Chapter 139: Crunchy, Chicken Flavor
Late at night, Muggle Studies Office.
“Tap tap… tap tap…”
Inside the upside-down glass bottle on the bookshelf, a small beetle extended its short legs, constantly tapping the glass bottle wall, its bright blue elytra shell glossy, and from its plump body, it was clear it had been well-fed during this time.
Compared to the empty bottle a month ago, now there were some furnishings inside: wood shavings with insulating properties, a bottle cap of water, and fresh vegetable leaves picked from the greenhouse, breadcrumbs baked in the school kitchen.
Despite living a worry-free life with food and shelter in the glass jar, Rita Skeeter did not want to spend her later years here, taking advantage of the young professor’s late return to constantly attempt to break through the seal.
Its two antennae explored the gaps at the bottom, the bottle rim upside down on the bookshelf, with just enough wood grain for air circulation, but not enough space for her to crawl out. The front legs kept tapping the bottle wall, smooth and thick, with no possibility of cracking.
After busying herself for half a day, Skeeter panted heavily, fluttered her wings to the bottle cap, ignored the water, and used her delicate mouthparts to draw moisture from the vegetable leaves.
The antennae twitched slightly, an instinctive sign of pleasure after the beetle fed.
After feeding, Skeeter began considering other escape possibilities, but the results were despairing.
She was unmarried, lived alone away from her parents, rarely wrote to relatives or friends, and it was normal for her not to contact the outside world for months while gathering intelligence and news, so the publisher’s editor wouldn’t find it strange.
The worst part was this foreign professor, who after capturing her kept her as a pet, with no intention of negotiation or conversation, his thoughts and purposes inscrutable, not even allowing for negotiation.
“…”
The pair of translucent thin wings trembled lightly, carrying unconcealed anxiety and urgency.
Just as the beetle paced restlessly in the bottle, the office door was pushed open, the beetle immediately shrank into the wood shavings, poked out half its head, and spied on the professor returning to the office.
He first sat behind the desk, staring at the drawer on his right in thought, which contained an old diary.
The beetle’s antennae kept twitching, Skeeter thinking he was reviewing the day’s events to write in the diary, which surprised her slightly; the professor had once had the habit of keeping a diary, but hadn’t opened that old one in a long time.
Melvin didn’t open the diary tonight either, but while pondering, he traced shapes on the desk with his fingertip, vaguely outlining a skull and viper.
Tom Riddle had explained the Dark Mark diligently, with two purposes: first, to judge Voldemort’s main soul’s state through the Dark Mark’s condition; second, to pave the way for himself, so that when Voldemort returned, he could seize control of the mark with a flick of his fingers.
In the end, the Dark Lord was the true master of the Dark Mark.
Melvin wanted to create a brand new mark, one uniquely his own, replacing the core with his own emblem, but this magic was more profound and obscure than he had anticipated, involving the combined application of soul and magic power; he couldn’t find the right path.
How had Tom Riddle done it back then?
How had a 16-year-old student touched the mysteries of the soul?
Melvin’s gaze swept over the right drawer, he pondered briefly, didn’t take out the diary, but patted his jacket pocket and left the office.
The beetle in the glass bottle slowly poked its head out, the markings around its antennae like glasses.
…
The passage from the bathroom to the Chamber of Secrets opened again.
In the sealed room deep underground, before the old wizard statue.
Melvin mixed the silver-white potion with the memory, releasing a misty vapor, from which regular hissing Parseltongue emanated.
The Slytherin stone statue gradually opened its mouth, spitting out a dark green scaled viper with black sheen, which slithered down along the statue’s robes and staff, its thick scales rubbing against the stone carving, producing a low friction sound.
“Hiss…”
The Basilisk landed on the ground, slithered close, its two golden round eyeballs embedded on the sides, pupils slit-like, its scarlet-black forked tongue flicking out occasionally, exhaling a foul stench.
Melvin was no stranger to facing the Basilisk, but each time he saw it, he was still awestruck.
The Basilisk’s gaze was cold, it lowered its head slightly, revealing the Horned Serpent egg guarded by scales on top.
Slightly larger than a goose egg, the dull gray on the shell had completely faded, leaving only a frosty white like moonlight, with faint yet clear alien magic power pulsing inside.
