If Tom had a real flesh-and-blood body now, he would probably be so furious he'd cough up blood.
"Who is it? Who dares play tricks on me?!" Tom Riddle, or rather, the phantom of his younger self preserved in the diary, roared in outrage.
He had been trapped in that cursed diary for over fifty years.
After all this time, finally, finally, he had a chance to return—and yet, everything kept going wrong.
The diary had landed in Ron Weasley's hands first, and Tom had learned the hard way what it meant to have a clumsy master.
It was like being handed an opportunity only to watch it slip through his fingers due to sheer incompetence.
Back then, he hadn't been thinking straight—otherwise, he might've burst a blood vessel from the frustration.
Then it passed to Neville, and Tom thought he could carefully orchestrate something useful from that connection.
But no, even Neville let him slip away. So he settled for the next best option: Draco Malfoy.
Now, after finally absorbing enough emotion and magic, Tom had managed to regain a semi-corporeal form.
He was inches away from pulling himself into the real world. Even if Neville was to be killed again, Tom believed he could find a way back.
But just as he was about to make a dramatic, mysterious entrance and reveal his so-called divine purpose—someone had the nerve to mock him?!
You lot of cursed romantics! The entire lot of you are bloody romantics!
From being feared as the Dark Lord to now being dismissed as a joke... this was utterly humiliating.
Ron, who still bore the psychological scars from Tom's earlier manipulation, couldn't hold it in anymore and burst into laughter.
"Who's there?!" Tom's face twisted with fury, his expression contorting as his patience unraveled.
Ron stepped out from his hiding spot, grinning. "It's me! The Ron Weasley you completely underestimated! I actually trusted you once, you fucking dildo lover!"
"Die! I'll tear you limb from limb!" Tom howled, casting a vicious spell.
Luckily, Ron had just enough combat experience to react in time, sliding to the side and dodging by a few meters.
A combination of Feather Fall and a slippery jinx made him surprisingly agile when it came to evading spells.
"Expelliarmus!" While Ron dodged, Neville cast a Disarming Charm at Tom.
But the spell passed straight through him.
Though Tom could wield a wand and use magic, that power was being siphoned from Malfoy's life force. His semi-incorporeal state made him immune to most magical attacks.
Ted's expression darkened.
He realized the truth—this version of Voldemort was something they couldn't damage.
Not like this. Continuing like this would only make things worse.
But oddly enough, Tom didn't focus on fighting them.
Every movement, every spell he cast consumed Malfoy's life and magic. If Malfoy was drained too far, Tom would be dragged back into the diary once again.
No, Tom had a different goal now: he planned to sacrifice Malfoy to fully resurrect himself.
Turning his back on Neville and Ron, Tom faced the towering Slytherin statue.
"Speak to me, Slytherin—the greatest of the Founders!" he commanded.
Whether this password was established by Salazar Slytherin himself or by his Gaunt descendants didn't matter—it worked.
With a deep grinding sound, the mouth of the Slytherin statue slowly opened, revealing a dark tunnel within. Something inside began to shift.
The basilisk was awakening.
Neville and Ron, acting on Ted's warning, immediately pulled out their anti-basilisk goggles and put them on.
At the same time, Ted raised his hand, and Anzu—who had been hiding in the shadows—soared into the air. Shroud of shadow rippled from her wings, blanketing the entire chamber in utter darkness.
"What?!" Tom exclaimed, startled by the sudden shift.
Even as a ghost-like presence, he didn't like the dark.
More importantly, the basilisk's deadliest weapon was its gaze. But that required direct eye contact.
And now? The entire chamber was plunged into magical pitch-blackness. The torches still crackled and hissed like they were burning... but they no longer gave off even a sliver of light.
"Finite Incantatem!" Tom shouted, thrusting his wand forward.
This was a general counter-spell, designed to dispel magical effects. It was a form of white magic—highly effective against curses, jinxes, and magical disruptions.
Though he would one day become the world's most feared dark wizard, young Tom Riddle had once been an excellent student of white magic.
He'd only abandoned it later, believing white magic had too many limits. That it lacked the raw power and dominance of the Dark Arts.
Now, he thought he had been tricked—blinded by some spell or magical interference.
He had no idea the darkness wasn't an illusion... it was deliberate.
However, the spell meant to dispel spell effects had no impact whatsoever.
If you were the one struck by that curse, there was no way you'd just shrug it off. The only explanation was that the issue wasn't internal, but environmental. The light had been blocked.
That's right—this was Anzu's own magical ability, a powerful wide-area Dark Shroud enchantment.
No light, natural or magical, could pierce the thick veil of darkness. If you hadn't come prepared, you might as well be fighting blind.
