Hogwarts Castle looked especially eerie under the cover of night.
Dim torchlight flickered across the stone walls, accompanied by the faint creak of footsteps... An unfamiliar Eastern European face emerged in the corridor on the eighth floor, most of it hidden beneath a black cloak.
Jon Hart quickened his pace. It was late, and there was a good chance that teachers or prefects were patrolling the halls. He had to hurry—and more importantly, avoid getting caught.
As he turned a corner, he spotted a portrait at the end of the corridor. It depicted a plump, richly dressed woman in pink, her eyes closed as if asleep.
It seemed to be the Fat Lady's portrait—which meant that just beyond it was the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.
As Jon was still registering what he saw, a sudden sound came from the painting.
His expression shifted. Quickly, he ducked behind a suit of armor.
The Fat Lady's portrait swung open. A tall, red-haired boy climbed out from behind it. Jon recognized him—Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Prefect.
The sixth-year hummed a little tune as he strolled past, completely unaware of the figure hiding in the shadows behind the armor.
Only after Percy was fully out of sight did Jon begin tailing him quietly.
Unfortunately, it seemed they were heading in the same direction.
Percy strolled past the Muggle Studies classroom and started descending the stairs. Jon had no choice but to slow down and follow at a safe distance.
They went down several flights, passed through a long hallway, and then Percy turned right—seemingly toward Ravenclaw Tower?
Jon stifled his curiosity and paused at a corner, planning to wait until Percy was fully gone before heading to the basement and back to the Hufflepuff common room.
But Percy had only taken a few steps before stopping and pulling a mirror from his pocket to leisurely fix his hair.
Jon was stunned. Really? You wait until now to get ready for a date?
He had only taken a small dose of Polyjuice Potion—just ten minutes of transformation. Now nearly four of those had already been wasted thanks to this Gryffindor Prefect.
With no other choice, Jon crouched at the corner and waited, trying to be patient.
...
Suddenly, in the stillness of night, Jon heard a strange sound.
It came from the direction of the West Tower—faint at first, but growing louder… It sounded like old leather dragging across the floor.
That sound? Jon's face went pale. No way...
Could it be the Basilisk?
But why would the Basilisk appear now?
According to the original timeline, Tom Riddle's diary should be in Harry Potter's hands at this point—and Harry hadn't even figured out how to communicate with it yet.
Could the story really have changed at such a coincidental moment?
Without hesitation, Jon reached into his pocket and wound up a rooster-shaped alarm clock.
"Who's there?" Percy Weasley seemed to have noticed something too, but before he could draw his wand, it was already too late. Reflected in his mirror, he saw a flash of sickly yellow-green light. His body froze on the spot—then turned to stone.
The sound of leather dragging echoed again, growing louder. Jon frowned.
The Basilisk was moving toward him—it had noticed him!
"Cock-a-doodle-doo... Cock-a-doodle-doo..." The rooster alarm clock let out a sharp mechanical crow at that very moment.
At the sound, the massive creature in the dark seemed to hesitate.
The Basilisk hissed—clearly unsettled by the rooster's call.
But it didn't retreat. Instead, it began circling along the opposite side of the corridor.
Real rooster crows were fatal to a Basilisk… but a clock's imitation was only that—an imitation. It couldn't fully replicate the lethal effect. At best, it could trigger the creature's conditioned fear.
A tense standoff began.
Jon carefully set the alarm clock on the floor.
It would only crow for twenty seconds. If it stopped, he'd need at least five seconds to wind it again—five seconds he couldn't afford if the Basilisk was too close.
It was already dangerously near. Jon couldn't risk it getting to him in that short window.
So he began slowly backing away from the alarm clock.
But he didn't run—or even retreat too far.
Over the past semester, he'd spent a lot of time studying Basilisk behavior. From his research, he knew that although the creature was massive, it was surprisingly nimble. When attacking, its top speed could reach 15 meters per second.
Even with Sergei's agile body, outrunning it was impossible.
Fleeing would've been a fatal mistake. If he turned his back and ran—even a hundred meters—he'd still end up with fangs through his spine a few seconds later.
He'd either be eaten or die from the venom. And it's not like he could count on a phoenix to swoop in and save the day.
His only hope was himself.
Jon backed up just over ten meters.
According to historical records, Herpo the Foul's Basilisk had lived nearly 900 years and measured nine meters long at death. Slytherin's had survived for over a millennium—it had to be at least ten meters.
A creature that long would take some time to turn a corner in a corridor.
The farther he was, the safer he'd be—but too much distance would reduce the Desert Eagle Mark I's accuracy and power.
This spot offered the ideal balance—just far enough for safety, yet close enough to strike hard. In life-or-death moments, you had to take calculated risks.
He raised his emerald bamboo wand in his left hand, gripping the pistol tightly in his right.
Jon Hart—or rather, Sergei Pavlov—lay flat on the floor, glanced toward the bend in the corridor, then closed his eyes.
Waiting silently—for the hunter, or the prey, to appear.
The alarm clock finally fell silent.
And once again, the sound of old leather scraping across the floor echoed down the corridor...