Hogwarts: The Serpent's System

Power, I was beginning to understand, was a logistical nightmare. It was one thing to command a legendary beast in a secret chamber deep beneath the school; it was another thing entirely to make that power useful.

I spent the next several nights in the Room of Requirement, which I had commanded to transform into a state-of-the-art alchemical laboratory and armory. The ten massive sheets of shed Basilisk skin were laid out on a long stone table. They were beautiful, shimmering with a faint, ethereal light, and felt as smooth as silk yet tougher than dragon hide. I tried to cut a small sample with a standard Severing Charm. The spell dissipated harmlessly against the surface, not leaving so much as a scratch.

//SYSTEM NOTIFICATION// [Basilisk Skin] possesses Legendary-tier magical resistance. Standard cutting charms are ineffective. Crafting requires a [Dragon-fire Forge] or a Grade 7 enchanted blade.

A similar problem arose with the venom. I had commanded the Basilisk to drip a single vial's worth into a magically sealed container. In the lab, I attempted to draw a sample with an enchanted silver pipette. The moment the venom touched the silver, the metal hissed and dissolved into a puff of black smoke.

//WARNING: Basilisk Venom is highly corrosive to all non-magical and most magical materials. Handling requires [Master-tier Alchemist's Gloves] or a container enchanted with a Grade 7 containment ward.//

The message was clear. I possessed assets of unimaginable value, but I lacked the skill and the tools to properly wield them. It was like being given the keys to a kingdom but not knowing how to open the castle gates. My path forward was no longer just about acquiring raw power, but about developing the arcane skills necessary to refine it. I needed to level up my own abilities—Alchemy, Enchanting, Crafting—before I could truly unlock the potential of my new arsenal.

This realization, however, was soon overshadowed by a new, far more immediate crisis.

I was returning from the Room of Requirement late one afternoon when I saw it. A crowd of students was gathered at the intersection of two corridors, their faces pale with horror. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were trying to maintain order, but the panic was palpable. Pushing my way through the crowd, I saw the cause.

Lying on the floor, petrified, was the Hufflepuff student Justin Finch-Fletchley. And floating a few feet away, in a state of shimmering, pearly-white paralysis, was Nearly Headless Nick, his head now attached by only the barest sliver of spectral tissue.

But it was the identity of the person standing over them, wand in hand, that had caused the real shock. It was Harry Potter. He had apparently been found alone at the scene by Argus Filch, who was now triumphantly declaring that he had caught the Heir of Slytherin red-handed.

I analyzed the scene in an instant. This was the diary's doing, a calculated move to frame Harry and escalate the chaos. Dumbledore arrived moments later, his presence a calming force, but the damage was done. He escorted a protesting Harry away, leaving the rest of the school to draw their own, obvious conclusions.

The castle exploded. It was no longer a matter of suspicion; it was a certainty. Harry Potter, the hero of the wizarding world, was the monster terrorizing the school. The fact that the latest victim was a pure-blood (or so most believed) shattered the theory that only Muggle-borns were being targeted, creating a new wave of universal terror. No one was safe.

That evening, Dumbledore summoned me to his office once more. The twinkling, grandfatherly demeanor was gone. His blue eyes were as sharp and cold as chips of ice.

"The castle is on the verge of a lockdown, Tom," he said, his voice low and grave. "Another attack, and the school governors will insist on closing Hogwarts. I will not allow that to happen. I need answers."

"I am as much in the dark as you are, Headmaster," I replied, my face a mask of sincere concern.

"Are you?" Dumbledore countered, his gaze piercing. "You were seen near the corridor shortly before the attack was discovered. You have an uncanny ability to be present at pivotal moments. You knew the nature of the first attack before my own staff did. You are not the Heir, I know this. But you know more than you are letting on."

This was a direct accusation. A dangerous gambit on his part.

"Headmaster," I said, my tone respectful but firm, "my knowledge comes from the same place as yours: books and logic. The library is open to all. As for my whereabouts," I produced a small, enchanted token from my pocket. "I was in a private study session with Professor Flitwick, practicing advanced charm-work. This token, which he gave me, records the time and magical signatures of our session. You will find I was with him for the entire afternoon."

It was a perfect, unbreakable alibi. I had, of course, arranged the "private session" with the eager Charms master weeks ago, precisely for an occasion such as this. Always have a contingency.

Dumbledore studied me for a long moment, a complex mixture of frustration and grudging respect in his eyes. He had no proof, no leverage. "Very well, Tom," he said finally, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "You may go."

I left his office, my mind racing. The Headmaster's suspicion was becoming a liability. But more importantly, the diary was becoming a rogue agent. My previous "dominance" over the soul fragment had clearly been temporary. It was acting on its own, its actions growing bolder and more chaotic. It was threatening my carefully laid plans, jeopardizing my control over the situation.

I realized then that I could no longer treat the diary as a resource to be slowly plundered. It was a cancer that needed to be cut out. Permanently.

To do that, I needed a weapon. A weapon that I now had in limitless supply, dripping from the fangs of the Serpent King in the chamber below. I needed Basilisk venom. And to get that venom onto the diary, I needed a delivery system. I needed a fang.

My entire strategy shifted. My new objective was no longer to simply control the Chamber, but to orchestrate a final confrontation within it. I needed to lure the diary's host, Ginny Weasley, into the Chamber. I needed to force a confrontation that would allow me to harvest a fang from the Basilisk. And I needed to do it all while ensuring that the school's designated hero, Harry Potter, was the one who took the credit—and the blame—for the final, bloody resolution.

A new, audacious plan began to form in my mind, its pieces clicking into place with cold, beautiful precision. I would not just be a player in this game anymore. I would be its director. I would set the stage, I would write the script, and I would make Harry Potter the star of my show.