The moment the bronze gates shuddered open, the air was sucked out of the hall, replaced by a stench so ancient and foul it felt like a physical blow. Then, it emerged.
Slowly, with a rhythmic, heavy slithering that sounded like a wet leather trunk being dragged over gravel, a nightmare poured out of the darkness. It was a Basilisk. But not just any Basilisk—this was the King of Serpents in its absolute prime. Its scales were a deep, iridescent emerald, shimmering with a toxic luster that seemed to absorb the light of Allen's wand. Its body was as thick as an ancient oak, and as its head rose, a tuft of brilliant, blood-red plumes swayed like a morbid crown.
Allen's breath hitched. He knew the lore; only the true Heir of Slytherin could command this beast. And judging by the way the serpent's yellow eyes—the size of dinner plates—locked onto his general direction, Allen was definitely not on the guest list.
The Basilisk didn't hiss. It let out a low, guttural vibration that rattled the very stones beneath Allen's feet. It began to coil, its massive muscles rippling as it prepared to strike.
"Don't look at the eyes. Focus on the shadow," Allen whispered to himself, his fingers white-knuckled around his wand. Even with his protective goggles, he wasn't about to test if a thousand-year-old death stare could bypass modern glass.
As the serpent lunged, a blur of green and silver, Allen didn't retreat. He moved forward. Using the momentum of the beast's strike, he dived under the sweeping curve of its neck and, with a desperate burst of agility, leaped onto its back. His hands buried themselves into the coarse, scarlet plumes on its head.
The Basilisk went berserk. It reared back, its upper body towering twenty feet into the air, shaking its head with enough force to liquefy a normal man's internal organs. Allen felt like he was clinging to a runaway train.
"Time for a wake-up call!" Allen roared over the rushing wind. With a flick of his mind, he accessed his Pet Space.
Suddenly, the floor was covered in feathers and frantic clucking. A dozen roosters, originally pinched from Hagrid's coop for just such an occasion, tumbled onto the stone. They were confused, terrified, and very, very loud.
Allen knew he couldn't win a battle of attrition. The Basilisk's hide was essentially organic dragon-hide armor; most spells would simply slide off its scales or be reflected back at the caster. Its only vulnerabilities were its soft mouth and those lethal, glowing eyes. But those fangs... they were as long as shortswords, dripping with a translucent green venom that hissed when it hit the floor. One graze would be the end.
The roosters, sensing the apex predator, began to scatter, their frantic wings flapping against the Basilisk's tail. The serpent froze. The mere presence of the birds seemed to trigger a primal, genetic dread in the beast. It stopped trying to shake Allen and turned, intent on fleeing back into the dark corridor.
"Not so fast!" Allen yelled. He couldn't let it escape into the tunnels where it could hunt him from the shadows. As he was thrown clear by a violent thrash, he pointed his wand at the arched entrance. "Impedimenta!"
The spell didn't hit the snake; it hit the air, creating a solid wall of kinetic force. The Basilisk slammed into it at full speed, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The force sent Allen spinning through the air. He hit the ground, tucked into a roll, and came up panting just as the serpent's massive tail smashed into the spot where he'd been a second before.
The Basilisk was trapped and furious. It let out a shriek of pure, unadulterated rage, giving up on escape and turning its hunger toward the roosters.
Allen's Silver Sword flew from his hand, hovering in the air via a silent Levicorpus variation, acting as a distraction. But the serpent was focused now. It opened its maw wide—wide enough to swallow a horse whole—and lunged at the nearest bird.
"Merlin, help me if this doesn't work," Allen muttered. He cast a specialized Sonorus-based charm, not on himself, but on the air around the roosters. It was a trick, a magical amplifier. He simulated a piercing, triumphant rooster's crow.
The sound was deafening. The real roosters, triggered by the magical mimicry, joined in a cacophony of morning calls that echoed through the vaulted ceiling.
For a Basilisk, the crow of a rooster isn't just a sound—it's a neurological toxin. The giant serpent shuddered. Its majestic posture collapsed as if its spine had turned to jelly. It thrashed weakly, its head striking the floor with a dull thud.
Allen didn't hesitate. He knew the legends said the crow was fatal, but he wasn't taking chances with a beast this size. He used a Transfiguration spell to conjure a massive iron hook. With a grimace, he drove it through the creature's nostril, stirring the internal structures to ensure the brain was destroyed.
Finally, the great tail stopped twitching.
Allen slumped against the cold stone, his chest heaving. He pulled on his thick dragon-hide gloves and, using his sword as a pry bar, began the grim work of harvesting the fangs. Each one was a treasure trove of the most potent substance in the magical world.
With the guardian slain, Allen finally stepped through the bronze doors.
Beyond lay a corridor that defied everything he knew about Hogwarts. It wasn't made of the rough, gray stone of the castle. Instead, it was paved with massive, polished slabs of greenish-blue stone that looked like the surface of a frozen tropical sea.
On either side of the hall stood statues. Not of knights or saints, but of monsters. Dragons with too many wings, serpents with human faces, and winged beasts that looked like they belonged in a prehistoric fever dream.
"Salazar... you weren't just a founder," Allen whispered, trailing his gloved hand over a statue of a Chimaera. "You were a collector. A curator of the impossible."
He followed the corridor until it opened into a central sanctum. If the Great Hall of Hogwarts was grand, this place was celestial. The walls weren't stone; they were clad in shimmering, pale green ceramic tiles that glowed with an inner light. In the eleventh century, the cost of such a feat would have been astronomical—more than gold, more than lives.
The floor was a brilliant, unblemished white stone that reflected the ceiling like a mirror. At the far end, a row of towering display cabinets stood like silent sentinels.
Allen's excitement, however, died a quick death as he approached the glass.
Time is the one enemy even Salazar Slytherin couldn't defeat. The display cases were filled with the wreckage of a thousand years. What had once been a pristine specimen of a Manticore was now a shriveled, blackened husk that crumbled at a vibration. Jars that likely held preserved unicorn organs or phoenix ash were now filled with a murky, dehydrated sludge. Rare herbs, capable of curing any plague, had weathered into piles of anonymous brown dust.
Allen pressed his forehead against the glass of a central cabinet. He could see the faint, flickering outlines of ancient magic arrays etched into the wood—runes designed to halt decay and preserve the items forever. But magic requires a source. Without Salazar there to feed the arrays, they had sputtered and died centuries ago.
"A thousand years of history," Allen sighed, his voice thick with a mix of awe and heartbreak. "All of it, just... dust."