In the pitch-black space, the enormous body of the basilisk slithered across the floor, its scales scraping the stone as it coiled cautiously. It lifted its head slightly, tongue flicking, hissing softly as it scanned the darkness.
Young Voldemort, unfazed, barked a command in Parseltongue, "Calm down! You can smell them, feel them—hunt them!"
Tom Riddle had always had a way with serpents. It only took him a second to recall the natural advantages snakes had: their heightened senses.
But Ted had seen this coming. He had prepared meticulously, studying nearly every book in the library that mentioned basilisks. He wasn't about to walk into this blind.
All their helmets were enchanted to block body heat and scent.
The basilisk's massive head swayed, sniffing the air, its tongue darting in and out—but it found nothing.
"Nothing? Impossible!" Tom hissed in Parseltongue, his voice laced with frustration.
"Longbottom! Weasley! Did you really think you could run from me in here? I won't let you die peacefully! Enjoy your final moments!"
His voice echoed through the oppressive darkness. He hoped the intimidation would cause Neville or Ron to panic and make a noise.
What he didn't realize was that Neville and Ron weren't alone—their friends had never left their side.
Tom's taunts were met with complete silence. No screams, no movement. Only the whisper of shadows. It made him feel powerless. Angry.
Meanwhile, Ted was busy analyzing the basilisk's stats.
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[Millennium Basilisk]
Level: Level 13 Magical Creature / Level 2 Modified Creature / Level 1 Ancient Species
Attributes: strength 32, constitution 29, agility 8, intelligence 4, perception 13, spirit 7, charisma 4, luck ??
Talents:
[Death Gaze (Red)]: Its gaze channels powerful dark magic. Anyone with magic resistance below Level 5 is instantly killed. Those with resistance Level 5 or higher suffer petrification or paralysis of varying degrees.
[Extended Lifespan Modification (Blue)]: Altered by ancient dark spells to significantly lengthen its hibernation cycles and lifespan.
[Enhanced Magic Resistance (Blue)]: Already naturally resistant to magic, the basilisk has undergone magical reinforcement, boosting resistance by one additional level.
[Unnatural Being (Green)]: Not born through natural means. Immune to certain spells but particularly vulnerable to others. -2 Charisma.
Skills:
Magic Resistance Level 6, Venom Level 6, Scale Armor Level 4, Crushing Force Level 3, Tail Whip Level 3, Swallowing Bite Level 3, Scent Tracking Level 2, Heat Detection Level 2.
Evaluation: Slytherin's personally modified pet. A basilisk that has survived for centuries. An extremely dangerous magical creature.
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Level 13 magical creature—possibly the strongest Ted had ever encountered.
Its Level 2 modification was likely the result of Slytherin's original experiments.
Professor Quirrell had once found research notes related to blood samples left by Voldemort during his time at Hogwarts. Ted guessed those notes had originated in the Chamber of Secrets. Clearly, Slytherin had delved deep into the dark arts.
As for the creature's classification as a Level 1 Ancient Species—does just living long enough earn you that rank?
The system recognized its challenge level as 16.
Even someone as skilled as Snape would struggle against it in a head-on encounter without preparation. He might not survive.
Magic Resistance Level 6 basically meant it was immune to the vast majority of spells cast by ordinary witches and wizards.
...
Tom stood stiffly in the thick silence, straining his senses, when a soft, enchanting sound suddenly pierced the darkness—the slow melody of a flute.
Even though he tried to appear composed, Tom's entire posture loosened involuntarily at the sound.
Wait! What was that sound?
He stiffened. "What sorcery is this?!" he hissed.
Was someone casting black magic??
Though he reacted instantly, it was too late. The basilisk had already begun to change.
Once poised and coiled, the enormous serpent now raised its head, body swaying as if hypnotized. It flicked its tongue, twisted its neck, and began slithering to the rhythm—
Just like the cobras entranced by snake charmers in Muggle documentaries.
Basilisk (inner monologue): Apologies... my body... it's moving on its own~ I can't stop!
Ted, focusing with deep intent, used his psychic gift, amplified by the red-tier talent [Sound of Heartbeat], and played the [Mystic Dance Flute (Green)]. The melody wormed its way into the basilisk's mind, dulling its senses and seizing its instincts.
As Tom reeled in shock, the great serpent dancing uncontrollably before him, Neville and Ron had already slipped back, guided telepathically by Ted.
The rest of their group was already scattering, taking up battle positions around the confused basilisk.
"Stop! Stop, you blundering beast! What are you doing?!" Tom roared, his voice high and furious.
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Word count: 1629
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