Because of the Basilisk's deadly gaze, Jon couldn't open his eyes. All he could rely on were his ears—and instinct.
As the rooster alarm clock abruptly fell silent, the massive creature at the far end of the corridor suddenly stirred.
It rushed toward him with alarming speed.
The sound of its rough scales scraping against the floor was grating to the ears.
In hindsight, Jon realized that if he had relied entirely on the rooster alarm, he would have been dead by now.
The moment he heard the Basilisk enter the corridor, the tip of his wand flared with orange-yellow light—a Conjunctivitis Curse he had practiced countless times. He aimed not at the creature itself, but at the exact spot where he had placed the alarm clock seconds earlier.
The Basilisk was intelligent. In its eyes, the rooster alarm clock likely posed a greater threat than Jon himself.
Which meant that once the crowing stopped, it would attack the clock first—not him.
It was risky, but it was nearly impossible to accurately hit the Basilisk's eyes by sound alone. He had no better option.
Just as Jon predicted, the Basilisk slithered around the corner and lunged at the alarm clock with its gaping jaws.
As it crunched the device in its fangs, the orange-yellow curse struck its head, hitting one of its eyes. The Conjunctivitis Curse was designed to automatically track toward the eyes—provided the hit landed close enough.
"Hiss... hissss..." The Basilisk let out a shriek of pain. If a Parselmouth had been nearby, they might've heard it cursing furiously.
Jon couldn't understand it—and had no desire to.
The curse inflicted unbearable pain. It was the opening he needed.
In his right hand, the Desert Eagle Mark I semi-automatic pistol roared to life.
BANG! The shot echoed like a thunderclap, likely shaking the entire castle.
The gun's magazine held just eight rounds. Against a creature like this, reloading wasn't an option. He only had eight chances—and Jon had no intention of being conservative.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
One shot after another. Relying on keen hearing and battle-tested instincts, nearly every bullet found its mark.
The .375 Magnum rounds were designed for hunting and packed immense force. At 20 meters, they could pierce a brown bear's skull. The Basilisk's thick hide, impervious to most magical attacks, was no match for bullets like these.
Each thudding impact was followed by the metallic scent of blood filling the air.
In just a few seconds, Jon had fired seven rounds. The recoil was brutal—so much so that even Sergei Pavlov's hardened right arm felt like it might break from the force.
He kept one bullet in reserve.
That was for the final moment—if the Basilisk came at him with its jaws wide open, he would fire straight into its brain through its mouth.
If it worked, it would kill the beast. But it would also mean the Basilisk's venom would enter his body—and Jon would likely die too.
It would be a mutually fatal ending.
But the Basilisk didn't attack.
A creature of remarkable intelligence, it seemed to grasp that the tall Eastern European man before it was not some helpless prey. It was bleeding from multiple wounds and clearly recognized the danger.
More importantly, its master hadn't commanded it to kill this man. Its task was already complete—more than complete, in fact.
What it didn't know was that Jon couldn't keep up that level of attack anymore.
Slowly, the Basilisk began to retreat.
It slithered away down the corridor—and off the entire floor...
...
Jon listened as the scraping of its scales faded into the distance.
He got to his feet and let out a deep breath.
He had survived. Barely.
But it wasn't over.
From below, he could now hear a stampede of footsteps—dozens, maybe more.
The commotion had roused the entire castle. Teachers and older students were all rushing toward the source of the noise.
Jon had maybe two or three minutes of Polyjuice Potion left. Not nearly enough to make it all the way to the Hufflepuff common room in the basement.
And even if he could run fast enough, there was no way a top-tier agent wouldn't stand out under the scrutiny of Hogwarts' teachers.
Quickly, Jon switched the pistol to his left hand and tucked both it and his wand into his pockets. Then, supporting his near-useless right arm, he bolted back toward the eighth floor.
He managed to avoid a few Gryffindor upperclassmen rushing to the scene, and finally reached the Room of Requirement—just in time.
The moment he stepped through the door, his knees gave out.
His body began convulsing violently.
The transformation ended.
...
"Harry... wait for me..."
Just as Jon left the scene, two second-year Gryffindor boys arrived.
"The sound came from here!" Harry Potter panted. "It was Slytherin's monster—it's killed again, and I think it's wounded... This time, I'm going to catch it!"
"But what was that noise just now? It sounded like a fight!" Ron Weasley said, trying to make sense of it.
"Hopefully someone stopped it," Harry muttered to himself.
"Hold on!" Ron grabbed his sleeve from behind.
Lying on the floor was a tall boy with fiery red hair… his body cold and stiff. A frozen look of terror was etched across his face, his glasses staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
"Oh no…" Ron dropped to his knees, voice cracking. "It's—it's my brother... Percy…"
"No…" At almost the same moment, a scream rang out from the west wing, near Ravenclaw Tower.
It was Professor Flitwick.
His voice echoed with shock—and fury.