Chapter 106: The Crying Moaning Myrtle, the One Who Occupied the Bathroom

To be honest, everything that happened tonight has truly exceeded the professors’ understanding.

First, Silven was suddenly petrified by a mysterious dark magic in Hogwarts, then attacked by a ghostly unicorn, and afterward, he inexplicably recovered.

Before the professors could make sense of what had just occurred, the newly recovered Silven delivered them another utterly unbelievable piece of news.

“The Basilisk?”

Professor McGonagall repeated the name, utterly at a loss for words.

Professor Flitwick tugged desperately at his already sparse hair.

Even Lockhart fell silent, standing there bewildered, as if trying to fit the Basilisk into some adventure story—but nowhere seemed right… Then again, what even is a Basilisk?

“You mean you saw the Basilisk?” Finally, Dumbledore reacted.

“Yes, I saw it,” Silven nodded. “A snake at least fifty feet long, with eyes as big as light bulbs.”

“Nonsense!”

Snape sneered. “How could there be a Basilisk in Hogwarts? You’re clearly terrified and hallucinating.”

Though the other professors didn’t say it outright, their expressions made it clear they didn’t believe Silven.

After all, Basilisks had vanished for centuries; for Silven to suddenly claim he saw one inside the castle… it was indeed hard to believe.

“But as I understand it, anyone who looks directly into a Basilisk’s eyes dies.”

Dumbledore was the only one who didn’t deny this. He looked at Silven and asked softly, “Can you tell me how you escaped?”

“The unicorn’s soul,” Silven said. “I saw the Basilisk through it—that’s why I’m still alive.”

“That makes sense,” Dumbledore nodded, then looked around.

The ghostly unicorn had vanished; no one knew when it had disappeared.

“Did you know not looking directly into the Basilisk’s eyes spares you? Or was it just a lucky coincidence?”

“I—I read books about Basilisks,” Silven said.

“So the mandrake juice you left was for us to make the Revival Potion, correct?” Dumbledore continued.

“Yes,” Silven nodded, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the altered lizard-skin pouch inside.

“I made this during the holidays, and I just happened to need mandrake juice.”

“Ah, a very primitive altered lizard-skin pouch,” Dumbledore’s expression turned understanding.

As an alchemist, he knew mandrake juice was the key ingredient for such pouches, and he could tell this one had been made recently.

It wasn’t strange that he carried mandrake juice with him.

Dumbledore stood, walked the length of the corridor, then suddenly stopped.

“Let’s go to the second floor.”

“Dumbledore, you can’t possibly believe him,” Snape couldn’t help saying. “This might just be a prank—someone cast a special petrification spell on Ollivander.”

Snape thought this mainly because Silven had inexplicably recovered…

No counter-curse, no Revival Potion—just passing through a ghost’s body and the petrification vanished? If it were truly a Basilisk, it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Ah, Professor Snape, I choose to believe Mr. Ollivander,” Dumbledore said.

“But—”

“I suggest you all take a look at this,” Dumbledore bent down, picked something up, and held it out for them to see.

It was a grayish-white object, about the size of two coins.

“Snake skin?” Snape was the first to recognize it.

It was the shed skin of a snake—many potions used it; he knew it well.

But why would snake skin be in Hogwarts Castle? And from the pattern, the snake must have been enormous.

Could it really be a Basilisk?

Snape fell silent.

“Let’s go,” Dumbledore’s face was grim.

As soon as he spoke, all the staircases shifted direction, quickly forming a straight staircase leading to the second floor.

“Mr. Ollivander,” Dumbledore looked at Silven again. “There may be danger ahead. Given your recent traumatic attack, I advise you return to the common room now.”

“No need,” Silven stood immediately, dragging his broken arm up the stairs first. “I can guide you—it’ll be faster.”

Silven’s resolve was firm.

If he hadn’t reacted quickly—if not for the unicorn’s soul in Silvermane—he might have been killed outright by the Basilisk.

Even if he’d barely escaped, he’d have spent half the term petrified.

This couldn’t be left unresolved.

And Silven had a hunch—the Basilisk had come for him. He didn’t know why, but one such incident was enough.

