No one expected a phoenix to suddenly appear, but the moment they saw it, everyone relaxed.
A phoenix was an extremely rare magical creature. In all of Britain, there was only one—Fawkes, companion to Albus Dumbledore.
And if Fawkes was here, that meant Dumbledore knew about the basilisk.
More importantly, phoenix tears were the most powerful healing elixir known to wizardkind. In mere seconds, Fawkes had healed the burns on Hagrid's hands caused by the basilisk's venom—and the wounds on Fluffy's head as well.
Though frankly, Harold figured that even without Fawkes, Fluffy would've been fine. The three-headed dog might not have the same offensive firepower as a basilisk or the flight capabilities of a dragon, but when it came to sheer resilience, Fluffy was in a league of its own.
In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Newt Scamander described the three-headed dog as a "mobile mountain"—not just because of its size, but because of its incredible toughness. Even venom that could kill a giant would, at worst, make Fluffy a little drowsy.
Right now, the beast was snoozing soundly, lulled into peaceful slumber by the phoenix's haunting song.
Harold watched Fawkes curiously, but the great red bird kept its distance, perching far away on a Quidditch goalpost as if Harold carried the plague.
Then Harold noticed something on the ground below the phoenix—a ragged, tattered object.
He walked over and bent down to pick it up, eyebrows rising slightly.
Before he could examine it, a voice called out behind him.
"Oh, isn't that the Sorting Hat? What's it doing all the way out here?" Professor Sprout's voice rang out.
"You're mistaken, Professor," Harold replied with a blink. "That's just my school hat. I used it to block the basilisk blood—it got a little shredded."
"Actually, I believe this one's yours," said Professor Flitwick, holding up an even more disfigured scrap of cloth.
"I tried every spell I know—couldn't repair it," he added.
"That's… mine?" Harold squinted.
"Of course it is. Or just look at it properly—you'll recognize the Sorting Hat in a second."
Harold had no choice. He reluctantly raised the object he'd found.
"Oh, you're right," he muttered. "My mistake." He handed the Sorting Hat back with obvious reluctance.
"But why was it here?" Sprout wondered aloud.
"Maybe Fawkes brought it?" she added, unconcerned. "Anyway, Mr. Ollivander, would you mind heading back to the castle? Please let Professor Snape know everything's under control out here."
It was a dismissal, plain and simple. Now that the situation had stabilized, there was no reason for Harold to hang around.
He didn't argue. Giving the Sorting Hat one last glance, he turned and walked away.
The moment he was gone, the hat's brim split open.
"Thank you, Pomona. I believe I was this close to getting myself destroyed—one more second and I might've been dragged off." Newest update provıded by 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅•𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝗇𝖾𝗍
Sprout, still inspecting the basilisk, didn't quite follow. "True," she said absently. "If Fawkes had dropped you near Fluffy, it might've ripped you apart. I'll return you to the Headmaster's office later. Might take a while, though."
"Perfectly fine," the hat said quickly. "Just… please make sure you bring me. Not a student."
Meanwhile, Harold had already returned to the castle, where Snape stood guard at the Entrance Hall.
After reporting everything that had happened outside, Harold added that Fawkes had shown up.
The moment he heard that, Snape bolted.
Harold had never seen him move so fast.
Professor Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher, was full of questions. Still in a good mood, Harold recounted the scene in vivid detail.
"It was brutal," he said, with theatrical flair. "Hagrid had the basilisk in a chokehold, giving Fluffy the opening to rip into its belly…"
Soon, other professors gathered around, including Professor Sinistra from Astronomy, who stood off to the side, listening intently.
"I'm telling you, their teamwork was incredible. There was blood everywhere. Scales flying. You could smell the stench from across the pitch…"
He was just getting into the story when a sharp, furious shout interrupted him.
"Where are the fangs?!"
"The gallbladder's missing too!"
"And the eyes—where did those enormous basilisk eyes go?!"
The voice, unmistakably Snape's, echoed all the way from the Quidditch pitch.
How rude, Harold thought. Some people are trying to sleep, you know.
"…Anyway," he wrapped up quickly, "the basilisk's dead. Hagrid and Fluffy took it down."
With that, he made a swift exit.
Just minutes later, Snape stormed back into the castle, his robes billowing, face a storm cloud of fury.
"Where is Harold Ollivander?" he demanded.
"Gone back to his dormitory," Professor Sinistra replied. "After everything tonight, poor thing's probably frightened half to death."
"I agree," said Burbage. "He was quite shaken. Excited at first, but the adrenaline clearly wore off… the poor boy turned pale as parchment."
Snape's expression darkened further. He turned and began marching toward the stairs—
Just as Dumbledore stepped through the front doors.
"Ah, Severus! Good—you're here."
"Dumbledore?" Snape turned. "I thought you weren't returning until tomorrow."
"I'd barely left the village when I realized something was wrong," said Dumbledore. "If McClane had an emergency, he'd have contacted me via two-way mirror—not sent a letter. It became quite clear someone didn't want me at Hogwarts tonight."
"Good thing you caught on when you did," Snape said grimly.
"Let's hope I haven't missed too much," Dumbledore replied. "Come—we must speak with Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger. Professor McGonagall already took them to my office. They'll know exactly what happened tonight."
The moment he said this, Snape seemed to forget everything else and turned to follow Dumbledore.
Meanwhile, Harold had not gone back to Gryffindor Tower.
He was intercepted by Professor McGonagall on the second floor and promptly hauled off to the infirmary.
Harry and Ron were already there.
He was pale, staggering with every step. Whatever had happened in the Chamber of Secrets had left him shaken—but at least he was conscious.
Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a quick examination and deemed him healthy enough to leave. Professor McGonagall took him back to the Headmaster's office.
His condition wasn't dire, but he definitely needed rest.