Chapter 91: Not Just Voldemort’s Memory

Sherlock's insides felt as though they had just been put through a spin cycle. He coughed violently; the taste of blood lingered ominously on his tongue, yet he had enough time to continue his engagement with his wand. He cast an Iron Shield charm around his weakened body, wincing at his own negligence. "Dammit, I've been careless," he muttered to himself.

The basilisk, persistently tormented by Fawkes, was beyond just being visually impaired. It was being subjected to relentless attacks from the nimble and quick-witted phoenix. This only provoked further rage in the deaf and blind serpent, augmenting the intensity of its present frenzy!

The common room was swept up in a violent tremor. Sherlock, defying an unsteady footing, staggered over to the corner where Harry and Ron were huddled together. With another swift wave of his wand, he cast an Iron Shield Charm around the boys as well. They were clumsily fumbling with the Sorting Hat, attempting to divulge any hidden secrets it might possess, while also ensuring that its broad brim shielded them somewhat from the impending havoc.

"Professor, could you please stop saying that we're safe or that victory is a certain thing? It's simply bad luck, if anything you should keep saying pessimistic things," Ron implored, a sigh of relief escaping him upon seeing Sherlock's injuries. It seemed the professor, despite some coughed-up blood, was faring better than he had expected.

Sherlock, however, paid no heed to this. "We're wizards, young Weasley," he said. "we shouldn't entertain such silly things as jinxes or bad luck!"

Even as the words were making their departure from his lips, Fawkes found himself in the crosshairs of the angered basilisk, despite his impressive dodging skills. The rushing beast caught the fiery bird off guard and struck with all its might toward Sherlock. Its venomous fangs bore down on the Iron Shield Charm Sherlock had conjured!

A scattering of blue light emerged, rippling outward from the point of impact. Sherlock's heart pounded violently in his chest as he put forth a desperate attempt to wound the creature. His simple curses were not hindering the basilisk's strength, but he wondered if what lay beneath the skin might be more vulnerable.

Rising to the challenge, he opted to keep his bitten arm steadfastly in the beast's mouth while plunging his wand deeper into the predator's jaws. "Confringo!" he cried out.

Immediately, an intense, searing light erupted from within the basilisk's mouth. The resultant explosion produced a deafening roar, causing Harry and Ron to instinctively cover their ears, while a disoriented Neville, who had been resting on a nearby couch all this time, wearily stirred.

However, with the current chaos, Sherlock had little energy to pay attention to anyone else. The powerful explosive curse had dealt a severe blow to the basilisk, causing a gaping, bloody wound to form on its lower jaw.

Reacting in blind pain, the basilisk force-closed its jaw, causing a sound similar to the shattering of a glass window to echo the room – Sherlock's Iron Shield Charm was disintegrating into countless fragments of blue sparks. The next moment, its venomous fangs pierced the professor's arm.

Sherlock wore an expression distorted by extreme agony. The basilisk, on its end, writhed and coiled much like a whipped beast, and upon pulling its fangs out from Sherlock's shoulder, began convulsing wildly throughout the common room.

As the black, venomous blood splattered fiercely around them, Sherlock found himself drenched. The metallic taste in his mouth made it increasingly difficult for him to distinguish between his own blood and that of the basilisks.

Harry and Ron, still shielded under the Sorting Hat and followed by a teary-eyed, disoriented Neville, scrambled to Sherlock's side. "Professor," Harry cried out, his eyes teary, "Admit you're lethally wounded! Say you can't protect us!"

Sherlock felt a debilitating numbness spread through his shoulder where the basilisk's venom had seeped in. His body was wracked with waves of pain. However, despite such agonizing circumstances, he still mustered the strength to sassily retort at Harry. "You think I'm about to curse myself into death's door! Even if it does seem grim for me, I won't lose dignity by admitting defeat."

This peculiar display of humor from Sherlock led Harry and Ron to break into laughter amidst tears. "Right, Professor, it does seem like our end is near, doesn't it?" Ron added, wiping away tears with a chuckle.

Sherlock's gaze then turned to Tom, who was smirking devilishly from the corner of the room. Tom took casual strides, Neville's stolen wand held loftily in his grasp. "Your hours are numbered, Professor Forester, even your own students have no trust in you," he taunted.

"You are going to die, Professor Forester."

In the midst of the banter and rising tension, Fawkes fluttered down onto Sherlock's shoulder, its eyes welling up. The drops of tears landed on Sherlock's wounded arm, healing him slowly. Tom scoffed at this display.

"Even Dumbledore's little bird knows you're going to die. How will you protect your students when your dead? Does Dumbledore have a way to protect his students?"

Sherlock said nothing in response; his body was burning with exhaustion but his mind was blazing with determination. The healing prowess of phoenix tears was common knowledge, and he didn't believe Tom was unaware. It only seemed like Tom's excitement had blinded him temporarily to this fact.

Neville choked out a sob and blurted out guiltily, "It's all my fault, Professor..."

"No, Neville," Sherlock managed through more bloody coughs, "You've been brave... extremely brave... and that's plenty."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," With an air of superiority that made Neville's skin crawl, Tom dismissed their exchange as melodrama. "What a touching display of love! Truly sickening."

Seeing Sherlock's injury healing rapidly he tried to shoo Fawkes away, with a wave of his wand he caused the majestic bird to topple wildly in the air before regaining balance. He continued and with another wave he ensnared Harry, Ron, and Neville with a binding curse without them putting up a fight.

Now, Tom felt invincible, as if he had regained the prowess of a seasoned wizard. He reveled in his newfound potential, casting spells freely and with ease. The basilisk, in the meantime, continued to writhe and thrash its head about in a corner of the room.

Sherlock, catching his breath, turned to face Tom. "You're more than just a memory of Voldemort!" he accused, a sudden realization sparking in his tired eyes.

"You've finally noticed?" Tom smirked, not trying to hide his apparent victory. "You're right, I did lie before. A mere past memory couldn't possess this much power."

Elevated by a surge of triumph, he announced, "I am an elaborate creation of my past self! A worthy masterpiece ready to stand the test of time!"