Bargaining

"Stop. Close your eyes," Harry shouted, speaking in Parseltongue.

Aside from roosters, the best way to handle a basilisk was with Parseltongue. These creatures had almost no resistance to a Parselmouth's commands and would obey any orders.

But it didn't work.

The basilisk continued writhing and slithering, charging at them at great speed. Its tongue flicked, and it repeated the same chilling word: "Kill… kill…"

No reaction whatsoever.

Could it not hear him?

Harry repeated the command, louder this time, but the basilisk kept advancing with relentless ferocity.

"Parseltongue doesn't work?" Snape's expression darkened.

Scrimgeour turned his head, startled and incredulous, nearly forgetting to keep his eyes shut. A Gryffindor speaking Parseltongue? Impossible!

"No use. Its tympanum must have been removed," Harry said, shaking his head. "It can't hear me. I don't know if rooster cries will still work on it."

Scrimgeour swung his wand. The chairs near the Ravenclaw table instantly transformed into a flock of brilliantly feathered roosters.

The roosters crowed loudly.

The basilisk halted, twisting in pain.

Though symbolic in its effect, the auditory attack exploited its physical vulnerability.

"It works!" Scrimgeour exclaimed with relief.

Snape sneered. "It's deaf, not us. Was stating the obvious really necessary?"

He took out a vial of potion and drank it.

After a moment's hesitation, he lowered his head, opened his eyes briefly, and quickly shut them again. Using his hand, he blindly passed another potion bottle toward Scrimgeour.

Scrimgeour hesitated, frowning. "Potter? What's this?"

"It's me," Snape replied coldly. "Basilisk Eye Elixir. You'll be able to sense living things without opening your eyes—so long as you're not dim-witted enough to confuse the basilisk with the rest of us."

Scrimgeour hesitated, clearly wary of trusting Snape. "Potter, did you drink it?"

"I don't need to." Harry shook his head. "Either drink it or go hide."

Hide?

As the Head of the Auror Office, his duty demanded otherwise.

Grinding his teeth, Scrimgeour gulped down the potion.

A surge of heat filled his eye sockets, and within his now void-like vision, three red silhouettes appeared: one tall (Snape), one smaller (Potter)—whose red aura burned even brighter—and, furthest away, the basilisk's massive, scorching figure.

"Don't slow us down, my dear Head Auror," Snape snapped as he charged forward. With a flick of his wand, the four house tables twisted and reshaped themselves into four enormous serpents, which lunged at the basilisk.

The five serpents intertwined in a deadly battle, the basilisk writhing and thrashing, its strength dampened by the roosters' crowing.

Harry followed close behind.

Slash!

Another swing of Snape's wand carved a deep, precise gash into the basilisk's body, slashing its blood vessels.

Hot blood sprayed onto Harry's face.

He winced. "Professor, go easy. At least leave the skin intact."

"This basilisk has enough skin for four or five of those ridiculous suits of armor," Snape retorted with a sneer, swinging his wand again. This time, each cutting spell landed on the same spot with surgical precision.

"Quen!"

A golden shield enveloped Harry as he prepared to advance with his sword.

Suddenly, the magical tension in the hall shifted.

A phoenix's cry pierced the air, accompanied by an intense heat like a blazing inferno—Dumbledore's earlier spell.

Harry's expression changed. "Fawkes!"

The phoenix answered with a cheerful trill.

"Don't peck out its eyes!" Harry called out urgently.

Fawkes let out a confused squawk, tilting its head. Dumbledore had specifically stationed it here to deal with the basilisk, as phoenixes were immune to the basilisk's deadly gaze.

"Those are rare materials," Harry added, waving his wand. His robe transformed into a large blanket, which soared into the air. "Once we kill the basilisk, use this to cover its eyes."

Fawkes reluctantly hooked the blanket with its talons, visibly disgruntled.

It was a phoenix, after all! Reduced to such menial tasks?

"Yrden!"

Harry cast another sign, the purple rune slowing the basilisk's movements. Guided by the scent of blood, he drove his sword downward with all his strength.

Using the embedded blade as leverage, he leapt onto the serpent's back.

Balancing on the slick scales, he felt Snape's spells transform one of the conjured serpents into a handrail that braced Harry on both sides, helping him reach the basilisk's head.

With a powerful thrust—clang!

The sword pierced the scales but skidded off the iron-hard skull beneath.

Igni!

Molten flames poured into the wound, burning through the bone. Harry thrust again, and this time, the blade sank deep into the basilisk's brain. With a twist of his wrist, he wrenched the sword violently.

The basilisk convulsed in its death throes, flinging Harry off its back.

He clung to the sword as he was hurled into the air, landing heavily on Scrimgeour.

Seizing the moment, Fawkes dropped the blanket over the basilisk's eyes, pinning it down with its weight. It let out a triumphant cry, as if to say, I've done my part, you annoying brat.

The Sorting Hat translated, "Hey, Harry. You can open your eyes now."

Scrimgeour opened his eyes first, startled to find the Sorting Hat inches from his face. "Oh… Sorting Hat, what are you doing here?"

"Where else should I be?" the hat replied, poking Harry's armor with its tip. "Harry, get off me. The last person who kissed me was Rowena, and I don't fancy repeating that."

Scrimgeour froze, realizing the hat was referring to Rowena Ravenclaw herself.

"I doubt she kissed you," Harry said, deadpan, as he got up.

"The Founders infused me with their thoughts, and Rowena chose this… peculiar method," the Sorting Hat retorted, casually upending centuries of magical history.

Scrimgeour stood, staring at the basilisk's enormous corpse. The conjured serpents remained coiled around it, keeping it firmly restrained.

"It's dead?" he asked, still in disbelief.

He hadn't done much—just conjured a few roosters—and now he was staring at one of the most dangerous creatures in the wizarding world, slain before him.

The roosters, still crowing noisily, grated on his nerves. With a flick of his wand, he dispelled the transformation spell.

He stepped forward.

"Were I you, I wouldn't rush to my death so eagerly," Snape sneered.

"A dead snake still bites," Harry added, explaining, "Even in death, it retains the ability to lash out one last time."

He paused, then turned to Scrimgeour. "Your Transfiguration was impressive, but your combat contribution was minimal. For the spoils, you'll get ten percent. Agreed?"

Scrimgeour blinked, momentarily at a loss.

"The basilisk's fangs and eyes are mine," Snape declared coldly.

"I need them too," Harry said firmly. "You can have some of the skin, meat, or bones."

"Those are useless to me," Snape replied, pointedly avoiding Harry's gaze to maintain his composure.

"I could craft you a suit of armor," Harry offered as a bargaining chip.

Snape dismissed the idea outright. "I have no need for such ridiculous things."

Scrimgeour stood speechless.

Hogwarts sure has an interesting atmosphere…

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Powerstones?

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