After leaving the eerily empty Acromantula nest, Viktor didn't immediately head off to find the Giant Squid or Moaning Myrtle.
Instead, he found an ancient, gnarled tree and sat down, leaning his back against the rough bark. Tom curled up quietly on his lap.
The morning sun had completely burned away the forest mist, but the fog in Viktor's mind was only growing thicker.
He closed his eyes. His fingers absentmindedly stroked the soft fur on the back of Tom's neck as he began searching his memory, hunting for any terrifying entity—directly or indirectly created by wizards—that matched the clues.
The first thing that crossed his mind was a Gargoyle. They guarded Gringotts and countless ancient wizarding structures, including the towers of Hogwarts. They were stone imbued with a twisted semblance of life and a protective instinct—loyal, resilient, and utterly ruthless to intruders.
However, Gargoyles typically lacked independent free will. Their movement was restricted to their assigned zones. Their "gaze" didn't petrify; they relied on physical tearing and crushing. More importantly, they didn't possess that ancient, hate-filled sentience. They were complex magical golems, not the kind of apex nightmare Aragog described that could instill primal terror across the entire Forbidden Forest.
Next, the Quintaped. A highly unnatural magical beast usually found near water. Five long legs supported a round, fleshy body, and a massive mouth full of razor-sharp teeth took up almost its entire "face."
Their origins were heavily debated—some claimed they were the result of a failed transfiguration experiment by an ancient wizard, while others believed they were mutated by magical pollution. They were dangerous, ravenous, and lethal ambush predators.
Yet, while a Quintaped was unsettling, its threat was purely physical. Its magical nature leaned toward chaos and consumption, not a precise, freezing, curse-like petrification. Plus, they definitely weren't the type of creature that could "hibernate for a thousand years."
Then, a darker, much more fitting image surfaced—one that perfectly matched the descriptions of "unnatural," "freezing," and "bringing terror." The Dementor.
Cloaked in rotting robes and radiating a localized aura of despair and freezing cold, they were born in the darkest, most wretched corners of the wizarding world—likely terrible spirits spawned from the fusion of extreme negative emotions and specific dark magic environments. They fed on joy and hope, leaving behind only numb, freezing memories. Their "Kiss" could suck out a soul, a fate far worse than death.
But a Dementor's hunting grounds were usually bound to places of absolute despair like Azkaban, or strictly controlled by the Ministry. Their "cold" was the stripping of emotion, not a physical transmutation into stone.
Crucially, neither the attacks fifty years ago nor the incident last night were accompanied by that trademark, suffocating aura of despair that devoured all happiness. The ancient protective wards of Hogwarts would have violently repelled and raised alarms against something as inherently dark as a Dementor. Furthermore, Slytherin's ideology of "purging the unworthy" didn't exactly align with a Dementor's nature of indiscriminately feeding on anyone's happiness.
While he couldn't entirely rule out the possibility of an extremely dark wizard controlling or creating a similar entity, the probability was incredibly low.
Finally, a single name—a name whispered alongside the legend of Herpo the Foul for over a thousand years—crashed into Viktor's thoughts with a deafening hiss.
The Basilisk.
It fit every single parameter perfectly.
The oldest, most infamous record of a Basilisk's birth was tied directly to the dark wizard, Herpo the Foul. He was one of the earliest known Parselmouths, and he had artificially bred this nightmare into existence by hatching a chicken egg beneath a toad.
It was the ultimate product of dark magic and forbidden knowledge—a cold, emotionless, entirely unnatural creation.
Moreover, a Basilisk's lifespan was exceptionally long. In theory, it could live for hundreds, even thousands of years. A Basilisk bred or placed inside a hidden chamber by Salazar Slytherin himself could absolutely still be alive today.
Its gaze was instantly fatal. Its venom was virtually incurable—barring legendary substances like Phoenix tears, even a Mandrake Restorative Draught likely wouldn't save someone from a direct bite. It was the ultimate, lethal biological weapon.
And it could easily navigate the castle through the plumbing. The sound of rushing water and the damp smells within the pipes would perfectly mask its movements.
