— — — — — —
Snape was right. A basilisk fifty meters long, with skin tougher than dragon skin and frighteningly high magic resistance, was a nightmare to deal with—worse than handling several dragons at once.
Tom had originally planned to deal with it yesterday, but the moment he laid eyes on it, his head started pounding.
In the end, he froze the thing solid with some Freezing charms, stuffed it into his bag, and decided he'd worry about it later when he had the patience.
Now, with Snape offering himself up as free labor, Tom wasn't about to say no.
But still—
"Professor…" Tom gave him a polite smile. "I'd be happy to accept your help. I'm just afraid your hands might not be… entirely clean."
Such a polite way to say 'I feel you will steal what's mine.'
Tom didn't doubt Snape's skills, but he sure as hell doubted the man's integrity. If he really let Snape handle it, Tom was 99% sure his basilisk would mysteriously shrink to a third of its original size.
Snape's chest rose and fell with suppressed fury. Yes, fine, he had a reputation for being… not entirely honorable. But did this brat have to say it out loud?
Snape dropped the act, shooed away a few curious young wizards with a murderous glare, then leaned in close, voice low. "Riddle, I'm the head of Slytherin House. That basilisk is the founder's treasure. If you won't hand it all over, at least be fair and share. Nobody likes a glutton."
"Professor, that's not quite right." Tom's correction was sharp, almost pedantic. "First, Slytherin's personal legacy has nothing to do with the school. The Chamber is even full of his Dark Arts relics and secrets—why don't you go ask Dumbledore for those while you're at it?"
"There are Dark Arts relics?" Snape froze, muttering in disbelief. "Why hasn't Dumbledore told me this?"
Tom looked at him with something like pity. So the man really didn't know anything.
"Don't look at me like that." Snape's embarrassment quickly turned to anger. He hissed, "We can talk about relics later. I'm not leaving without a share of the basilisk."
"No." Tom cut him off flatly. "I won that basilisk off Voldemort himself. What's this, you want to collect interest on behalf of your old boss?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Snape flinched. "This has nothing to do with him. Just tell me how I can get a sample of the flesh and fangs."
Tom smirked. "See? Was that so hard? Nobody gets a free ride from me, Professor. Not even you. My Runespoors are starving, and so far only a dozen hatchlings have come out. Whether the brood survives depends entirely on your potions. Oh, and one more thing: Potion No. 69 can't stop."
Snape's expression shifted between pale and flushed. He'd resisted for months—resisted the temptation of Tom's strengthening potions, resisted being roped into this boy's mad experiments. And yet, in the end, here he was.
"..."
Tom waited patiently, no rush in his demeanor. He knew the man would fold.
"…Fine. But you give me part of the materials up front, and two bottles of the strengthening potion."
Two months of stubborn pride crumbled in that single concession.
"The materials stay with me until I process them," Tom said, shaking his head. "But I'll give you one potion now. The second, you'll get when the trade's done."
"I want the basilisk's eyes."
"Already destroyed." Tom didn't even hesitate.
Snape clutched his chest as if stabbed. "Blasphemy! Waste of priceless components—absolute sacrilege!"
Tom chuckled. "If you're that desperate, raise your own basilisk. Keep its eyes intact if you've got the guts."
Snape: "..."
"In that case, I'll settle for flesh, three fangs, part of the gallbladder."
Tom smiled like an angel, "Sure... and you'll owe me one extra favor."
"What favor?" Snape asked warily.
Tom shook his head, lips sealed. "You'll know when the time comes. Nothing major."
After a long pause, Snape extended his hand. "Potion first."
Tom actually pulled a vial straight out of his robes without fuss. The sight nearly drove Snape mad with greed. If he could somehow rob this boy of his entire stash, the profit would be unimaginable.
Shame he would never have the chance.
And once again, the "workhorse" bowed his head. Tom's mood soared. He even resolved to prepare the basilisk components by the weekend, just in case—no sense damaging his hard-earned reputation for reliability.
But before that, he had something far more important to do.
Hype.
---
The very next morning, Hogwarts erupted when students opened the Daily Prophet.
Front-page headlines:
{Terror Beneath Hogwarts! The Basilisk Strikes Again.}
{A Twelve-Year-Old Boy Saves an Entire Generation of Wizards!}
{The Hero We Needed: Tom Riddle!}
Beneath it was an illustration of the basilisk in all its monstrous glory.
The article described the whole affair in vivid detail, as if the reporter had been right there in the Chamber—down to the exact spells Tom had used, and the moment he severed the serpent's head.
And then came the sting.
{As everyone knows, Hogwarts is considered the safest place in the wizarding world, protected by none other than Albus Dumbledore himself. Yet under his very nose, a basilisk not only stirred once fifty years ago, killing a student, but again last year on Halloween. By sheer luck, no one died.}
{This past Saturday, when danger struck again, it wasn't the headmaster or professors who stepped up—it was a second-year student. If Mr. Riddle hadn't lured the basilisk out of the castle, countless children might already be dead.}
{A basilisk kills with the simplest of means—a glance. Just a moment of eye contact, and a young life is gone. There is no exaggeration in saying that Mr. Riddle saved the future of magical Britain. The Ministry and the Merlin Committee must award him the First Class Order of Merlin—nothing less will do.}
Silence fell over the Great Hall as everyone read. Professors and students alike sat with paper in hand, their reactions mixed.
