The descent down the spiraling black marble staircase was agonizingly slow, dictated by the cautious, methodical pace of the Ministry aurors leading the vanguard. The air grew steadily colder and fouler, the stench of ancient mildew and lingering copper blood clinging to the damp stone walls.
Orion walked near the middle of the pack, flanked closely by Professor Snape. Draco was a half-step behind him, vibrating with a manic energy that was equal parts terror and pureblood entitlement.
From the rear of the procession, the click-clack of Rita Skeeter's heels echoed sharply against the stone. She was maneuvering her way through the ranks, her jeweled handbag swinging, her eyes fixed entirely on Orion with the predatory focus of a hawk tracking a field mouse.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy," Rita cooed, her voice echoing in the gloom as she managed to slip past anAuror. "A duel! A genuine, wand-to-wand confrontation with Harry Potter! Our readers will be positively salivating to know—"
A solid wall of black wool abruptly blocked her path.
Professor Snape didn't turn around. He simply stepped sideways, cutting her off with a fluid, terrifying grace.
"Madam Skeeter," Snape's voice was a low, lethal hum that vibrated in the narrow stairwell. "This is an active, highly important Ministry operation within a secure zone. My students are not here to provide entertainment for your gossip rag. Address them again without my explicit authorization, and I will personally see to it that you spend the remainder of this excursion testing the structural integrity of the plumbing."
Rita stopped dead, her painted smile freezing in place. She looked up at the Potions Master, recognized the absolute, genuine threat in his black eyes, and quickly retreated a step, her Quick-Quotes Quill momentarily stalling in the air.
"Of course, Professor," she trilled nervously. "Merely doing my job."
"Do it quietly," Snape ordered, turning his back on her.
Orion didn't acknowledge the exchange. His focus was entirely on managing the liability walking behind him.
"Draco," Orion hissed, pitching his voice low enough to avoid the sharp ears of the Aurors.
"What?" Draco whispered back, his eyes darting frantically toward the shadows. "Is it down here? Are we close?"
"Listen to me very carefully," Orion instructed, his tone cold and unyielding. "Firstly. You are to ignore the Gryffindors completely."
"How can I ignore them?!" Draco hissed indignantly, glaring at the back of Ron Weasley's head further down the stairs. "They are Gryffindors! They have no business being down here! This is the Chamber of Slytherin! It's our heritage!"
"If you have a philosophical problem with Gryffindors entering the Chamber of Secrets, Draco," Orion countered smoothly, "then by all means, step forward and politely ask Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall to leave first. I'm sure they will be fascinated by your historical grievances."
Draco's mouth snapped shut. He looked at the Headmaster's plum robes and the Deputy Headmistress's rigid posture, realizing the sheer idiocy of the suggestion.
"If you cannot do that," Orion continued mercilessly, "then keep your trap shut. You are here as an observer, not a participant."
He stopped walking for a fraction of a second, forcing Draco to halt, grabbing his brother by the collar of his expensive cloak.
"Now, listen to me," Orion said, his blue eyes boring into Draco's grey ones. "Down there is the carcass of a Class XXXXX monster. It is a Basilisk. A giant, armored snake. Its venom is so potent it can corrode solid goblin silver and kill a full-grown wizard in minutes. The fangs are the size of your arm."
Draco swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
"Which means," Orion whispered, emphasizing every syllable. "When we get down there... do not touch it."
Draco didn't answer immediately.
"Do you understand me, Draco?" Orion demanded. "Do not touch any part of that damn snake. Not a scale. Not a tooth. Not a drop of blood. If you get yourself poisoned because you wanted a souvenir to show Pansy, I will not help you. Do not make me regret bringing you here."
"I won't," Draco squeaked, his bravado entirely crushed by the sheer terror in Orion's description. "I won't touch anything. I swear."
"Good." Orion released his collar and resumed walking.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping out into the vast, bone-littered antechamber. The Aurors fanned out immediately, their wand-lights piercing the gloom.
Amelia Bones halted the procession near the center of the cavern, pointing her glowing wand at the massive, translucent husk coiled on the floor.
"Shed skin," one of the lead harvesters grunted, kneeling beside the twenty-foot shell. He ran a gloved hand over the leathery surface, muttering a diagnostic charm. "This one is relatively fresh. Less than a year old, I'd say. The magical resonance is still active. It's brittle, but we can definitely salvage a significant portion of this for potion bases and specialized armor weaving."
He looked up at Madam Bones. "It has value, Ma'am. We'll need time to properly detach and catalog the intact sections before estimating a monetary figure."
"Noted," Amelia said briskly. "Secure it and prep it for transport. We move to the primary target."
Two of the Harvesters remained there to handle the shed skin while the others pressed on, Harry stepping forward to hiss the command that parted the stone serpents.
The heavy, groaning sound of the wall opening echoed through the cavern. The fog that Dumbledore and the Aurors had conjured the night before had alredy dissipated, leaving the vast, pillared chamber visible in the stark wand-light.
The procession stepped through the archway.
The seasoned aurors and harvesters—grizzled men and women who had dealt with dragons, manticores, and chimera—froze in their tracks. A collective, horrified gasp echoed in the damp air. Even Rita Skeeter let out a genuine, unscripted shriek, dropping her notepad into a puddle.
In the center of the room, sprawled before the towering face of Salazar Slytherin, lay the Basilisk.
It was a mountain of venomous green scales, its massive, ruined head resting in a pool of its own dark, corrosive blood. The sheer, overwhelming scale of the beast—sixty feet of ancient, armored muscle—was utterly paralyzing to anyone seeing it for the first time. After all, it was a noted fact that a wild Basilisk has not be spotted for a long time now.
