes, eight to ten feet tall, their heads hidden under hoods. Skeletal, scabbed, pale hands protruded, like corpses soaked in liquid, fleshless skin draped over bone.
A chill enveloped the prison, the air nearly frozen, thick with a damp, cold stench—a mix of briny seawater and moldy earth. The light dimmed, and only the figures under the cloaks glinted faintly.
Melvin sensed Tonks tense beside him.
These prisoners, serving longer sentences, were even more emaciated, their eyes emptier. Yet they couldn't face the Dementors calmly. At the first hint of cold, they shrank into corners, trembling, clutching their sleeves.
The Dementors, like ghosts, hovered between ethereal and solid, unhindered by bars yet able to breathe and touch the prisoners.
One approached a middle-aged wizard in a corner, its hood lowering with a bone-chilling sucking sound.
The wizard convulsed as if shocked, his face frozen, muscles twitching uncontrollably. His fingers spasmed, releasing his sleeve, and he collapsed with a dull thud.
Something intangible was ripped away—silvery wisps of mist flowed from his eyes and mouth, slowly drawn into the Dementor's maw.
Emotions, memories, an unusual form of magic.
Melvin, familiar with such phenomena, watched wide-eyed from a distance.
"Ha… ha…"
Broken gasps echoed in the cell, hoarse and indistinguishable—prisoner or Dementor?
The Dementor's chest heaved with deep breaths, each inhale accompanied by a guttural growl. The wizard's body and arms shook violently, fingers twitching as if seizing, clawing at the air, the walls, the stone.
The faint sounds—rustling, scratching—carried a soul-deep terror.
Minutes later, the air grew heavier, tinged with the scent of death.
The Dementor pulled back, drifting across the room. The prisoner's body glistened with cold sweat, dripping onto the floor in dark stains. His lips were purple, gleaming with a sickly sheen, as if some magic was eroding his life.
Their eyes remained open, staring vacantly at the ceiling, limbs twitching before going limp, like empty husks.
Perhaps these prisoners, worn down by years of torment, had little left to offer. The Dementors' hunger was stoked but unsatisfied, leaving them ravenous.
One Dementor, drifting restlessly, noticed the two newcomers. One wasn't in an Auror uniform and exuded an intoxicating aura. It froze mid-air.
Per their agreement with the wizards, anyone on the island not with the Ministry was fair game.
How Dementors communicated was unclear, but the others noticed the "fresh" prey and turned toward the young professor.
"Professor, I think… they're targeting you," Tonks said, her face paling.
She was a newly trained Auror. Though she knew the Patronus Charm, she had little confidence in saving the professor from a Dementor swarm.
"I think… they picked the wrong target," Melvin said, raising his hand. A wand appeared, aimed forward.
The Dementor horde paused, like wolves circling prey only to realize it was a lion. They hesitated, frozen in place.
But hunger overcame fear. The nearest Dementor moved, raising its shriveled hands toward the professor, emitting a low, rasping inhale.
"Expecto…" Melvin intoned softly, drawing out the word, lighter than a breeze.
Every magical creature in the room felt a powerful surge of magic brewing.
Tonks noticed something unbelievable: the prison seemed to freeze. The convulsing prisoners, the lunging Dementors, the air itself—speckled with milky-white motes, like mist.
"Patronum!"
The second half of Melvin's incantation erupted.
Silver light converged, almost solidifying, like a full moon or a glowing egg. A sharp horn pierced through, and as it broke, light exploded. A silvery creature shot forth.
The Patronus streaked through the air like an arrow from a taut bow, charging the floating Dementors.
Dementors were nearly indestructible, sustained by their unique magical essence. But against an equally unique magic, their resilience meant nothing. Already vulnerable to the Patronus Charm's light, they were now defenseless.
Under the ferocious impact, their tattered cloaks tore further, their exposed hands shriveled more, and the damp, rotten stench began to fade.
The black shadows paled to a sickly gray under the silver glow.
The Dementor swarm wailed and fled.