Both figures appeared simultaneously. Their surroundings had transford from the darkness and damp stone of the basent, replaced now by an endless stretch of grassland that stretched to every horizon.
Night wind swept across the vast grassland in powerful gusts, sending waves through the tall grass that rustled. Not far away, a massive oak tree glowed with an eerie green light, and looked particularly striking in the pitch-black night.
Tom observed his new surroundings. His borrowed eyes took in every detail. But when his gaze finally fell on the sight of the Wisdom Tree, his heart couldn't help but sink.
The mory ca flooding back—the scene when Adrian had purified the diary. This inexplicable tree had rendered him completely powerless to resist. The helplessness he had felt in that mont still haunted him.
Fortunately, when he was being expelled, he had desperately preserved part of his power, preventing his imdiate disappearance. It was this preserved essence that had let him find protection within Lockhart's mind and body.
But now, standing once again in front of this tree, he was still helpless.
'Perhaps the Killing Curse might work?' The thought flickered through his mind.
But the bitter reality crashed down upon him instantly, his wand had already been confiscated by Adrian's Devil's Snare.
Just as Tom's mind raced through increasingly desperate counterasures, Adrian acted with swift decisiveness. Without any word or warning, he drew back his arm and hurled the golden purification potion high into the sky above Tom's head.
"Wait!" Tom's voice cracked with panic. "We can negotiate! We can talk this through!"
His words carried the desperate urgency of a man watching his own execution approach, but even as he spoke, Tom knew his pleas were falling on deaf ears. The die had been cast, and Adrian's expression showed no rcy.
It was already far too late for words.
The potion bottle reached the peak of its arc and exploded with a sound like breaking crystal, the golden liquid dispersing into countless droplets that caught the light like falling stars.
For a mont, the scene was almost beautiful—tiny points of glowing gold suspended against the dark sky like a constellation being born.
Then, the gravity claid it and the purification potion began its descent like divine rain upon the condemned.
The first drops struck Tom's face, and he threw back his head and released an inhuman shriek that seed to tear itself from the very depths of his borrowed throat.
His body began convulsing with spasms that looked more like seizures. Each muscle contracted and released in rapid succession, sending him stumbling and jerking. But far more disturbing than his physical tornt was what began pouring from his body, thick, roiling clouds of black mist that seed to have substance intelligence of their own.
The dark vapor erupted from every pore streaming from his mouth and nose and eyes like smoke from a funeral pyre. The mist writhed and twisted as it escaped, forming shapes that almost resembled reaching hands or screaming faces before dissolving back into formless shadow.
As more and more of the black essence fled his stolen flesh, sothing extraordinary began to happen. The mist didn't simply dissipate into the night air—instead, it began to rge and condense, drawn together by so invisible force until it took on form and substance once again.
What erged from that swirling darkness was both familiar and shocking. The mist solidified into the figure of a young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, hovering several feet above the grassland.
He was undeniably handso in the classical sense. His hair was jet black and perfectly styled despite the circumstances, falling in elegant waves across his pale face.
But there was sothing deeply wrong with this. His dark eyes held an unsettling coldness that seed to drain warmth from the very air around him, and his handso face was twisted into an expression of rage.
This was Tom Riddle as he had been during his student days at Hogwarts.
He floated in the night air like a vengeful ghost crackling with residual dark magic and his face was filled with rage.
"You have no idea what you're doing!" The young Riddle's voice ca as a hoarse snarl. "You're destroying sothing beyond your comprehension! I can give you power beyond your wildest dreams—knowledge that would make you the greatest wizard who ever lived! I can grant you eternal life, free you from the pathetic limitations of mortality!"
Adrian observed this passionate plea with the interest of a scientist watching an interesting but ultimately dood experint.
'You're still a young man after all,' He thought with sothing approaching pity.
He shook his head slowly, his expression showing no trace of temptation or uncertainty. Tom's offers held no appeal because they were based on a misunderstanding of what truly mattered in life.
This young man, so obsessed with immortality and power, always assud that others shared his desperate fear of death. Tom had never understood that for many people, a aningful life was far more valuable than an endless one.
But for Adrian in his current circumstances, the concept of immortality held no attraction at all. Perhaps when he reached Dumbledore's age, when he had lived long enough to accomplish his goals, he might consider such questions more seriously.
However, even if he ever did desire to extend his natural lifespan, he would never choose sothing as crude and soul-damaging as Horcruxes.