The unhatched little one seemed to sense Melvin’s gaze, the entire egg trembling slightly, especially excited.
Sensing the movement above, the Basilisk immediately closed its scales over the snake egg, raised its head, and hissed at Melvin.
Melvin indicated he couldn’t understand, completely unable to communicate, but he had other ways to win over the snake’s heart: “Tonight I went to the Forbidden Forest with a few students, encountered an Acromantula group, and luckily picked up some roasted spiders to bring as your dinner.”
Regardless of whether the Basilisk understood, Melvin talked to himself, opened his jacket pocket, grabbed the hem and shook it a few times, dropping a dozen dark lumps.
When poured from the pocket, they were only slightly larger than a fist, but upon hitting the ground they expanded to carriage size, a pile of Acromantulas with limbs curled, shells charred black.
The Basilisk’s bright yellow eyes shifted, emitting a crystalline gleam.
The burnt black ash and bristles had a clear scorched smell, the crisped shells cracked on impact, revealing cheese-like spider meat inside, similar to crab leg or lobster meat, still hot, with an enticing aroma.
Slime-like saliva drooled from the Basilisk’s mouth, dripping plop plop to the ground, then slurped back up.
Utterly embarrassing to watch.
Melvin waved his hand in disgust, making space for it to eat: “Take your time, I’ll check the top of the statue to see if Slytherin left any relics for the school’s descendants.”
The Basilisk had already opened its massive maw to enjoy dinner.
Unlike other animals, snakes generally don’t chew when eating, swallowing prey whole no matter the size, forcing it down, then lying uncomfortably groaning for a while.
The Acromantulas’ size was perfect, a circle larger than the Basilisk’s head, with plenty of foldable space, as if born to be Basilisk food, stuffed whole into the mouth, pressed hard, and wriggled down the digestive tract.
The shells cracked with crunching sounds; though Melvin hadn’t tasted it, he’d heard that such high-protein food basically tasted like chicken.
“Crunch…”
The Basilisk swallowed another Acromantula, lazily glanced toward the statue, narrowed its eyes slightly, its bright yellow gaze locking on the young wizard.
It wasn’t actually sure if this wizard was Slytherin’s heir.
Previously, wizards who opened the Chamber communicated in Parseltongue, essentially direct commands, driving it from the Chamber to act on their ideas. Actually, Slytherin had left it in the Chamber just to guard the place, without instructing it to obey the heir or to kill students; it cooperated only for the sake of Parseltongue.
This wizard didn’t speak Parseltongue, but the branch he brought had the master’s magic power, so it was willing to cooperate.
Melvin had circled the statue once, tapped his robes lightly, summoned a whirlwind out of thin air, and arrived at the statue’s head, floating into the dark mouth.
As the Basilisk’s nest, over nearly a thousand years, the inner stone walls had been polished smooth by scales, stone chips and unknown dust mixed together, permeating an inescapable thick odor.
But that was it.
Melvin wandered two laps inside the nest, found nothing else, unsure if Slytherin left no relics or if Voldemort had taken them all.
“Not the legitimate heir after all…”
Melvin shook his head, floated out of the statue’s mouth, glanced at the Basilisk below, stuffed full.
A dozen giant spiders had bulged its belly by a circle, half again as thick as the surrounding body, turning from sturdy snake to fat snake, lazily sprawled on the ground, even moving was troublesome.
Sensing his disdain, the Basilisk rolled over, ignoring him.
…
Hermione slowly opened her eyes to a blurry pure white, her head still dizzy, like staying up too late on Christmas Eve and sleeping too long the next day, waking with body and mind mismatched.
Light and floaty, thoughts sluggish, body languid.
She hadn’t believed in heaven or afterlife before, but after coming to Hogwarts and encountering ghosts, she changed her mind.
“Is this what being a ghost feels like?”
The little witch was a bit dazed, recalled Nearly Headless Nick, subconsciously reached to touch her neck.
She touched it, intact, with body warmth.
“I’m still alive?”
Hermione’s consciousness gradually cleared, her vision sharpening; she lay in the Hospital Wing ward, faint morning light filtering through the glass window, the air scented with medicinal herbs.
She sat up against the bedside, examined her limbs and body: only muscle soreness and minor scrapes, nothing else.
