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No matter how thick its hide or how fierce its gaze, a basilisk couldn't withstand endless punishment without a chance to strike back. At last, the serpent lay sprawled in the Chamber, eyes frozen wide in a death stare, its bulk transformed into a heap of priceless magical material.
Li Ming scratched his head. "So… do we leave it here, or roast it first?"
Snape shot him a cutting glance. "Do you not know serpents can thrash even after decapitation? Professor McGonagall and I can walk away without fear of its eyes. Can you?"
Headless and still kicking? What is this, a cockroach? Li Ming bit back the explanation—reptile nerves twitching didn't matter if you were the one on the receiving end.
"So what then? Admire the corpse?" He spread his hands. "Not my hobby."
McGonagall, still soothing Ginny, spoke firmly. "We wait until the magic fades from its eyes. When the luster goes dull, it can no longer petrify. Then we leave the mirror realm."
Li Ming nodded. A doctor's trick: check the eyes. With normal creatures he had better ways to confirm death, but with basilisks, overactive reflexes meant even his Arcane Sight wasn't safe if he got careless.
Time passed. At last the pupils flattened, their sheen gone. McGonagall looked to Snape; he gave the faintest nod. She gestured for Li Ming to open the portal. Holding Ginny's hand, she stepped out into the Chamber.
Li Ming followed, scooping up Tom's diary as he went. Smacking his lips, he circled the carcass, peppering Snape with questions. "Buddy, what about the hide? Good material?"
Snape's lip curled. "Hardly. Difficult to process, coarse as toadskin, and the color—gaudy. Do you truly want a snakeskin coat? Dragonhide exists. Far superior, refined, and centuries of research have made it versatile to work with."
Li Ming froze mid-stroke. Right. Dragons. Harry was rich enough to ignore a basilisk's leftovers. Of course he didn't care about snakeskin.
Snape conjured a vial and began drawing blood, the glass never filling though streams poured in.
"Potions master indeed," Li Ming muttered. "Extension Charm on the vial. Save me some—I want materials too."
Snape corked the vial, moved to the fangs, and began draining venom. A sly amusement flickered across his face. "Dumbledore says you lifted a stash of Galleons from Sirius Black. And his house-elf, too?"
Li Ming frowned. Snape's delight in skewering Sirius was obvious, but this wasn't the time for gossip. I still need you out of here so I can dissect in peace—and have a private word with Tom.
"Kreacher is my servant," Li Ming said evenly. "Payment I earned. Sirius told me to take what I could carry. If I had the skill to empty the vault, the gold was mine."
Snape pocketed the venom, his face unreadable. "Empty the vault? Dumbledore never mentioned that. Did you slip back later with your portals? Perhaps I should tell the Headmaster. Imagine Sirius's face when he finds his vault barren. Why stop at gold? Why not his basement?"
Li Ming shrugged. "What's the point if I can't crack the wards? Touching those grimoires now would be suicide."
Snape studied him, testing. "Need assistance? I'd be… delighted to help you strip Black's vault."
Emptying is worthless if you don't translate the knowledge. Li Ming shook his head. "Forget it. Let him babysit it for now. When I'm stronger, I'll collect."
Before Snape could press further, an owl swooped in, dropped a letter, and vanished. Snape read, burned the parchment, and glanced at the diary in Li Ming's hand. "Dumbledore chooses to trust you," he said flatly. "I, however, will be watching."
Li Ming lifted the diary. "So all that chatter—stalling for the Headmaster's answer?"
Snape didn't reply. His silence said enough. He turned and strode away.
Li Ming rolled a shoulder, exasperated, and snapped open a portal to the Leaky Cauldron. On the other side, Kreacher hunched over a desk, poring over copied Time-Turner notes.
"Here," Li Ming called. "Give me a hand."
Dragonhide might be better, but he didn't have the gold for it. Wasting a fresh basilisk would be criminal. The back was mangled, but fangs alone could fund a war chest. The eyes—intact, radiant—were worth a fortune.
But harvesting was delicate. One slip and the loss would be catastrophic.
When Kreacher stepped through, Li Ming asked the obvious: "Can you break a basilisk down?"
The elf gaped at the massive carcass. He'd heard tales, but seeing one fresh and dead was another matter.
"For alchemy, no," Kreacher admitted. "But for food, I can try."
"You can cook basilisk?" Li Ming asked flatly.
"No recipes. But boil snake, roast snake—this looks like snake."
Snake? It's a basilisk. Li Ming waved him off. "Preserve it. Freeze it until we find a buyer."
That Kreacher could do. At a signal, the carcass hardened into an ice sculpture.
I really need to outlaw 'monster stew' in the kitchen, Li Ming thought grimly.
There was nowhere to stash something this massive. Shrinking Charms were out of reach, and Kreacher had no such spell. For now, freezing was the only option.