Hermione Granger, who had been bravely trying to keep up with Harry and Ron, took one look at the monster and let out a terrified sob. Her knees buckled. Professor McGonagall moved with lightning speed, catching the girl before she hit the floor, pulling her into a tight, protective embrace.
Even McGonagall still looked pale, her eyes fixed on the dead beast. She had fought it. She had bound it. But seeing it now, motionless and fully illuminated, the reality of what she had survived seemed to crash over her anew.
Amelia Bones didn't flinch. She simply nodded to the lead harvester.
"Begin the assessment," Amelia ordered crisply. "I want a full breakdown of salvageable parts, venom yield, and hide integrity. Aurors, maintain the perimeter. Nobody touches the carcass without Dragon-hide gloves."
The harvesting team snapped out of their shock, moving forward with professional efficiency, levitating heavy iron cases toward the fallen serpent.
Draco was standing perfectly still next to Orion, his eyes wide and completely glazed over in terror. His jaw hung open, a soft, strangled wheeze escaping his throat.
Smack.
Orion reached over and slapped Draco lightly on the back of the head.
"Ow!" Draco yelped, jolting out of his trance. He rubbed his skull, glaring at his twin. "What the hell was that for?!"
"Close your mouth, Draco," Orion advised smoothly, adjusting his own cuffs. "You will catch flies. Or cave bats."
"Dude," Draco breathed, staring at the snake again. "You... you killed this?!"
"I did not kill it alone," Orion corrected, his voice carrying clearly to the surrounding Ministry officials. "I could not have killed it at all if not for the combined, overwhelming firepower of the Hit Wizards from the Ministry, the co-ordination of Madam Bones, the masterful spellwork of Professors McGonagall and Snape, the tactical brilliance of the Headmaster..."
He paused, a tiny smirk touching his lips.
"...and, most importantly, the heroic contribution of four chickens and one flaming chicken."
Draco blinked, his face scrunching up in profound confusion. "Huh?"
"Never mind," Orion sighed, waving a dismissive hand. "You can go and see the snake from close up, if you wish. But remember what I said: do not disturb the harvesters, or they will likely harvest you too. And do not touch the fangs."
Draco nodded mutely and took a cautious, trembling step toward the edge of the blood pool, mesmerized by the sheer size of the scales.
Orion turned away, his gaze landing on the small huddle near the rear pillars. McGonagall was still holding tightly to a shaking Hermione.
"Sigh," Orion muttered, walking over to them.
He stopped a respectful distance away, his hands clasped behind his back.
"The snake is dead, Granger," Orion said, his voice calm and entirely devoid of its usual mockery. "It is a carcass. It cannot hurt you, or anyone anymore. You really should allow the Professor to move around. She has administrative duties to attend to."
Hermione sniffled, looking up at him with tear-filled brown eyes. She slowly released her death grip on McGonagall's emerald robes, wiping her face with the back of her hand. McGonagall offered Orion a brief, complicated look of gratitude before stepping back to confer with Kingsley.
Orion's attention was drawn away by a sudden, blinding flash of light.
Near the head of the Basilisk, the Daily Prophet photographer was snapping pictures frantically. Cornelius Fudge had moved to the very front of the group, puffing out his chest and resting one polished boot near a comparatively clean section of the snake's tail. He was smiling broadly, gesturing toward the dead beast as if he had personally wrestled it into submission. Rita Skeeter was practically vibrating with excitement, dictating headlines to her flying quill.
Orion stared at the Minister of Magic. A profound, almost overwhelming urge to walk over and kick Fudge squarely in the shins blossomed in his chest.
"I would pay galleons for a private photo session of him falling face-first into that venom puddle," Orion muttered darkly to himself.
"I strongly advise against that course of action, Orion."
Albus Dumbledore stepped up silently beside him, his blue eyes twinkling as he watched the Minister pose for another photograph.
"While the temptation is entirely understandable," Dumbledore chuckled softly, "assaulting the Minister of Magic is generally frowned upon in polite society."
Orion offered a faint, acknowledging smirk. "It was merely a fleeting thought, Headmaster."
Dumbledore turned his gaze to the boy, his expression turning serious.
"You should really not goad Harry as you did earlier," Dumbledore said gently, though the warning was clear. "And you should certainly not give ammunition to someone like Rita Skeeter. Her quill is poisoned, Orion. She will twist your words into a narrative that suits her, regardless of the truth."
"Potter is easy to rile up, sir," Orion replied smoothly, not backing down. "He needs to mature. If he cannot handle a simple verbal barb in a secure environment without reaching for his wand, how will he handle a true enemy? As for Rita..."
Orion glanced at the journalist, his blue eyes cold.
"Rita is a bug, Headmaster. An annoying, buzzing insect that can be swatted easily by my father if she steps out of line. Lucius controls her editor. She won't write anything detrimental to the Malfoy name."
He looked back at the dead Basilisk, then at the bustling Ministry team.
"We really do not have to worry about this, sir," Orion concluded, his voice taking on a tone of profound, pragmatic satisfaction. "It is a good situation for all of us. The Ministry gets a political victory. The school gets safe. We are the heroes, defeating the evil Basilisk and saving the day."
He sighed theatrically, shaking his head.
"We really should have taken a group photo back then, when the dust settled. With those roosters, the Hit Wizards, and Fawkes. You know, 'The Slytherin Crusaders'. I would have framed it."
Dumbledore stared at the twelve-year-old boy, a mixture of amusement, deep concern, and utter bewilderment warring on his ancient face.
He let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a century.
"Indeed, Orion," Dumbledore murmured, turning back to watch the harvesters begin their grisly work. "Indeed."