Chapter 105: The Basilisk Appears, Silven Attacked

By the time Silven had memorized all of this, it was already nine at night, and the Headless Hunt had begun another round of headless hockey, drawing away most of the ghosts.

Silven seized the opportunity to slip quickly out of the underground classroom; perhaps other ghosts held more clues, but he didn’t need many—three were enough.

More importantly, curfew was nearly upon him.

Silven wasn’t worried about Filch, but the underground classroom was Snape’s domain, and he himself was a Gryffindor—better to be cautious.

Especially after learning of Harry and Ron’s ordeal, he had no desire to be locked in detention by Snape.

Besides, the underground classroom was freezing; Silven felt as if his entire body had turned to ice, unresponsive and stiff—he only wanted to return to the common room and sit by the warm fireplace.

Outside, Silven saw the melancholy ghost again, but this time he didn’t disturb him, merely hurried through the gloomy corridor toward the stairs leading to the entrance hall.

The candles on either side burned dimly, flickering in the wind until they shrank to the size of rice grains, offering virtually no light.

“Lumos!” Silven whispered, and his wand glowed with a soft light, revealing the position of the stairs ahead.

Once in the entrance hall, his body warmed instantly; the frost on his hair melted quickly, damp strands clinging to his forehead, uncomfortable.

Silven wiped his head with his pointed hat and quickened his pace toward the stairs.

The entrance hall at nine at night was empty, not a soul in sight—even the portraits seemed asleep; moonlight streamed through the doors, falling upon the armor and casting long shadows on the floor.

“This is kind of creepy,” Silven thought, suddenly tense, and unconsciously quickened his steps toward the marble staircase nearby.

His footsteps echoed through the empty hall, and beneath them, faintly, came a soft, rustling sound.

But when Silven stopped to listen closely, the sound vanished.

His unease grew stronger; he couldn’t tell if he’d truly heard anything, or if prolonged exposure to ghosts and the cold had induced hallucinations.

He could only hasten his pace again, sprinting full speed up the marble stairs all the way to the eighth floor.

Here, Silven finally relaxed slightly, gripping the railing as he gasped for breath.

Whether real or imagined, he was safe here—after all, Dumbledore’s office was on the eighth floor; no one would dare…

“Miaow!” A shrill cat scream erupted behind him.

Silven shuddered, spinning around instinctively toward the sound.

In the instant he turned, two strange yellow lights suddenly materialized in the darkness before him—two enormous, bulb-like yellow eyes.

At the same moment, Silven heard the rustling sound again, clear and distinct—as if a colossal creature were slowly crawling through the narrow corridor.

Basilisk!

No doubt about it.

Silven’s entire body froze, forcing himself to suppress the urge to look back.

But how was this possible?

He had confirmed it himself—no blood writing on the wall, Mrs. Norris was fine, Harry hadn’t heard any strange sounds, everything had been normal—so why had the basilisk appeared without warning?

And here, on the eighth floor, right outside Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, attacking him, a genuine pure-blood wizard?

Countless questions flooded Silven’s mind, but he had no time to think—only one thought remained.

Run!

Silven felt as if he’d been thrown back to last year, chased relentlessly by Fluffy on the fourth floor—except now the location was the eighth floor, the three-headed dog had become a basilisk, and the only similarity was their equal lethality.

And the basilisk was even more terrifying than Fluffy.

Silven dared not look back; he kept his head down, stumbling forward in a frantic dash.

But how could a twelve-year-old wizard outrun a basilisk? So Silven prepared to use the same trick as before—rely on the castle’s shifting staircases to delay the creature.

Just as he had done with Fluffy last year.

Only Silven forgot: Fluffy had been driven mad by dark magic, utterly irrational—but the basilisk was not…

He turned to sprint up the stairs, when a massive tail whipped around from behind.

The tail was as thick as an oak trunk, emerald-green, gleaming with the vivid, poisonous luster of a venomous serpent.

The instant Silven made contact, he was flung backward, slamming hard into the wall.

His arm exploded in pain; when he struggled to his feet, the basilisk was only a few steps away—he could even smell its overpowering stench.

One could imagine the basilisk now had its mouth wide open, lunging toward him.

Everything happened too fast; Silven had only just drawn his wand.

A blue unicorn emerged from the wand’s tip, charging straight at the basilisk.

But Silven knew well—the unicorn was no match for the basilisk; not even a living unicorn could stand against it, let alone one in spirit form.

Yet at this moment, it could serve one crucial purpose.

Through the unicorn’s blue body, Silven finally saw those cold yellow eyes.

His consciousness blurred; his body froze in place in an instant.

“Clink…” A small vial slipped from his stiff fingers and clattered to the floor.

At that moment, the diving basilisk abruptly halted, raising its upper body high into the air as if searching for its prey.

As for Silven beside it—in the basilisk’s eyes, he was merely a stone: no scent, no warmth, indistinguishable from the wall; it wouldn’t waste its fangs on stone.

So the basilisk saw the unicorn.

Silven had turned to stone, but the unicorn, his “shield,” remained unchanged—its bright blue form still glowed vividly in the basilisk’s gaze, even lowering its head to strike the basilisk’s skull with force.

Then it passed straight through the basilisk’s body.

The basilisk felt as if burned, hissing in agony, snapping its jaws at the unicorn—only to be burned again.

Like biting into a searing cloud of steam.

Realizing it could not overcome this creature, the basilisk fled decisively—but the unicorn seemed unwilling to let it go, chasing after it relentlessly.

Soon, both vanished, leaving only petrified Silven sitting on the floor.

Silven was in a strange state—he couldn’t move, yet not entirely unable to.

He could clearly feel his wand still clutched in his hand, the familiar sensation of fingers touching the wand’s shaft—no illusion.