Work finished, Li Ming portaled them back to the Leaky Cauldron. He shrank the books on the desk to matchbox size, pocketed them, then handed Kreacher a basilisk fang. "Find a buyer."
The elf nodded. Yes, he could.
Li Ming grabbed a tent and rations and returned to the Chamber. The vast hall was smothered in darkness; he strung enchanted lamps until light spilled across stone.
Chewing bread, he opened the mirror realm and tossed the diary inside. Then he crouched, carving a Merlin Circle into the floor, drawing in power until his reserves brimmed again.
At last he stood, quill in hand, and stepped into the mirror realm to face the boy in the diary.
Inside the mirror realm, Li Ming set down the wooden box that held the quasi-angelic feather. Tom had bled Ginny nearly dry—he'd have enough strength left to project himself out of the diary. Just in case, Li Ming crouched and sketched a series of ghost-binding arrays across the stone floor.
Then he palmed a basilisk fang, dipped a quill, and scrawled across the diary's page in jagged script: Still got juice? Come out and talk.
Inside, Tom blinked at the handwriting. English, yes, but twisted, casual—American. Unfamiliar, irritating. He hesitated, wary.
The diary stayed silent. Li Ming had no patience for waiting games. He set the feather box on the cover and cracked it open a sliver. "Utility check," he said dryly. "Either you show up, or I start poking holes with basilisk fangs."
The fang drew a shallow score across the page.
Tom convulsed. The feather's radiance burned like acid, scalding his soul where it tethered to the diary. Panic shoved pride aside.
Letters bled across the parchment: Take that damned box off—
Li Ming smirked and wrote back, Come in person. Your app's garbage—no voice, no emojis. Careful or I'll leave a one-star review. And handwriting? Haven't done this since high school. Half the letters slipped my mind already…
He rambled for lines, ugly scrawl filling the page. Oddly, the grotesque script gave Tom grim courage. If I die, at least I won't see this handwriting again.
Just as Li Ming was ready to close up shop, new words crawled across the parchment: Who are you.
Li Ming compared the shaky letters to his own chicken-scratch and felt smug. See? Not just me.
But he wasn't here to trade penmanship critiques. He pinched the page with the fang. "Face-to-face or I wrap you up for Dumbledore. Your call. Oh—and I know resurrection tech."
That snapped the hook. A translucent figure rose halfway from the diary—young Tom Riddle, waist up, chained to the book.
Li Ming grinned. "Other dark lords go underground. You? Half a torso out of a notebook. Bold camouflage. Should I say—no wonder they call you Voldemort?"
Tom ignored the jab, eyes darting to the feather box. His voice shook. "Who are you—and what do you want?"
Li Ming snapped the lid shut. "Magic. Teach me Fiendfyre."
Tom's eyes widened. Fiendfyre—living fire, cursed flame that consumed everything. Few wizards dared touch it. Few Horcruxes could survive it.
"Impossible," Tom rasped. "Why would I—"
"Because I don't need you," Li Ming cut in. "The Blacks have it in their vaults. You're not unique. But here's your reality: this realm is parasitic. Without my say-so, your diary drinks no ambient magic. You wither to dust, slow and helpless. Or—" he flicked the feather box, "—I open this again. You've sampled the flavor."
Tom's pride curdled. Subtle traps needed time and a wand. He had neither. All he had was knowledge.
"I know more than Fiendfyre," he offered.
"Good," Li Ming said, flipping open a blank grimoire. "But we start with Fiendfyre. Incantation. Casting details. Control."
Tom hesitated, then relented. He whispered the incantation, the dangerous shaping, the fine line between mastery and suicide. Li Ming's quill scratched fast, his script sharp and neat now.
When finished, Li Ming turned his grimoire, showing only half a page on resurrection—barely a fragment of a sentence.
Tom's eye twitched. Half? This isn't even crumbs.
But without ambient magic, his outline was already thinning. He slipped back into the diary, silent.
Li Ming closed the book, rolled his wrists, and opened a portal back to the Leaky Cauldron. The night had been long—basilisk hunt, carcass salvage, Fiendfyre wrung from a shade.
He collapsed on his bed, blanket thrown over him, asleep before his boots hit the floor.
He didn't wake until afternoon. Hunger dragged him upright. "Kreacher. Food. Enough for a dragon."
"Yes, Master." Kreacher already had dishes waiting. As he laid them out, he added, "Master, the money for ingredients is spent."
Li Ming, chewing like a starved demon, waved it off. "I'll spot you more. Once we sell the basilisk, we're rich."
Kreacher placed a fang on the desk. "I contacted buyers. They want discretion. They'll speak with you directly. They also ask—when will you move the basilisk out of Hogwarts for inspection?"
