The small room was in utter chaos, marked everywhere with scorch marks from Fiendfyre. Even the Mirror of Erised hadn’t been spared; its golden fra had lted, its surface now gray and cracked.
Quirrell was gone.
When he had touched Harry, his body had begun to blacken rapidly, like a statue lting away, until he was reduced to nothing but ashes. Voldemort, too, had transford into a ghostly apparition, fleeing the room the instant Quirrell died.
Now, only Harry, Kyle, and Dumbledore—who had just arrived—remained in the room.
...
As Dumbledore entered the room, he frowned slightly, casting a thoughtful look in Kyle’s direction. But after a brief pause, he turned away, a gentle smile crossing his face. “If I'm not mistaken, you were about to use Finite Incantatem just now. It seems Professor Flitwick was right—you’ve mastered that spell, which is no small achievent.”
“I just happened to read about it in the library over the holidays,” Kyle replied, helping Harry up from where he had collapsed on the ground. “I can’t say I’m able to pull it off every ti, but I’m glad you’re here...”
“No need to be so modest, Kyle.” Dumbledore winked. “Have I ever ntioned that you are one of the finest young wizards I’ve encountered? You never cease to amaze .”
“You’re too kind,” Kyle said, a bit embarrassed. "If you hadn’t refined the Charm, I’d never have had the chance to learn it. You’re the true master here."
Dumbledore chuckled, “Now, now, you’re making blush… It was more a happy accident than anything else, and not solely my work.”
While they exchanged pleasantries, Harry, still lying on the ground, suddenly extended a trembling arm. He felt like there might still be hope for him, but the lingering effects of Quirrell’s curse left him in searing pain, unable to form complete words. If he could, he would’ve made it abundantly clear that he desperately wanted to go to the Hospital Wing.
“Oh, Harry... I’m so sorry,” Dumbledore said quickly, moving to help him up and guiding him toward the Hospital Wing. Kyle accompanied them.
As they returned to the castle, Dumbledore suddenly stopped, turning to look at Kyle. “Fiendfyre is a very dangerous form of dark magic,” he said, “and its effects go beyond re burning. If you have no urgent matters, I suggest you stop by the Hospital Wing for a checkup as well.”
“Yes, Professor,” Kyle nodded. “But before that, could I go back to the dormitory? Cedric and the others must be worried sick.”
“I understand,” Dumbledore replied, “but don’t delay.”
With that, he led Harry away.
Kyle, however, didn’t return to the dormitory. Instead, he made his way to the second floor, heading toward Myrtle’s bathroom. After facing Voldemort, a thought had struck him.
The Basilisk…
Kyle had always believed that only soone with Slytherin blood could control the Basilisk, but now he realized he’d been mistaken.
If Riddle had controlled the Basilisk through a bloodline fifty years ago, what about fifty years from now? Newt had once told him that all artificially bred creatures shared a unique trait. To control these dangerous creatures effectively and prevent them from turning against their creators, a specific will would be imposed on them from the start. This process often left their minds muddled; the more powerful the creature, the stronger the confusion.
The Basilisk was no exception. It would be impossible for it to rember a wizard's face and voice for long. Not to ntion, the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets had been asleep for fifty years—enough to “reset” its mory entirely. If it would forget even after a short five-day sleep, there was no way it could rember Tom Riddle’s commands after half a century. Besides, Riddle didn’t even have a physical form anymore, so how could he control the Basilisk now?
But if it responded to a soul... why not Harry’s? As the last Horcrux, Harry also carried a fragnt of Voldemort’s soul, making him similar to Riddle in a sense. There was no reason it couldn’t work!
Kyle felt as though he had uncovered the key to the problem. He was eager to confirm his theory, especially while the effects of the Felix Felicis were still in play. It had guided him here for a reason.
Arriving at the bathroom, Kyle quickly removed the quill wedged between the door and the fra, then stepped inside. Myrtle wasn’t here, and the room was silent. Kyle opened the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets with ease, mounted his broom, and descended.
The passageway was as dark and damp as ever, but this ti, Kyle felt none of the nervousness that had gripped him during his first visit. He flew swiftly down the corridor, reaching the stone wall and entering the Chamber.
Kyle looked up at the Slytherin statue and thought it seed subtly different from before, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly how. It felt almost… more lifelike. But that didn’t seem possible—the statue had stood here for over a thousand years. Why would it suddenly change?
He squinted at the statue’s eyes, trying to study them more closely, but a thought of Dumbledore waiting in the Hospital Wing broke his concentration. If he lingered here too long, Dumbledore might co to his dormitory looking for him, which could cause complications.
“Forget it, I’ll figure it out later,” Kyle murmured, snapping back to reality. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then opened his suitcase. Inside were the remaining dozen roosters, which he placed at the entrance, feeding each a potion to strengthen them.
Once everything was in place, Kyle turned his gaze back to the statue’s face and let out a hissing sound. This was the critical phrase in Parseltongue he’d learned long ago:
“Speak to , Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”
The giant stone face of Slytherin shifted; its mouth began to open wider and wider, forming a vast, dark cavern. From sowhere deep within the statue, a slithering creature began to stir and move upwards.
“Stop!” Kyle commanded, closing his eyes tightly and clutching his suitcase. This was the mont of truth.
If the Basilisk ignored his command and continued to erge, he would have to open the suitcase imdiately. A dozen roosters weren’t much, but their combined crowing would still pose a deadly threat to the Basilisk. Kyle’s heart raced; he had never felt so tense.
It felt both like an instant and an eternity, but soon Kyle realized that the faint sound of slithering within the statue had ceased.
The Basilisk really wasn’t moving.
A cold, rasping voice echoed from the statue. “Obey your command… master…”
It worked!
Kyle patted his chest in excitent. His earlier guess was correct—the basilisk was rely a magical creature; it couldn’t distinguish Slytherin’s bloodline or soul. What truly controlled it… was that phrase in Parseltongue to open the statue!
That phrase must have been recorded in so special way, perhaps at Hogwarts or sowhere else... but Kyle was certain only a true heir of Slytherin could find it.
The thod for creating a Horcrux, now the Basilisk... Voldemort truly was a “treasure chest” of dark secrets.
That extra effort of calling him “Professor” had definitely been worth it!
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