In Adrian's opinion, the legendary Elixir of Life created by the Philosopher's Stone was infinitely superior to Voldemort's chosen thod of immortality. The Elixir extended life without corrupting the soul, without requiring atrocities, without turning the user into a monster. It was elegant, clean, and most importantly, reversible if one chose to accept death when the ti ca.
Seeing that Adrian remained completely unmoved by his desperate bargaining, Tom's ghostly face contorted with rage and growing panic. He understood that his chances of survival had dwindled to nearly nothing.
Without another word, he suddenly darted toward the distant horizon streaking through the night air like a falling star in reverse.
For a mont, it almost seed as though he might actually succeed in fleeing.
But the Wisdom Tree had been waiting for exactly this mont.
Without any prompting or command from Adrian, that devastating green light suddenly blazed forth from the oak's massive trunk. The erald beam struck Tom's fleeing form with accuracy, enveloping him in radiance that was both beautiful and terrible to watch.
Under the green light's rciless embrace, Tom's ethereal body began to tear apart. He released a final, piercing scream that seed to echo across the entire grassland and his human form began to disintegrate.
The green light held him suspended in its grip for several more seconds, ensuring that every trace of his dark essence was completely purified. Then, gradually, the brilliant light began to fade, returning to the tree's normal gentle glow.
Where Tom Riddle's spirit had been struggling and screaming, now there was only empty night air and the whisper of wind through grass.
[Purification complete, sir.] The Wisdom Tree's ancient voice ca within Adrian's mind.
Adrian nodded in acknowledgnt.
"Farewell, Tom," He said softly, his words carried away by the night wind. "This ti, I trust you'll rember to die properly and stay that way in future."
Then he waved toward the distant Wisdom Tree, which imdiately understood his aning.
[Na: Eldara (Wisdom Tree)]
[Species: Oak]
[Level: 5]
[Traits: Object Analysis, Soul Connection, Soul Purification, Energy Amplification, Ravenclaw's Wisdom]
[Status: Growing (99.9%)]
Seeing the tree's current status filled Adrian with quiet satisfaction. Eldara was now only a single step away from achieving her next level of growth, a transformation that would undoubtedly unlock new powers and capabilities.
After taking a mont to appreciate this developnt, Adrian turned his attention back to the more imdiate concern lying nearby on the grass.
At this mont, Lockhart lay limply on the ground like a discarded puppet.
Adrian approached and crouched down beside him, gently placing two fingers against Lockhart's carotid artery. For a mont, he felt nothing, and he feared the worst. Then, weak and irregular but undeniably present, he detected the flutter of a pulse still beating beneath pale, papery skin.
A wave of relief ca over him. Lockhart was still alive, though barely.
However, the man lying in front of him bore little resemblance to the vain, sowhat handso Lockhart. Lockhart had now undergone a transformation that was almost unrecognizable as the sa person.
His skin was now loose and covered with deep wrinkles. What had once been brilliant golden hair had beco gray and withered like dead grass.
Clearly, his life force had been completely drained by Voldemort, and he had probably only been maintaining his youthful appearance through Voldemort's magic.
"Hmm... at least you're still alive."
Adrian muttered, taking out a small vial of erald green potion from his robes and pouring it into Lockhart's mouth.
But while the potion had clearly stabilized his vital signs, it could do nothing about the years of aging that had been compressed into his devastated body. His appearance showed no improvent at all.
Adrian shook his head regretfully. The damage was simply too extensive to reverse with any potion or spell. So consequences, once incurred, could never be undone.
This was the consequence of showing contempt for the Dark Lord's power, of believing oneself clever enough to steal from Voldemort without paying a price. Lockhart had gambled with forces beyond his understanding, and his arrogance had cost him decades of his natural life.
In a sense, Adrian thought, he didn't even need to take action against Lockhart. Tom Riddle's parasitic presence had already done a punishnt far more cruel and lasting than anything Adrian might have done.
While Adrian was concluding his confrontation with the remnants of Tom Riddle's fractured soul, miles away in the warmth and safety of Gryffindor Tower, Harry and Ron were lying across their dormitory beds in what had beco their nightly ritual of boredom and restless energy.
A wizard's chess set occupied the space between their beds. Ron, as always, was showing his mastery of the ga with moves that seed to co as naturally as breathing.
"Check," Ron announced with satisfaction, his black knight rearing up on its legs in a show of triumph. The piece had just executed a particularly clever maneuver that left Harry's white king in imdiate danger, with few options for escape.