Silven also saw a cat sprinting up the stairs from below, leaping onto his lap.

It was Tom…

He remembered—he’d heard a cat’s cry when he first reached the eighth floor, which had saved him from meeting the basilisk’s gaze.

That cat must have been Tom.

Good thing it had been downstairs and hadn’t looked directly into the basilisk’s eyes.

Silven wanted to stroke the cat’s head, but his arm wouldn’t move… Come to think of it, his fingers had just felt a breeze—was that because of Silvermane?

Petrified Silven sat there for a full minute before the professors, alerted by the commotion, finally arrived.

Leading the rush wasn’t Dumbledore, whom Silven had trusted most—but Professor McGonagall.

Seeing Silven motionless, she was initially annoyed—until she drew closer and realized something was wrong.

“Get up, Mr. Ollivander, why are you sitting in the corridor… Good heavens, what on earth happened?!”

“Petrification,” Snape emerged from behind, his voice dripping with malice. “Perhaps Mr. Ollivander wished to stop a student from sneaking out after hours.”

Snape didn’t name the student, but every professor present knew who he meant.

Last year, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had petrified Neville to escape the dormitory after curfew.

The professors all knew this.

“It’s not even curfew yet, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall.

“But using a petrification charm on a fellow student is still a vile act,” Snape replied, pressing his wand against Silven.

Tom, crouched on Silven’s lap, instantly bristled, arching his back, baring his fangs, hissing “Sss… haa… sss… haa…” at Snape.

“Get off, you foolish cat—I’m trying to save him,” Snape snapped.

“Let me handle it,” said Professor McGonagall, transforming instantly into a tabby cat.

But before she could act, Tom retracted his claws and fangs, and leisurely leapt aside.

An awkward silence followed.

“Finish this farce quickly.”

Snape waved his wand; a silver light struck Silven.

“Tell me—who did this?”

Silven stared at Snape’s confident face, wanting to shout: Look closer… at least confirm the petrification is lifted before you ask!

“What’s wrong?” Snape noticed Silven’s unmoving eyes.

He waved his wand again.

“Finite Incantatem!”

This time, a blue spell—but it dissolved instantly upon touching Silven’s body.

Completely ineffective.

Snape’s face flushed with humiliation, especially after seeing that stupid cat’s odd expression—his grip on his wand tightened with a crunching sound.

Why did he feel mocked by a cat?

Fortunately, Lockhart and Flitwick arrived, followed by the tardy Dumbledore—breaking the awkward silence.

But even Dumbledore could not lift Silven’s petrification.

A white glow illuminated the dim corridor; Dumbledore stepped beside Silven, studying him closely, tapping his wand gently against Silven’s body.

“This is a highly advanced dark magic.”

“Dark magic…” Professor McGonagall gripped her chest tightly.

“You mean a student was attacked by dark magic right outside the common room?”

“It’s… it’s absurd… Who could have done this?”

“That, I fear, only Mr. Ollivander himself can tell us,” Dumbledore murmured.

“It’s a pity I wasn’t there,” Lockhart said. “I recall a similar incident in Ouagadougou—I documented it in detail in my autobiography...”

Professor McGonagall did not look at him; she kept her eyes fixed on Dumbledore.

“What about Ollivander now?”

“Completely petrified.”

“Can it be undone?”

“There is still a way,” Dumbledore said. “Professor Sprout has recently acquired some Mandrakes. Once they mature, we can brew a potion to reverse Ollivander’s petrification.”

“Yes,” Professor Sprout nodded. “But the Mandrakes are still very young—it may take some time before they are ready.”

“Let me brew it when they’re ready,” Lockhart said. “I...”

“Excuse me,” Snape cut in bluntly. “I believe we won’t need to wait that long.”

In his hand was a small vial he had just picked up from the floor during his spellcasting.

The vial had already been opened; Snape leaned close and sniffed at its mouth.

“Mandrake juice,” he raised an eyebrow. “Not fresh, but sufficient for a Revival Potion.”

The professors exchanged glances.

Why did it feel so strange? Dumbledore had just said they needed Mandrake juice—and then this vial appeared right beside them.

As if someone had placed it there on purpose.

But who would do such a thing? Surely not the one who petrified Ollivander.

“Regardless, this is good news,” Dumbledore said. “Before the Revival Potion is ready, let’s take Ollivander to my office.”

He waved his wand, and Silven floated upward.

The professors standing around parted to either side, clearing a path—and revealing what lay behind it.

“A unicorn...” Professor McGonagall froze. “Dumbledore, does Hogwarts have a unicorn ghost?”

Dumbledore said nothing; even he was uncertain what was happening.

He had never heard of a unicorn ghost within Hogwarts Castle.

Then, before the professors’ incredulous eyes, the unicorn began to run—head lowered, charging straight at them at full speed.

In what seemed like a blink, it stood before them.

Several professors moved to act—but how could they stop a ghost? They could only watch as the unicorn slammed into Silven.

“Thud... thud...”

The next moment, a new heartbeat seemed to echo around them.

After the unicorn struck him, Silven felt a warm current surge from his chest, spreading rapidly outward. He heard the sound of shattering glass, and his stiff body regained sensation.

At the same time, he fell from midair to the ground—landing directly on his broken arm.

“Ah!” The searing pain made Silven cry out.

Wait—he could make a sound?

Silven froze for a moment, then, as awareness returned, he shouted:

“The Basilisk! It was the Basilisk that attacked me!”

He ignored his broken arm, spotted Dumbledore in the crowd, and shouted:

“I saw it—the Basilisk came out of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, third corridor on the left, the one that always leaks! There’s a ghost there named Moaning Myrtle!”

(End of Chapter)