The heads of house shifted uncomfortably. The article hadn't named them, but it didn't have to.
"It was Riddle who sicced his dragon on us," Snape muttered bitterly—loud enough for Flitwick to hear.
The Charms professor only sighed. "Aside from his 'personal reasons', he was right to. Without someone holding the students back, panic would've caused even worse chaos. The truth is, we simply failed to find the basilisk first."
The students, meanwhile, couldn't stop sneaking glances at Tom.
For once, Tom actually flushed red.
"Heehee, Tom, are you blushing?" Daphne caught on right away, her grin wicked as the younger Slytherins around them chuckled knowingly.
"Who's blushing?" Tom ruffled her hair with mock annoyance, folded up the paper, and went back to breakfast.
It wasn't the praise that embarrassed him. Everything written there was true—why should he be shy about it?
No, it was because he'd managed to trip Dumbledore up again, and even he felt a tiny pang of guilt.
After all, the whole article had been ghostwritten at his request, arranged through Lady Greengrass. Otherwise, how could the reporter have known so many details about what happened in the Chamber?
But good work speaks for nothing if no one hears about it. Without the right publicity, he could graduate and still never see a First Class Order of Merlin.
He had to make the Ministry and the awards committee understand just how much he'd accomplished. And sometimes, that meant pushing someone else down to stand taller.
'Don't worry, old man,' Tom thought, comforting himself. 'Whatever trouble I've caused you, I'll pay it back someday—through your sister, if I have to.'
With that neat bit of self-justification, his guilt vanished.
...
Outside Hogwarts, parents across the country had read the same paper. Coupled with the letters their children had sent home, it left them sweating cold.
A basilisk at Hogwarts—what sort of death trap were their kids living in?
And what was Dumbledore doing as headmaster?
Owls by the hundreds winged their way toward the castle, carrying furious complaints addressed to Dumbledore and gushing letters of thanks for Tom. All day long, even during lessons, students could glance out the window and spot a stream of owls heading for the highest tower.
When the headmaster's office was too crowded, some owls flew straight through the corridor windows to shove letters at the stone gargoyle.
The poor creature, who'd been looking forward to the summer break, was nearly collapsing. Thanks to Dumbledore, his "holiday" now consisted of eating paper by the mouthful.
And Dumbledore himself sat in his office, dazed.
He'd planned to quietly downplay the Chamber incident, let the matter fade into silence. Instead, the news had spread like wildfire, splashed across the Daily Prophet for the entire wizarding world to see.
That alone forced him to cancel his scheduled trip to the Ministry so he could spend the day replying to angry parents, trying to calm them down.
...But the next day, the Ministry came to him.
Cornelius Fudge arrived with a small army of Aurors and several officials in tow.
In the headmaster's office, Fudge was already drenched in sweat, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief as Dumbledore confirmed the worst: every word in the Daily Prophet had been true.
"Cornelius," Dumbledore said gravely, "fifty years ago, Hagrid was expelled after being accused of opening the Chamber. Now it's clear he was innocent. The Ministry ought to restore his status as a wizard."
"Albus, that's not the issue here."
Though still respectful, Fudge's tone carried strain. He sighed. "You need to think about how to explain this to the public. The children may all be safe now, but who wants their sons and daughters living under the same roof as a Class Five magical beast?"
"Minister, what a deep point," a shrill voice cut in.
The speaker was a squat, plump witch in a pink cardigan. Her girlish adoration toward Fudge was plain on her face as she simpered, "This time it was a basilisk. Next time, what then? A dragon? A lethifold? We can't just look at the surface. We must dig deeper into the root of the problem."
Dumbledore's brows twitched, a flash of sharp light glinting in his blue eyes before he smoothed his expression again.
Fudge couldn't quite hide his smirk, though he waved a hand as if embarrassed. "Dolores, you exaggerate. I only worry for the children's safety—that's my duty, after all. I am the Minister of Magic. Ahem... Surely you can't fault me for caring too much, Albus?"
"Of course not," Dumbledore said calmly. "But I assure you, the castle is safe. A creature like a basilisk might lurk unseen for centuries, but no other dangerous magical beast could remain hidden so long. Your fears are unnecessary."
The word stung. 'Unnecessary?'
Fudge was the Minister of Magic. He carried the weight of Britain's wizarding world on his shoulders. And this old man dared call his concerns unnecessary?
Still, he had no intention of fighting Dumbledore outright—not yet.
"Very well," Fudge said at last, forcing a smile. "I want to believe you, Albus. But perhaps you could introduce me to our young hero? He's the key to this whole affair. With him standing beside you, and the Ministry's support, I expect public outrage will cool considerably."
.
.
.