Li Ming swallowed, thinking. "We confirm the buyers first. Then I deliver directly by portal. This way, no one knows who bought what."
Chapter 37 – Dumbledore's Bargain: Slughorn, the Basilisk, and the Dark Mark
The cloak of night settled over Hogsmeade. Li Ming pulled a black hood across his shoulders, slipped a golden wildflower into his lapel, and picked up his own cup before opening a portal.
He stepped through into the reek of the Hog's Head, Kreacher padding ahead. The tavern—grimy, dim, and steeped in sheep's wool stench—was the chosen meeting place for the basilisk sale. The choice still puzzled him. A secret transaction in a bar? But Kreacher had explained: here, anonymity was expected. Everyone wore cloaks, veils, or hoods. If you dressed the part, you vanished into the crowd.
Li Ming found the custom absurd. What's next, hide your face just to order a sandwich? Worse, Kreacher had insisted he bring his own cup. BYO-glass? Should I bring my own fork too? One look at the mugs behind the counter explained it—years of sediment made every drink a gamble. He patted his cup with relief.
"So, this is to avoid swallowing dust?" he muttered.
Kreacher gave a solemn nod. "That is one reason."
They were early. Kreacher scanned the shadows. "Master, Mr. Horace Slughorn has not arrived."
Li Ming settled in a corner and ordered a butterbeer. One sip, and his face twisted. "This is… dessert soup." He slid the glass back to Kreacher. "Pour it out. Get me something that burns."
A moment later, the door creaked. A cloaked figure entered, golden wildflower pinned to his chest. Kreacher gave the smallest nod. Their man.
The newcomer moved toward them. His voice dropped low. "Good evening. Are you Mr. Austin?"
Li Ming gestured to the chair. "I am. A pleasure, Professor Slughorn."
The wizard threw back his hood. Heavyset, balding, eyes sharp despite his indulgent face—just as Li Ming remembered. Slughorn didn't bother with niceties. He patted his coin pouch. "No chatter. Show me the basilisk. If I'm satisfied, we deal."
Li Ming rose easily. "Bit large to fit in my cloak pocket. Storage site's close." He tipped his head toward the alley. "This way."
Suspicion flickered across Slughorn's features, but he followed. In the shadows, Li Ming tore open a glowing ring of a portal. Beyond: the vast carcass of the basilisk, sprawled like a mountain. Slughorn's eyes gleamed. Even so, he gestured for Li Ming to step through first.
"No need to worry," Li Ming said, walking in.
A voice drifted from the Chamber. Smooth. Familiar. "Good evening, Mr. Austin. And… Horace Slughorn?"
Slughorn stiffened, then broke into delighted surprise. "Albus? You—here?"
Li Ming froze. Dumbledore. He forced his smile, kept the portal humming at his back as an escape route. If the Headmaster decided to swat him, he had little defense.
"Evening, Professor," he said lightly. "Out for a stroll?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he examined the carcass. "Severus told me how you shielded him and Minerva long enough for them to face the basilisk themselves. Remarkable. I've only read of such beasts. Knowing one lurked beneath Hogwarts made sleep difficult. On my first night back as Headmaster, I couldn't resist a look."
He turned to Slughorn. "Old friend, did I hear correctly? You're here to purchase it?"
Slughorn inclined his head. "A house-elf approached me. Families with elves are nobility—reliable. I assumed the serpent belonged to Mr. Austin." His frown deepened. "But from your tone, perhaps it belongs to Hogwarts?"
Dumbledore paused. To claim the basilisk as school property would invite Ministry chaos. Best to redirect. He smiled faintly. "No. It was an intruder. The carcass, however, is trophy—shared by those who fought. Severus has his portion. Minerva has not yet claimed hers. Therefore…" His gaze slid toward Li Ming. "Mr. Austin is half owner."
Li Ming's jaw tightened. Perfect. He's cutting me down to half with McGonagall as leverage.
He flicked his eyes toward the portal—a request for a word. Dumbledore nodded, motioning Slughorn closer to the corpse while he drew Li Ming aside.
Li Ming leaned in, voice low. "I'll trade McGonagall's share—for access to the portals."
Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable. Calm. Patient. Not a ripple across the lake. He neither agreed nor refused.
Li Ming had a fair idea what Dumbledore wanted. Part of it was the mirror realm—McGonagall had stepped inside and declared it safe, comfortable. Part of it was Snape's report about the diary, Tom Riddle flickering in and out of sight. If Dumbledore already suspected Horcruxes, Ginny Weasley's story would only tighten the net. As Headmaster, he'd ask after the girl's state of mind and—through the questions—connect the diary to Tom Riddle, Voldemort in schoolboy skin.
Grinding his teeth, Li Ming drew the line. "Don't push it. At most, I'll teach the mirror realm to Professor McGonagall."
