Chapter 242 – The Basilisk's Meal
But that was only the beginning.
The eight-eyed giant spider he had killed earlier was unlikely to be the only one that had spotted him. Others must have escaped and warned their kin. Now, a horde of Acromantulas surrounded him.
Beyond the threat of ambushes, the spiders' danger lay in their coordinated pack tactics—encirclement and overwhelming force, much like a pack of wolves.
Even the strongest wizard had limits. Though Phineas could hold his own at first, as time wore on and his magical energy waned, each spell cast brought him closer to exhaustion. He might slay dozens of spiders, yet eventually, he too would fall—overwhelmed when his magic gave out.
Acromantulas weren't even native to the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid had released them. Without natural predators, they'd flourished unchecked, multiplying far beyond the population of any natural colony.
Dumbledore had known about Hagrid releasing one Acromantula. What he hadn't expected was for Hagrid to introduce a second one as a mate. What began as a pet had become the founding pair of a dangerous species thriving in the shadows of the forest.
As the rustling sounds of approaching spiders grew louder, Phineas knew he had to act immediately.
With a flick of his right hand and a mirrored gesture from his left, he cast in both directions.
"Incendio Maxima!"
A massive torrent of flame burst from his wand and enchanted gloves, sweeping into the forest, lighting the gloom like midday, banishing the damp and darkness.
Harnessing the fire with transfiguration-based elemental control, he formed a flaming wall around himself, leaving only a narrow gap—just wide enough for one Acromantula to pass.
This gap was a trap. If the spiders wanted him, they would have to come through one at a time—and a lone Acromantula posed no threat to Phineas. For them, the gap was a portal to hell.
With this defense in place, Phineas bought himself time—enough to hunt, gather materials, or simply Apparate away.
Still, he wasn't reckless. Even with the advantage, he knew his situation was precarious. Magic would eventually run dry. When that happened, he could collapse the gap entirely and either Apparate away or summon Puff to carry him off.
What he hadn't accounted for was the tenacity of nature. Hunting, after all, was about survival.
The spiders didn't rush the gap. They stopped, surrounding the wall of fire, waiting, not attacking.
They were cautious. Intelligent.
Phineas sighed. No wonder the Ministry considered them five-star dangerous creatures. If they understood human speech, he might have tried diplomacy. Hagrid's pet, Aragog, could speak—and had once spoken to Harry and Ron.
The spiders now understood that entering the passage meant certain death. So they waited, gathering in larger numbers.
Phineas grew wary. Insects in nature often displayed fire-evading tactics. Ants, for instance, would form living balls and roll across flames, sacrificing a few to save the many. If the Acromantulas had a similar strategy, his fire wall would not hold forever.
Luckily, Acromantulas weren't self-sacrificing. They were cunning, selfish, and driven by instinct. They feared fire. And though their prey stood just behind it—fresh, vulnerable, human—they hesitated.
But hunger eventually drives desperation.
A massive, six-foot-tall Acromantula dared the gap.
The moment it entered, a slash of crimson light from Phineas's wand sliced it clean in half.
He had used Sectumsempra—a spell bordering on dark magic but devastatingly effective. He wasn't certain how resistant the Acromantulas were to other spells, and he couldn't afford hesitation.
Noticing the creature's legs were singed, Phineas guessed there had been scuffling among the spiders near the fire wall. It seemed they were trying to use the flames against one another.
The narrow gap should only allow one spider through at a time. If their limbs were scorched, the battle wasn't inside—it was outside.
With practiced ease, Phineas used his gloved left hand to levitate the carcass into his temporary storage chest.
While physically weaker than dragons, basilisks, or three-headed dogs, Acromantulas earned their five-star ranking through their reproductive power and collaborative attacks. Their real danger was in numbers and ambush, not raw strength.
The death of one spider stirred the others into frenzy.
Under Aragog's leadership, they'd refrained from eating humans. But Hagrid hadn't been around lately, and Phineas now reeked of blood and magic—a meal too tempting to ignore.
Still, they hesitated. As more fell, their courage waned, and many began to retreat.
Phineas had collected plenty. His storage chest was full. These creatures were huge—each the size of a small tank.
But the spiders weren't done.
Changing tactics, they began sending smaller Acromantulas—two or three at a time—through the gap.
This was bad. Smaller meant faster. More could slip through, demanding more magic to dispatch.
Phineas sighed. "That's enough."
He gestured sharply, causing the fire wall to close entirely.
Now sealed, the ring of flame held only a handful of spiders—ones he quickly eliminated.
He shook his head. The window of opportunity had passed. It was time to go.
After storing the last of the bodies, he vanished into the flames.
Moments later, he emerged in the tunnel behind Slytherin's statue—his secret back door.
He walked down the tunnel, and soon, Basque stirred. The basilisk could feel his steps. He could smell him too—along with the scent of fresh meat.
Phineas greeted the basilisk in Parseltongue, keeping him calm. A creature that could kill with a glance had to be handled with constant care.
Luckily, parseltongue'scommand still held sway over Basque. And the promise of food helped.
Phineas opened his chest and levitated an Acromantula corpse into the serpent's open mouth. Basque didn't lunge or swallow prematurely—he was cooperating.
Phineas smiled.
But it didn't last.
Despite the feast, Basque wasn't full.
No wonder. He hadn't eaten in fifty years—not since Riddle last opened the Chamber. Tom had cared little for his pet's well-being, and his mistake had led to a student's death and the sealing of the Chamber soon after.
The poor creature had starved in silence.
And even after tonight's hunt, the food was not enough.
Phineas knew returning to the spider colony was not an option. He hated those hairy, eight-legged monstrosities. Besides, the danger wasn't worth the risk.
If Basque were to be fed, he would have to leave the Chamber.
But then came the old problem: how?
The pipes led to the school—Dumbledore would surely detect the basilisk. If that happened, not only might Basque be destroyed, but Phineas's ability to speak Parseltongue—his connection to Slytherin—would be exposed.
He had no intention of revealing that secret. Not even to his allies.
Unless… he used the hidden tunnel behind the statue.
Phineas sighed and spoke gently. "Rest for now, Basque. I'll find a way to get you out—and when I do, you'll eat your fill."
The basilisk nodded, flicked its tongue, and slithered back into the darkness.
Phineas summoned Puff and instructed it to continue expanding the hidden passage. Then he turned and left the Chamber.
Tonight's mission had gone smoothly—more or less.
Outside, he reconnected with the twins, who informed him that Dumbledore had returned to Hogwarts. He'd arrived shortly after Harry and the others had entered the fourth-floor corridor—and had remained nearby ever since.
Phineas considered this carefully.
He had the inheritance. There was still time left in the night.
Should he pay a visit to the man without a nose?
The thought lingered—then he shook it off.
No. He was a Slytherin. Not a Gryffindor.
He would not throw himself into danger needlessly.