Before hundreds of awestruck students, the castle itself seemed to come alive.
Statues and armored golems, hundreds of them, marched in perfect unison from Hogwarts' gates, their footsteps like rolling thunder across the lawns.
The Basilisk, its eyes now blinded and bleeding, had gone truly berserk. Yet even in madness, the cold-blooded logic of a top-tier predator lingered within it.
The result was… horrifyingly strange.
One moment it thrashed wildly, biting and tearing everything within reach in sheer fury and agony,
The next, it would go eerily still, pressing its immense body flat against the earth, listening… sniffing… hunting by sound and scent alone.
The ring of flames encircling the battleground shimmered with blistering heat, but it did little to deter the ancient serpent. To a creature that had endured centuries beneath the earth, ordinary fire was merely an inconvenience.
Tom, however, was utterly unhurried.
He deflected every sudden strike from the Basilisk with precise flicks of his wand, eyes calm, waiting for his reinforcements to arrive.
This was his plan all along.
He'd read about the Piertotum Locomotor spell in Professor McGonagall's notes, one of Hogwarts' "last resort" defenses, meant to be wielded only by the official and acting Headmasters.
So technically speaking… he'd just stolen the thunder from both Dumbledore and McGonagall.
Not bad, Riddle. Not bad at all.
As another blast of magic cracked across the lawn and sent the Basilisk's head slamming against the ground, Tom found himself smirking at the thought.
Meanwhile, McGonagall, still coordinating from the courtyard, watched the animated army march past her with tears of envy practically leaking from the corners of her mouth.
She had always wanted to try that spell.
When she'd been running toward the scene earlier, she had even considered using it herself, just to feel that glorious rush.
And then Riddle of all people had beaten her to it.
Now all she could do was order the professors to guard the students and try not to grind her teeth to dust.
Still, she knew Tom well enough to trust his instincts.
He wasn't a reckless Gryffindor, if he dared to stand before a Basilisk, he must've had a plan.
But Merlin help him, she would have a word with that boy when this was over.
Up on the towers and balconies, students had gathered to watch the battle unfold below.
Cho Chang and Penelope Clearwater were among the first to arrive.
The moment they realized it was Tom Riddle down there facing the monster alone, their hearts tightened with dread.
Hermione, Daphne, and Astoria, however, remained calm, almost eerily so.
They already knew Tom had been planning this duel for weeks.
They knew he'd mastered the counter-charm against the Basilisk's death gaze.
So while others panicked, they simply watched, confident that the serpent would not be the one to triumph tonight.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Through the flames came the vanguard of the stone host.
Golems and statues surged forward, brandishing massive blades and fists, engaging the Basilisk in brutal, thunderous combat.
Tom raised his wand like a conductor before an orchestra, his voice crisp and sure.
"Protego Maxima!"
"Accelerato!"
"Featherweight!"
"Gravitas!"
"Reparo!"
Spells flew like commands in a symphony.
Each incantation struck the battlefield like a drumbeat, strengthening some, lightening others, repairing what was broken.
It was chaos, but perfectly controlled chaos.
For a moment, he almost felt like he was playing Warcraft again, micro-managing units, buffing and healing, striking at the perfect intervals.
The defensive statues hardened from stone to steel, their bodies gleaming in the firelight.
The Basilisk's colossal tail crashed into them, splintering the earth, but the statues only fell, then repaired themselves in seconds under Tom's steady "healing" charms.
From the towers, the watching students erupted into cheers.
It was glorious.
No, more than that. It was art.
Tom stood calmly in the heart of the inferno, commanding legions with effortless precision.
Every flick of his wand, every whispered incantation, worked together like the gears of an intricate clockwork engine.
It was so beautiful it gave the illusion that anyone could do it.
And yet everyone watching knew that was a lie.
Casting that many spells at once, coordinating dozens of enchanted beings, predicting the Basilisk's movements, it was something only a mind like Riddle's could manage.
Then came a booming, gleeful voice:
"Woo-hoo! Riddle, my boy, I'm here!"
The stone gargoyle, the one that had once guarded the Headmaster's office, came bounding across the field.
It leapt clean over the two-meter fire wall and slammed a granite fist straight into the Basilisk's head.
THUD!
Even Tom winced. The sound reverberated through his bones.
The serpent's body went limp for a moment, crashing back into the dirt with a shuddering thump.
"Not the head!" Tom shouted, grimacing. "If you hit the head again, I swear I'll enchant you with a dung bomb spa treatment!"
"Oi! I'm helping you!" the gargoyle protested, turning indignantly.
"Not like that you aren't! I can't play if you kill the boss too fast!"
"Oh." The gargoyle paused, genuinely thinking about it.
He had just gotten out for the first time in decades, ending the fun too early would be such a waste.
"You've got a point. I'll go easy." The gargoyle nodded seriously. "You Slytherins really do think of everything, don't you?"
Tom's face darkened.
Great. He tried to help, and now he was being insulted for it.
Fine. The dung bomb spa was definitely happening later.
While the two bickered, the Basilisk had already recovered, thrashing violently again. It flung itself against the statues, sending several flying into the night sky.
The gargoyle roared, charging back with a flurry of granite punches, each blow like a collapsing wall.
The serpent screamed, its tail whipping wildly, but the animated defenders held the line.
Even Tom had to admit, he hadn't expected the gargoyle to be this strong.
Apparently, the creature hadn't been bluffing all those years guarding the door; it really was a walking fortress.
Tom quickly scanned his mental "palace" for any signs of magical disruption, thankfully, all systems were stable.
He let out a quiet sigh of relief.
The battlefield was his. The castle was his.
And the night belonged to Tom Riddle.