Chapter 140: Again the Basilisk

After Dumbledore left the school, nothing in Hogwarts seemed to have changed; everyone continued with their daily classes and preparations for the upcoming exams.

Silven had initially felt something was off, thinking the timing of that letter was too convenient, but soon he realized that Dumbledore’s departure itself had seemed strange.

So after breakfast, Silven put the matter out of his mind, pretending nothing had happened.

That evening, Silven went to the Forbidden Forest to find Hagrid and told him about Professor Kettleburn’s retirement.

When he arrived, Hagrid was packing away his mole-skin coat; the weather had grown too warm to wear it anymore.

“Of course I know Professor Kettleburn—we often drank together at the Three Broomsticks, and he even gave me a fascinating book for Christmas.”

Hagrid brushed dust and pebbles off the coat with a clothes brush as he spoke to Silven: “Come to think of it, I even took his class.”

He paused his motion, as if lost in memory.

“That was my first lesson in Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Kettleburn told us the Hungarian Horntail had the strongest bite among dragons, but the Peruvian Vipertooth was the most dangerous.”

“I loved his class—though not long after, I got expelled.”

Hagrid paused again, resumed brushing the coat, and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the side.

“You took his class…” Silven asked in disbelief: “Has Professor Kettleburn been teaching at Hogwarts this long?”

Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago—so Kettleburn must have taught at Hogwarts for at least fifty years, longer than Professor McGonagall’s tenure.

“Probably,” Hagrid said after careful thought.

“I remember someone mentioning over drinks that before Dumbledore became headmaster, Professor Kettleburn had been placed on probation sixty-two times for illegally keeping dangerous magical creatures—about twice a year on average.”

Silven didn’t bother calculating the years; his attention was fixed on those sixty-two probationary notices.

Normally, a Hogwarts professor was dismissed after three probationary notices… How exceptional must Kettleburn’s expertise have been to remain on staff after sixty-two “reviews”?

And those sixty-two weren’t even his limit—they were the limit of Headmaster Armando Dippet, who served exactly thirty-one years.

“To be honest, Professor Kettleburn really should retire…” Hagrid hung the coat on a hook above the roof. “Lately, every time I go drinking with him, he’s missing another part—he’s replaced his prosthetic limbs several times already.”

“He can barely handle the creatures in the Forbidden Forest anymore.”

“I don’t think those creatures are ‘little ones,’” Silven muttered, then added: “Who do you think will replace Kettleburn as Care of Magical Creatures professor?”

“I don’t know,” Hagrid said. “Dumbledore will arrange someone.”

“Hasn’t he come to you?”

“Why would he come to me?” Hagrid turned, puzzled. “Has something happened in the castle?”

“No,” Silven shook his head. “I mean—don’t you want the position? The new Care of Magical Creatures professor?”

“!” A loud crash echoed from inside the hut; Hagrid dropped the copper kettle, spilling water across the floor.

After several seconds, he hurriedly bent down to pick it up.

“Don’t joke, Silven—Dumbledore would never let me become a professor.” He laughed, treating it as nonsense.

“So Headmaster Dumbledore really hasn’t come to you?”

“Of course not,” Hagrid said. “What’s gotten into you today?”

“Nothing,” Silven replied. “I just think you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Thank you, Silven,” Hagrid handed him a rock cake. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever heard—but aren’t you supposed to be studying for your exams right now?”

“If I remember correctly, you’re about to take your tests.”

“It’s just second-year exams. Not important.”

“No, Silven—that’s wrong,” Hagrid said seriously. “Every exam matters—it affects your future career.”

Though Silven believed his future career likely had little to do with exam scores, he nodded at Hagrid’s earnest expression.

“Alright, I’ll study hard.”

Hagrid was one of the few students ever expelled from Hogwarts, and that was why he took exams so seriously.

After chatting a while longer, Hagrid decided to escort Silven back.

If they stayed out much later, curfew would begin—and returning after curfew meant risking being caught by Filch, which would be troublesome.

“I can make it back on my own,” Silven said, watching Hagrid walk beside him. “It’s such a short distance—how could I possibly get lost?”

“You won’t get lost,” Hagrid said, climbing the steps before the main door with him. “But I’m heading to the castle too—let’s go together.”