And Moaning Myrtle's haunted bathroom? That was the exact location of the fatal attack fifty years ago.
It also perfectly aligned with the Centaurs' warning about the "convergence of flowing water and shadows."
Viktor's eyes snapped open, his breathing suddenly shallow.
The morning light filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across his face, but it did nothing to lift the grim realization settling over his features. The clues had clicked together like pieces of a horrifying puzzle.
Everything pointed to this single answer!
But he needed absolute confirmation. Aragog's information was second-hand and too vague. He needed direct eyewitness testimony, or the corroboration of another millennium-old "witness."
Viktor glanced down at Tom. As if reading his mind, the cat gave a firm, serious nod.
"First, the Black Lake. We need to ask the old man. Then, we find Myrtle and confirm exactly what she saw in her final moments."
---
### The Old Witnesses
At the edge of the Black Lake, the water was dark and deep.
Viktor stood on the shore. Giving his wand a subtle flick, he sent out a specific, Druidic call—a unique resonance designed to communicate with beasts.
The lake's surface began to ripple unnaturally. Moments later, the water near the shore began to surge upward.
A colossal, soaking-wet mass of dark brown flesh, heavily encrusted with moss and barnacles, breached the surface.
Calling it a "Giant Squid" felt like a massive understatement; it was more like an ancient, aquatic magical leviathan. One of its eyes, easily the size of a round dining table, cracked open beneath a heavy lid. It stared down at the tiny wizard and cat on the shore with a profound, quiet indifference forged by a thousand years of existence.
Viktor immediately projected his question to the creature, asking if it knew about Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and the monster hiding inside.
There was no verbal response. Instead, a slow, incredibly deep mental echo—feeling as though it was rising from the primordial muck at the very bottom of the lake—projected directly into Viktor's mind. It carried the freezing weight of the deep water and the crushing passage of time.
The castle... the ancient companion... has awoken. It hates the light. It hates the living. It slept in the stone for a very long time... When it wakes, it brings terror and death... I hear it sliding through the pipes... a freezing gaze... its chill bleeds through the flowing water... Yes, it has always been there... the Guardian left by Slytherin...
The message was blunt and undeniable.
The oldest resident of the Black Lake had just confirmed that a monster from its own era, left behind by Salazar Slytherin, was lurking beneath the castle!
But what did it mean by Guardian?
Burying the question for now, Viktor turned and practically sprinted back toward the castle to hunt down the final piece of the puzzle: Moaning Myrtle.
---
### The Final Piece
Bursting back into the castle, Viktor headed straight for the infamous second-floor girls' lavatory.
The room was perpetually damp and freezing, smelling strongly of a depressing mix of mildew and harsh disinfectants. This was Myrtle's primary haunt.
"Myrtle? Myrtle Warren?" Viktor called out softly toward the empty, puddle-strewn stalls.
A pearlescent, bespectacled ghost girl slowly floated up from the toilet in the very last stall. She was sobbing, her hands covering her face.
"Oh... who is it? Have you come to mock me again? Or do you just want to use my bathroom?" she sniffled, peeking through her translucent fingers at Viktor and Tom.
"Oh, it's Professor Scamander... and that dreadful cat that's always trying to catch me!" She stuck her tongue out at Tom, who responded with an aggressively dismissive flick of his tail.
"Myrtle, I'm not here to mock you. I need to ask you something incredibly important about... about how you died," Viktor said, his tone gentle but dead serious.
Myrtle instantly wailed, her ghostly sobs echoing sharply off the tiled walls. "How awful! How utterly rude! Asking a girl such a question! Waaaaah—!"
"Myrtle, please. This is vital," Viktor pushed on patiently. "It concerns the safety of every student in this school. In your final moments... did you see a pair of massive, yellow eyes?"
The crying stopped instantly. Myrtle lowered her hands. Her blurry, ghostly face contorted into a mask of very real, frozen terror. She whipped her head around, looking as though she expected those eyes to materialize right then and there.