Harry stared at the board with the blank expression like that of soone who had long since accepted his inevitable defeat.
Just as Ron was positioning his pieces for what would undoubtedly be the ga's decisive final move, Harry suddenly froze. His hand, which had been reaching for his harassed king, stopped in mid-motion as if he had been struck by a sudden paralysis.
"Harry, it's your move," Ron said impatiently, tapping the edge of the chessboard with his index finger. "My knight has your bishop completely trapped, and your king has maybe two moves left before checkmate. You might as well surrender with so dignity intact."
But Harry remained motionless, his green eyes fixed on sothing far beyond their dormitory room. His chess piece remained suspended in mid-air, forgotten in his grip.
"Ron," Harry's voice was a whisper. "Sothing's not right."
"Co on, Harry," Ron began, rolling his eyes. "You're just trying to avoid admitting that I've got you completely beaten—"
He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. "Wait. Oh no. You're not hearing that voice again, are you??"
Harry nodded slowly, his face looking pale in the dim light. Yes, he was indeed hearing that sinister, inhuman voice again.
But this ti, sothing was different.
"Hungry... so hungry..." The words echoed inside Harry's skull with increasing intensity and frequency. "Hungry hungry hungry..."
The repetition continued, growing more frantic and desperate with each repetition: "Hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry..."
While Harry felt the familiar chill of fear creeping up his spine, he was also struck by a sense of genuine puzzlent.
'Why was it constantly shouting about being hungry?' While Harry felt the familiar chill of fear creeping up his spine, he was also struck by a sense of genuine puzzlent. 'How long had this basilisk been starving?Forget it, it was no use thinking about it.'
Since the basilisk's voice had appeared again, it ant he had to act imdiately.
"What should we do?" Ron asked in anxiety. "Sa plan as before? Find a professor and report what's happening?"
"We need to find Professor Westeros imdiately," Harry said, throwing his forgotten chess piece onto the board and imdiately got out of bed. The wizard chess pieces clattered and fell over.
Ron hurriedly set the pieces back up, then followed Harry out of the dormitory.
Dean Thomas mumbled sothing in his sleep and rolled over, but didn't wake up.
The nightti corridors were still silent.
But despite the familiar routine of their night wanderings, Harry found it impossible to remain calm. The basilisk's increasingly frantic cries of hunger continued to echo through his consciousness, growing more desperate and urgent with each repetition.
The creature sounded almost mad with starvation, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that this ant the attacks would be more vicious and unpredictable than ever before.
Ron walked alongside his best friend, his own anxiety obvious in the way he kept glancing at shadows and jumping at small sounds. Sothing about tonight felt different, and it took him several minutes to identify what was bothering him.
When they were roughly halfway to their destination, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his face lighting up with sudden realization.
"Wait a minute," He said, his voice carrying a note of genuine surprise. "Where's Hermione? Why isn't she with us tonight?"
Harry turned back to stare at his friend with genuine bewildernt. "Of course she's not here, Ron. She's in the girls' dormitory, so naturally she wouldn't be with us."
"Right, right," Ron said, scratching the back of his head in embarrassnt. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. I don't know what I was thinking."
But even as he dismissed his own confusion, Ron couldn't shake the feeling that sothing was missing from their usual nightti expedition.
Honestly, when Hermione wasn't around, he always felt less secure.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Harry said suddenly, reaching into his robes and taking out a small object. "You'll need this."
Ron felt a small, square pendant placed in his palm. "What is it exactly?"
"A protective charm that Professor Westeros gave ," Harry explained quietly. "He said if we ever have the misfortune to look directly into the basilisk's eyes—even by accident—this charm should be enough to save our lives."
In his impression, Professor Westeros had always been reliable, and anything he made was definitely effective. He quickly tucked the protective charm deep into his robes, where it would be safe from loss or damage.
Several tense minutes later, they arrived at their destination and knocked softly on Adrian's office door. They waited, hardly daring to breathe, for sign of response from within.
But unfortunately, there was still no response.
Harry had expected this result—they had never succeeded when coming to find Adrian at night.
"What now?" Ron whispered, his voice carrying a tone of frustration. "Professor Westeros is obviously not here, again. Should we go find Professor McGonagall instead? Though I have a terrible feeling she's going to deduct house points first and ask questions later, especially when she finds out we were wandering the corridors again after curfew."
"Don't worry about house points at a ti like this," Harry said.
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