“Now you know fear?”
As Hermione spaced out, Madam Pomfrey emerged through the door, stern-faced, tone severe.
“Weren’t we surrounded by Acromantulas?” Hermione recalled the scene before passing out, asked the matron in panic, “What about Professor Levent? He and us—”
“Melvin deserves punishment too! Him being a professor, joining students in foolishness…”
Madam Pomfrey interrupted, checked her arms, pried open her eyes, pinched her fingers, giving no room for resistance, “Can’t understand what young people think nowadays, doing such outrageous things with students. What a lesson for you all; I say, should have dragged you back for detention from the start. You Gryffindors…”
“A lesson… for us.” Hermione said softly.
She had suspected as much, that the professor was captured to teach them a lesson; as the battle intensified and Acromantulas closed in without his appearance, she dismissed it.
Thinking back now, it was exactly something Professor Levent would do.
Hermione pursed her lips, tugged the corners of her mouth, smiled silently.
“Open your mouth!”
As she felt relieved to have survived, Madam Pomfrey pinched her cheeks, forced her mouth open, and poured in a bottle of blue potion.
It had a strong mint flavor, seemingly with slug too—she’d smelled it in Potions class! Bitter and cool, the little witch shuddered, face scrunching tightly.
“Stay quiet, I’ll check again in half an hour; if no issues, you can be discharged.”
“Okay.”
Hermione nodded obediently, watched Madam Pomfrey leave, saw her two little partners lying nearby, suddenly recalled: wasn’t there a Quidditch match today?
…
Hogwarts Library.
Melvin browsed Dark Magic books in the Restricted Section, with good results.
Tom Riddle’s teaching focused on practice, mainly how to practice and use Dark Magic, while the magic books emphasized principles and soul resonance, exploring cruel thoughts in practical Dark Magic and long-term casting’s effects on personality, deepening understanding combined with psychological knowledge.
Spells like the Unforgivable Curse, Melvin could now cast effortlessly.
But the Dark Mark showed no progress; this magic involved self-soul cognition and others’-soul cognition, more complex than expected. He tried adjusting the shell functions, even drastic additions and deletions, but couldn’t affect the core.
Tucking a thick tome analyzing Herpo’s Dark Magic under his arm, he sat by the window, faintly hearing cheers from the pitch; the match seemed at a crucial moment.
To avoid Professor McGonagall’s glare, Melvin skipped the match.
Wonder if Harry was discharged?
He vaguely remembered this match tampered with by a house-elf, plus a certain flashy professor’s assist; if Harry played, he’d spend tonight in the Hospital Wing.
Melvin shook his head with a light laugh, turned the pages, immersed in the world of Dark Magic.
After some unknown time, sensing someone sit nearby, Melvin looked up, surprised: “Hermione? Why are you here, match over?”
Hermione’s expression was complex: “The Quaffle was tampered with, went rogue and hit Harry; Professor Lockhart insisted on helping, botched the spell, and sucked out Harry’s arm bone.”
“I see, you need something?”
Melvin replied, turning another page.
Hermione glanced unconsciously at the page, seeing a record about a dark wizard; the last line read: The vile Herpo, after hatching the Basilisk, long exposed to Dark Magic, had unstable mental state, his soul perhaps torn.
Hermione paid it no mind, asked softly: “Professor, you deliberately let us face the Acromantulas, right?”
Melvin hummed: “To practice what you learned in tutoring.”
“So did you know from the start that asking Aragog would yield nothing?” Hermione looked up at the professor’s expression; what she really wanted to ask was if he knew the truth about Myrtle’s death that year.
Was their investigation just another… adventure arranged by the professor?
“Guessed some.”
Melvin nodded, “Acromantulas are beasts after all, unlike centaurs and unicorns; beasts rarely befriend wizards. Even when Hagrid was wrongfully expelled, that spider didn’t come forward to identify the real killer, let alone you little wizards.”
“Is that so…”
Hermione was still unsatisfied, probed with a few more questions, but a second year student was too naive before a professor, got no desired answers in the end, and left helplessly.
Melvin watched the little witch’s figure recede, looked down at the book’s record, fell into thought.
The soul attached in a Horcrux, the soul imprinted in the mark—did some connection exist between them?