"H-How did you know?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Yes... they were yellow... huge, terrifying eyes... right over there, by the sinks. I was hiding in my stall, crying... and I heard a boy's voice. I wanted to see who was being so nasty... and... and when I opened the door, I just died..."
She started to whimper again. "Right here... all alone... and Olive Hornby was still making fun of my glasses..."
That was it. Absolute confirmation.
Massive, yellow, slitted pupils.
Every single clue, every ancient warning, and every witness account converged on one horrifying truth.
Salazar Slytherin had locked a thousand-year-old Basilisk—a creature whose mere gaze brought instant death, loyal only to his Heir—inside a Chamber deep beneath Hogwarts Castle!
The color drained from Viktor's face.
A millennium-old Basilisk that could kill or petrify with a single look was freely navigating the school's plumbing! This was exponentially more lethal than any monster they had hypothesized. The students were facing a direct, apocalyptic threat!
He had to tell Dumbledore immediately!
"Thank you, Myrtle. You have no idea how important this is," Viktor said rapidly. He spun on his heel and sprinted for the door, Tom right on his heels.
"Wait! Professor! You're just leaving?! Doesn't anyone care about my feelings?! Waaaaah—!"
Myrtle's wails echoed behind him, but Viktor couldn't afford to stop.
---
### The Revelation
He practically ran through the corridors, sprinting toward the Headmaster's office in the upper levels of the castle.
He had to find Dumbledore now. The Basilisk was awake. Every pipe, every sink, every damp corner of Hogwarts was a potential highway for death itself.
The eighth-floor corridor was dead quiet, save for the faint snoring and rustling of the portraits on the walls. Viktor's boots slammed against the stone floor, the sharp echoes ringing out as he rushed forward, Tom keeping pace perfectly, his fur bristling with tension.
Viktor skidded to a halt in front of the familiar stone gargoyle, breathing heavily.
"Blood Nougat," he commanded sharply.
A glint of recognition seemed to flash in the gargoyle's stone eyes. In stark contrast to the sheer panic of the moment, the statue gave a weirdly cheerful, bouncy hop, spinning aside to reveal the spiral staircase leading up to the office.
The stairs began to rise automatically, but Viktor took them two at a time anyway, Tom leaping nimbly onto his shoulder.
The heavy oak door to the office was slightly ajar. Low, grave voices drifted from inside.
Viktor knocked twice and, without waiting for permission, shoved the door open.
The circular room was filled with the soft whirring and humming of silver instruments. The portraits of the past Headmasters on the walls were all wide awake, looking down at the center of the room with extreme concern.
Dumbledore was standing behind his massive desk. The blue eyes behind his spectacles were locked onto Professor McGonagall, who stood before him, looking deathly pale. The air between them felt like solid ice; they were clearly in the middle of discussing the dire situation.
At the sound of the door opening, they both snapped their heads toward Viktor.
Seeing who it was, Professor McGonagall's tightly pressed lips parted, as if to say something, but Viktor cut her off immediately—something he almost never did.
"Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall," Viktor's voice was slightly raspy from his sprint, but every word struck like a hammer. "I know what's inside the Chamber."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose a fraction, a silent command to continue.
Professor McGonagall inhaled sharply. She leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles turned white.
"It's not a natural magical beast like we hypothesized, and it's not a simple magical construct," Viktor said, striding right up to the desk. He planted both hands flat on the polished wood, his eyes burning with urgency as he looked between his two colleagues.
"It is a Basilisk. Left behind by Salazar Slytherin, and it's been hibernating in the castle's subterranean plumbing for over a thousand years."
The office plunged into a dead, suffocating silence.
The only sound was Fawkes the Phoenix shifting his wings on his golden perch, letting out a soft, almost inaudible trill.
Professor McGonagall's face turned as white as the silver instruments humming behind her. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
For the first time, the absolute calm on Dumbledore's face cracked. His expression twisted into a complex mix of profound shock, sudden realization, and bone-deep dread.
Slowly, he sank back into his high-backed chair. Through the lenses of his half-moon spectacles, his piercing blue eyes locked onto Viktor.