Dumbledore weighed the words, caught the limit, and smiled. "I can't speak for Minerva. But I'll relay your offer."
Relief unknotted Li Ming's shoulders. He rolled his eyes. "Can't speak for Minerva? You just want my techniques. Was Arcane Sight not enough? That spell's a lifesaver for you."
The Headmaster didn't deny it. Arcane Sight cut through magical clutter—but picking a Horcrux out of a hoard? That was another matter. With Arcane Sight, it was trivial.
Like the locket, Li Ming thought. Voldemort had hidden it at the bottom of a basin warded by a potion that broke the body and the mind. Regulus Black had forced himself to drink, sent Kreacher away with the prize, and never returned. Decades later, Dumbledore and Harry had drained the basin themselves—only to find a fake. With Arcane Sight, Dumbledore would've needed one glance. No poison. No drama.
Then again, if the locket's already in your pocket, why spelunk for it?
Dumbledore let the silence hang before sliding in the real question. "And regarding the notebook—anything you'd like to say?"
Li Ming's jaw tightened. You just can't help yourself, can you?
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. "I've spoken with Miss Weasley. Let's be clear. With whom did you intend to trade the Dark Lord's Horcrux? Or—what do you want for it?"
Li Ming considered his options. He could outmaneuver Snape or McGonagall if it came to it—mirror realm, portals, a head start. But this was Dumbledore. At this range, escape was fantasy.
He sighed and deliberately shut the portal behind him. "Honestly? Haven't decided. But don't panic—I'm not returning it to Voldemort. In my eyes he's a rabid egomaniac with a hair-trigger temper."
Dumbledore's smile faded. "I'm not comfortable leaving the diary with you. Horcruxes corrode the mind. And you—"
Li Ming flipped a small wooden box his way. Dumbledore opened it. A wave of calm, immense power rolled out, soothing yet overwhelming. He closed the lid at once and handed it back.
"That shields you—for now. But time wears all things down. Tell me what you want, and I'll begin the search."
So: the diary was nonnegotiable. Li Ming rubbed his jaw and shot a glance toward Slughorn. "I'd planned to ask Slughorn if he'd trade for mana-amplifying potions. Basilisk plus techniques as the price. Leads, at least. But if you insist on the diary, then I'll deal with you."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed with faint disdain. "Do you know how rare true mana-amplification draughts are? Even ancient families may not produce one vial in a generation. If one ever agreed to trade, a living basilisk might not buy half. But…"
He looked at Slughorn, circling the carcass, and back again with a glint of luck in his gaze. "Horace does, in fact, have such an elixir. Given the diary's weight, I'll secure one from him on your behalf. The basilisk goes to Slughorn. Your spellwork you keep. I'll cover the rest as my side of the bargain."
He turned on his heel. "Give us a moment. I have private matters to discuss with Horace. When we're done, I'll begin your instruction."
Li Ming nodded. He opened a portal back to the Leaky Cauldron, collected Kreacher and his luggage, and prepared to move house into the Chamber. He could guess the Headmaster's private talk: Horcrux-craft, and how Tom Riddle had learned it.
By the time Li Ming returned, bags in tow, the Chamber was empty. Slughorn and the basilisk—gone. Dumbledore too.
The loss of the diary toppled several plans. Chief among them, mining Tom for spellcraft. At least he had Fiendfyre now, though rough. What he lacked was a mentor to refine it.
Fine. Work remained. "Kreacher. Go to a Potions classroom. Cabinet, bookcase, anywhere. Find me a textbook signed 'Half-Blood Prince.' The one with handwritten notes. If you're not sure, bring every Potions text you see."
Kreacher bowed and vanished.
Li Ming reopened the mirror realm. As long as the diary was still in his hands, he'd wring Tom for one more lesson.
He set the wooden box beside him and scrawled across the cover: Out. Now.
Tom, pale and translucent, strained out of the diary. Only his head emerged, barely able to hold shape.
"Again?" he asked, feigning innocence.
Li Ming poised the lid, radiance gnawing at the ghost. "Your proudest magic. Teach it."
Tom faltered. "Something happened?"
"Less talk." Li Ming's voice pressed like a weight. He cracked the lid, let the halo bite, and added subtle force behind his words. "Answer."
Powerless, wandless, Tom broke. Li Ming's quill scratched furiously across the page, recording every word.
Tom's shade trembled, pupils contracting to pinpricks.
Line by line, Li Ming captured Voldemort's signature creation: the Dark Mark.
More than a magical signal, it was a binding brand. A touch summoned every follower. Press it, and the Dark Lord felt the call. At full power, it was a master–servant compact. Even weakened, it clung. It never vanished.
Li Ming didn't mind the flaws. He had a demon's Slave Pact already. Given time, he could splice the Dark Mark's network into his own bindings—forge a control system entirely his.
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