Knows exactly how she'll kill you

✩₊˚.⋆☾╶⃝⃤☽⋆⁺₊✧

𝕋ℍ𝔼 Great Hall was nearly empty, an unusual stillness settling over the vast space. Outside, distant cheers and the sharp whistle of the Quidditch referee echoed faintly through the enchanted windows, where the sky mirrored the tumultuous clouds rolling above the pitch. But Ophelia Gaunt paid no mind to the roars of the crowd or the flashes of crimson and gold streaking through the sky.

She sat alone at one of the long wooden tables, a solitary figure cloaked in emerald, green, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she bent over a worn leather-bound book. Her pale fingers traced the delicate script etched across yellowed parchment, her brows furrowed in concentration. Books were her refuge, her armour against the noise of the world, and today she had chosen their sanctuary over the chaos of Quidditch.

But peace, as always, was fleeting.

The heavy doors of the hall creaked open, and the unmistakable presence of authority swept in with sharp footfalls. Professor McGonagall entered, flanked by Ron and Harry. The latter still wore his Quidditch robes, streaked with mud and sweat, his hair windblown and untamed. Ron's face was flushed, though whether from exertion or unease, Ophelia couldn't tell.

Something was wrong.

"Did someone die?" Ophelia asked dryly, closing her book with an audible snap. Her voice cut through the silence, drawing all three pairs of eyes to her.

For a heartbeat, no one answered. The weight of the question hung heavy in the air, and McGonagall's usually stern face softened ever so slightly. "Miss Gaunt," she said, her voice measured, though a flicker of concern danced in her sharp eyes. "Would you please come with us?"

Ophelia's gaze flicked between the professor and the two boys. Harry looked troubled, Ron wouldn't meet her eye. With a resigned sigh, she rose, tucking the book under her arm as she pushed her chair back.

"Alright then," she said, her voice quieter now. "Lead the way."

The corridors felt colder as they walked, the distant sounds of the Quidditch match growing fainter with each step. Shadows from the flickering torches danced on the stone walls, elongating their silhouettes like twisted marionettes.

As they neared the hospital wing, Professor McGonagall slowed her steps and spoke, her voice low. "I warn you. This could be a wee bit of a shock." The doors to the hospital wing creaked open, and the scent of antiseptic potions and lavender greeted them. Pale moonlight spilled through the high windows, casting eerie shapes across the sterile white sheets and polished floors.

There, in one of the hospital beds, lay Hermes.

He was motionless, his body stiff as stone, one arm suspended mid-air as if frozen in the act of reaching out for something. His expression was locked in a state of horrified surprise, his wide eyes unblinking, his lips slightly parted as though he'd been caught mid-gasp.

Ophelia froze, her book slipping from her grasp and landing on the floor with a dull thud.

"A wee bit of a shock?!" she said, her voice rising with incredulity as she turned to McGonagall. "Are you mad?!"

Without hesitation, she crossed the room and stood by Hermes's bedside, her sharp eyes scanning his paralyzed form. Her usual air of sarcastic indifference had vanished, replaced by something sharp and protective.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat delicately and held up a small hand mirror, its surface cracked and glinting faintly in the candlelight.

"He was found near the library," she said solemnly, her eyes lingering on the mirror. "Along with this." She turned her gaze to the trio before her, holding the mirror carefully as though it might bite. "Does it mean anything to either of you?" Harry stepped forward, his brow furrowed and shook his head. "No. I've never seen it before."

Ron remained silent, his usual chatter replaced with tense stillness.

Ophelia, however, wasn't looking at the mirror. Her sharp gaze was locked on Hermes, her hand hovering inches above his frozen fingers. Her dark lashes cast shadows over her pale cheeks as she studied every detail of his face, every frozen line etched in fear. A heavy silence fell over the room, the only sound the faint rustle of curtains swaying in the cold draft from the window.

For Ophelia, this wasn't just another strange event at Hogwarts. This wasn't some fleeting curiosity she could brush off with a roll of her eyes and a witty remark.

This was personal. And whoever—or whatever—was responsible, she was going to kill them.

𓆙

The Undercroft was a hidden sanctuary of shadows and secrets, carved into the very bones of Hogwarts. It was a place untouched by time, where the damp stone walls whispered forgotten spells, and the faint scent of dust and ancient parchment clung to the air. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows across the scattered books and loose parchment that lay strewn across the cold floor. Ophelia sat cross-legged in the centre of the chaos, her emerald-green robes pooling around her like ink spilled across the stone. Her wand was balanced delicately between her slender fingers, its tip glowing faintly with an ethereal light that illuminated the sharp angles of her face. Her dark curls framed her pale skin, and her eyes—sharp, calculating, and endlessly curious—were fixed on the weathered text open in her lap.

Around her, books lay cracked open, their yellowed pages filled with intricate diagrams of serpentine creatures and looping ancient runes that glowed faintly under her wand light. Sketches of scales, fangs dripping with venom, and piercing yellow eyes stared back at her from the parchment. The word Basilisk was scrawled repeatedly across titles and chapter headings, each letter inked with weight and warning.