The diary could wait—but the Basilisk must die!

“Come back, Ollivander…” McGonagall’s voice came from behind, but Silven ignored it, walking faster.

“I’ll protect Mr. Ollivander. I’ve killed a Basilisk before—in Peru.” Lockhart stepped forward. “I plan to write this into my next book, so leave it to me—”

“No need, Professor Lockhart,” McGonagall pushed him aside, about to chase after Silven—when Dumbledore raised a hand and said softly:

“It’s fine, Minerva. Don’t worry. No one will be hurt tonight.”

Dumbledore’s voice was quiet, but no one doubted its truth.

If Silven had been there, he would have noticed Dumbledore now held a wand—unusual in design, nothing like the one he’d seen last year.

“Hurry along. Let’s hope we resolve this before dawn…” Dumbledore ascended the stairs, then paused and turned back. “Professor Lockhart, could you stay here? If any students are out after hours, tell them tonight isn’t a good night for wandering.”

Lockhart’s foot froze mid-step.

He clearly wanted to follow—everyone knew the safest place in the magical world was within ten feet of Albus Dumbledore.

What if the Basilisk came back? What if he was left alone here?

“I—I’d rather help—”

Lockhart wanted to refuse, but Dumbledore gave him no chance to speak, walking down the stairs.

The other professors hurried after him.

When only Lockhart remained on the eighth floor, he hesitated only a moment, then gritted his teeth and ran straight back to his office.

On the other side, Silven had already reached the second floor and arrived without pause at Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Fortunately, the professors weren’t far behind.

“This is it,” Silven pointed at the bathroom door. “The Basilisk came out from here.”

Silven, consumed by thoughts of the Basilisk, didn’t notice the complex glances the professors cast his way.

They’d passed three corridors on the second floor, yet Silven led them without hesitation, without pause, without checking direction—straight to the door.

They couldn’t understand why he knew the location of a girls’ bathroom so well—as if he’d been here countless times.

“Are you certain this is the place?” Professor McGonagall finally asked.

Silven had been petrified on the eighth floor, but this was the second floor—six levels down, with at least three corridors between.

She couldn’t fathom how he’d run through three corridors and six floors under a Basilisk’s attack—and yet not a single sound had reached the professors.

“Yes, I saw it,” Silven nodded firmly, his gaze unwavering.

As the only one who had seen the Basilisk and nearly died, his words—even if implausible—had to be accepted. He’d seen it. The how didn’t matter.

Meanwhile, Snape had found another piece of snake skin on the floor before the bathroom.

Identical to the one found on the eighth floor—almost certainly from the same snake.

Now, they had no choice but to believe.

Dumbledore glanced at Silven, who was now having his broken arm wrapped in bandages by McGonagall.

“Don’t stray far,” his gaze flickered slightly, then he pushed open the bathroom door.

Immediately, a loud, wailing cry echoed from inside.

A ghost sat on the toilet, sobbing bitterly.

“Good evening, Myrtle,” Dumbledore said.

Hearing this unfamiliar address, Myrtle instinctively lifted her head.

Seeing Dumbledore before her, she froze, forgetting she’d been crying.

“Oh, Headmaster, what brings you here?” Myrtle floated to Dumbledore’s side, smoothing her dress slightly, completely ignoring the professors behind her.

“Some unpleasant things happened tonight,” Dumbledore said. “Can you tell me why you were so upset?”

“Someone took over my bathroom and drove me away!” Myrtle wailed. “Probably thought it was funny to watch me chased by Peeves.”

“When did this happen?” Dumbledore asked.

Myrtle strained to recall. “About an hour ago, I think.”

McGonagall frowned, sensing something was off.

An hour ago—that meant someone had been here around eight o’clock, right after the Halloween feast ended. Everyone should’ve returned to their common rooms. Who would have come specifically to this second-floor bathroom?

Could someone be controlling the Basilisk?—McGonagall suddenly had a terrifying thought.

Someone came to this bathroom, then the Basilisk appeared. How could that be coincidence?

But who was it… a student, or a professor?

The possibility struck her like ice—her back chilled, her hands clenched tightly.

…

(End of Chapter)