“Why are you going to the castle?” Silven asked curiously. “To see the headmaster?”

“Yes,” Hagrid said. “This noon, one of my roosters went missing—probably stolen by a bloodsucker. I need the headmaster’s permission to cast a charm around the coop.”

“What…?” Silven froze at the entrance to the Great Hall. “Someone killed your rooster?”

“Stolen—not killed,” Hagrid said. He thought Silven’s reaction was excessive; losing a rooster near the Forbidden Forest was normal, and easily fixed with a simple spell.

Mistaking Silven’s fear for dread of bloodsuckers, he explained: “Don’t worry—they’re not vampires. Just a kind of XXX magical creature that steals poultry and small livestock. They never enter the castle.”

“No, Hagrid, I—”

Silven never finished—he was interrupted by a violent crash.

The sound came from within the castle walls, accompanied by intermittent screams.

Screams…

Silven instinctively drew his wand, flicked his wrist, and a spellbook instantly appeared on his shoulder.

Beside him, Hagrid pulled a heavy club from his pocket.

“What’s happening?” Hagrid asked, alarmed. The walls on both sides still rumbled, dust filled the air, and the entire castle seemed to shake.

“I don’t know,” Silven said, though a hunch stirred in his mind.

Not Harry and the others…

The thought had barely formed when two figures sprinted toward them.

It was night, and they were far away; Silven couldn’t make out their faces, only that one had black hair and the other long hair.

Not… well, it was definitely Harry and Hermione.

But why were they running through the entrance hall at this hour? They weren’t supposed to be playing games.

At the same time, Harry and Hermione spotted Silven and Hagrid ahead and ran toward them with all their strength.

“Run…” Harry shouted. “Quick, go find the headmaster and McGonagall—”

“CRASH!”

His words were drowned out by another thunderous impact—this one louder than before. The force shattered the side wall of the entrance hall.

Then, a serpent as thick as an oak trunk burst through the collapsed wall.

Hagrid instantly shielded the three of them, but as he looked up, he met a pair of cold, yellow eyes.

Hagrid felt his whole body tighten, as if doused in a bucket of ice water—he shuddered involuntarily.

Fortunately, warmth surged from his right palm, as if wrapped in a thick coat, and the icy chill vanished.

“What is that thing!” Hagrid stared at the fifty-foot-long serpent, his head spinning.

Could such a large magical serpent even exist?

A Runespoor could grow that big—but it doesn’t have three heads.

“How… are you still alive!”

Suddenly, the basilisk spoke—in Tom Riddle’s voice.

That snapped Hagrid back to reality: a fifty-foot-long, talking serpent was clearly not normal.

“Who are you?” His face grew grave. “No—I’ve heard that voice before!”

“Ah, Rubeus Hagrid…” The basilisk spoke again. “Filthy, lowly half-giant. No wonder you’re still alive after looking into the basilisk’s eyes.”

“Who are you… you’re… oh no, it’s been fifty years—you can’t be him.”

“It’s Tom Riddle!” Harry, now recovering from the shock of Hagrid’s survival, shouted: “He opened the Chamber! This serpent is the monster inside!”

“No, no, no—you’re the one who opened the Chamber,” the basilisk coiled, looking down at them.

“I should thank you… for helping me…” The basilisk’s voice cut off as it noticed someone behind Hagrid.

“Silven Ollivander!”

The voice dripped with venomous hatred—just hearing it sent chills down the spine.

“Kill, kill you!”

Without hesitation, the basilisk lunged forward, mouth gaping to reveal two rows of dagger-sharp fangs.

“Run!” Hagrid roared, spinning and swinging his club with all his strength.

The basilisk’s eyes were locked on Silven fleeing behind Hagrid—it ignored the blow, even trying to knock Hagrid aside.

After all, even Hagrid looked tiny before the basilisk.

But the basilisk was clearly not the first to underestimate a half-giant—after the three-headed dog, it now witnessed the true power of a half-giant.

When Hagrid’s club struck, the basilisk’s head was instantly knocked sideways, slamming hard into the nearby wall.

Several fangs, still dripping with flesh, flew off and embedded with a *thud* into a portrait.

…

(End of Chapter)