The silence of the Undercroft was heavy, broken only by the occasional drip of water somewhere in the distant dark and the faint sound of Ophelia turning another fragile page. Shadows pooled in the corners, pressing in close like curious onlookers, as though the Undercroft itself was listening, waiting, breathing.

"A creature born from darkness and death," Ophelia murmured aloud, her voice echoing slightly off the stone walls. "It's gaze, a curse. Its fangs, a poison. And yet..."

She trailed off, her fingertip running over an inked sketch of the creature's eye. The parchment crackled under her touch, ancient and fragile, as though the weight of centuries had settled into every fibre of the paper.

The Basilisk—the legendary serpent that could kill with a single glance. A monster said to slither deep beneath the castle, hidden in chambers locked away by time and blood.

Ophelia felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise at the thought. But it wasn't fear that clutched her—it was fascination. What kind of power slumbered below their feet? What secrets did it guard in the dark veins of the castle?

"Why now?" she whispered to herself, closing one book and reaching for another. "Why wake now, after all these years?" She adjusted her position, her robes rustling softly as she leaned over a heavy tome bound in cracked leather. A serpent coiled in intricate detail on the cover, its eyes—small gems of emerald—glinting faintly in the dim light.

The secrets she sought felt close, just out of reach, lurking in the spaces between words and symbols. But Ophelia was nothing if not relentless.

Above her, faint thunder rumbled through the stones, a distant growl of the storm that had begun to batter the castle towers. The Undercroft felt even more isolated now, the world above fading into irrelevance as Ophelia buried herself deeper into her research.

Grim, her baby Niffler, was curled up beside her, tucked snugly against a pile of parchment scraps. His tiny paws twitched in his sleep, and his whiskers fluttered as he dreamt. Ophelia reached out absently and ran a finger over the soft fur on his head.

"You'd better not wake up and start stealing these gems," she muttered softly, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. But her humour faded quickly as her eyes fell on a passage near the bottom of the page. The ink seemed fresher, though still ancient—an account of whispers, of distant hisses heard in empty hallways, of shadows moving just beyond the torchlight.

The distant storm growled again, louder this time, as though the castle itself was groaning in its sleep.

Ophelia closed the book with a quiet snap, her wand light flickering as though mirroring her unease. She sat back, her head tilting slightly as she stared into the dark corners of the Undercroft. The shadows felt heavier now. The silence felt watchful.

Somewhere deep below the castle, in ancient tunnels carved from stone and fear, something was awake.

With that she walked off.

𓆙

The air was thick with moisture, each breath Harry took heavy with the scent of ancient stone and stagnant water. His footsteps echoed faintly as he stepped onto the slick, wet tiles of the chamber floor. The towering stone serpents carved into the walls twisted upward, their emerald eyes glinting with a sinister light. Vines and reptilian motifs intertwined, forming grotesque shapes that seemed to watch him from every corner. At the end of the vast, cavernous hall, an enormous stone face loomed—a pale, emotionless visage carved into the far wall, its mouth agape in eternal silence.

Ginny lay crumpled on the cold stone floor, her crimson hair fanned out like a pool of blood against the slick tiles. Her small form was lifeless, pale, and still.

"Ginny!" Harry's voice cracked as he sprinted towards her, his wand trembling in his hand. He dropped to his knees beside her, his fingers brushing against her ice-cold skin. "Ginny, please don't be dead. Wake up. Please wake up." His voice broke into a whisper, raw with desperation. But then, a voice, smooth and calculated, cut through the silence.

"She won't wake."

Harry's head snapped up, his wand still clutched in his hand as a figure emerged from the shadows. Tom Riddle stepped forward with an eerie calmness, his school uniform pristine, his features sharp and unnervingly perfect. His dark eyes glistened as he looked down at Ginny.

"She's still alive," Tom said, his voice soft but edged with something cold. "But only just."

Harry stared at him, confusion clouding his face. "Are you a ghost?" he asked cautiously.

Tom shook his head, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "No. I'm a memory... preserved in a diary for fifty years."

Harry's gaze flickered back to Ginny as he clutched her limp hand. "She's so cold. Ginny, please..." His voice faltered again, but then he froze. Tom was holding Harry's wand. "Give me my wand, Tom," Harry said sharply, rising to his feet. His voice was steady despite the tremor in his chest. Tom twirled the wand between his fingers, his smile widening. "You won't be needing it."

The flickering torchlight danced across the carved stone serpents, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to slither across the chamber floor.

"We have to save her," Harry said urgently, his voice rising with panic. "We have to get out of here!" But Tom only stepped closer, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the stones. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Harry. You see... as poor Ginny grows weaker, I grow stronger."

 Harry's stomach turned to ice.

"Yes," Tom continued, his voice dripping with malice. "It was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets."

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing somewhere deep in the cavernous darkness. The cold stone eyes of the serpents seemed to glint with cruel amusement as Harry realized the terrible truth.

✩₊˚.⋆☾╶⃝⃤☽⋆⁺₊✧

By: SilverMist707

<3 Love you all