While Vizette sliced through the Runespoor's skin, Dumbledore had already scouted the path ahead. The only barrier was a massive gate, making their progress straightforward.
Vizette glanced at the headmaster. "Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape—if we run into the Basilisk, do we just kill it?"
A glowing orb floated above Dumbledore's head as he strolled along like a man in his garden. "And what would you suggest?"
"We've been so focused on crafting the Parseltongue Whistle that we haven't tested luring the heir yet," Vizette said. "Maybe now's the time to try it."
"After all, we didn't know the giant snake was a Basilisk until recently. Now that we've identified one threat, we can zero in on the other."
"Then let Colin Creevey vanish for now," Snape interjected coolly. "Professor McGonagall can stage it later."
Dumbledore waved him off. "And bring panic back to the school? I'd rather not."
"Or let the boy spread the tale himself—that he escaped by his own wits. Gryffindors eat that up." Snape's voice dipped and rose with sarcasm. "Doesn't that suit?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Clever. It would ease the fear and turn the Chamber of Secrets legend into a farce."
"A prankster who even wrecked Colin's camera... The heir won't like that. He'll want to prove himself."
Vizette raised his wand. "Then let's tweak the wall message too. I recall the original..."
He flicked his wand, etching two lines in the air:
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Enemies of the heir, beware.
"A slight rearrangement..." He pointed again, and the letters shuffled into a new phrase:
A sneaky rat creeps in and harms a poor feline.
"Is that the best you can do to boast?"
"It wasn't a perfect anagram, so I added a few letters."
Dumbledore and Snape exchanged an odd glance but stayed silent.
Vizette caught it. "Headmaster? Professor? What's wrong?"
Snape smirked. "Try a Patronus Charm."
"Expecto Patronum!" Vizette traced the familiar arc, and the warm silver light bloomed unchanged.
The two professors shared another look, tension easing from their faces.
Snape sneered. "Why the sudden doubt?"
"Luna mentioned the heir might've written that to flaunt his Parselmouth status," Vizette explained. "Why else leave such permanent scrawl? He craves fear and remembrance."
"Fear... yes, he revels in it," Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard. "Answering in kind is inspired."
"If he bites, he'll return soon to summon the Basilisk. We'll be ready."
The tunnel ended at a colossal stone door, flanked by coiled serpents with emerald eyes that gleamed with deadly realism.
Vizette hissed in Parseltongue: "Open!"
The carvings slithered to life, vanishing into the stone as the doors parted.
Beyond lay a vast chamber, rivaling the Great Hall in size, bathed in eerie green haze that pressed down like a shroud. Serpentine pillars lined the walls, their emerald eyes casting the ghostly glow.
Dumbledore transfigured a probe—no threats stirred.
At the far end loomed a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, his stern face carved in unyielding stone.
"Let's fan out and search," Dumbledore said. They split up, probing the Chamber of Secrets.
Vizette scanned his mental map, siphoning traces of Ancient Magic while hissing Parseltongue commands, hunting hidden passages. His throat grew raw, but nothing yielded.
They regrouped. "Anything?" Dumbledore asked.
Snape shook his head, eyeing Vizette.
"I spoke in Parseltongue—no reaction," Vizette admitted. "Maybe it needs a specific phrase, not just 'open'?"
"That leaves Slytherin's statue." Dumbledore led the way, admiring it. "Magnificent work."
"Planning one for Hogwarts? 'The Great Dumbledore,' like Fudge's in the Ministry atrium?" Snape quipped.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Perish the thought. Fudge would lose sleep until it crumbled."
As Vizette circled the statue, gathering Ancient Magic and testing more Parseltongue, The Standard Book of Spells in his mind flickered. A page unveiled itself, bearing a stark title like "Thunder":
The Command
Salazar Slytherin had mentioned this—if Vizette passed the test, he'd command the Parseltongue Commands. Victory meant claiming a body part or earning trust.
Had those Runespoor shed skins counted as fragments?
An image surged: a skull gaping wide, a massive python uncoiling from its maw. The snake writhed free, cracks spiderwebbing the bone—from jaws to eye sockets, shattering the skull as the serpent emerged triumphant.
—