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HP:BSG - Chapter 699: The Serpent in the Church
🕑 Added 2025-11-18 11:30:04 +0000 UTCPassing through the collapsed cloister, the group entered the main chapel of the monastery.
The place had long since fallen into ruin.
The towering dome was split by a massive crack; shards of stained glass lay scattered across the floor; dusty pews leaned crookedly in uneven rows; the candelabras were rusted, their blackened branches streaked with hardened wax like dried tears.
The confessional’s wooden door was tightly shut. From within came intermittent sobbing — sounds that rose and fell, like the suppressed cries of someone in unbearable agony, or the low moans of a wounded beast — occasionally breaking into faint, incoherent murmurs.
Harry’s small body trembled violently. He stared fixedly at the confessional, unable to understand what kind of torment could make a person produce such terrifying sounds.
The scar-faced man threw the two children to the ground, then bowed deeply and said with forced respect:
“My Lord, the Dark Lord — we’ve brought Wade Grey and Harry Potter.”
Harry’s knees struck the stone floor hard, and the pain made his vision go black. But he bit his lip fiercely, refusing to make a sound.
Wade instinctively turned his head aside, and his eyes flicked toward the confessional — and his heart clenched tight.
The door seemed to have been pushed open just a crack. Inside, he could faintly make out a curled-up human figure, bound with heavy chains.
The air in the room was thick with the stench of blood. Shackles creaked softly — the sound of chains dragging, as if someone inside was struggling to move their body.
Suddenly, something shifted — a flicker of movement caught at the edge of Wade’s vision.
A blood-red eye appeared behind the door’s narrow gap, staring straight at him without blinking. In that eye, there was only agony and despair — looking into it felt like staring into an abyss.
Wade shuddered violently, and cold sweat broke out across his back. He tore his gaze away, his face went pale and heart hammered in his chest.
At that moment, a low creak of wood came from the front of the chapel.
Wade looked up — and saw a tall, pitch-black chair slowly turning to face them.
Coiled upon its backrest was a terrifying serpent.
Its body was as thick as a grown man’s thigh, over three meters long, its scales gleaming with a dark, oily gold sheen.
The triangular head rose high with its amber slit pupils staring coldly at the two children. The skin around its neck flared as it hissed, the forked tongue flickering in and out — “Sssssss…”
—A King Cobra!
Wade realized instantly.
He couldn’t remember exactly where he’d seen the nature documentary before, but he recognized the species.
In the natural world, venom was usually the weapon of small creatures or insects; large animals had little need for it, since their size alone was deadly enough.
But the king cobra was an exception — one of the rare large snakes whose venom was lethally potent. They could grow over five meters long, and a single bite could deliver enough toxin to kill twenty people.
Wade’s heart pounded faster. Then, a sudden thought struck him —
In this world, neither the size nor the venom of a king cobra made it the most fearsome of serpents.
Because here, in the wizarding world, there also existed the basilisk — a monstrously unnatural hybrid creature.
And that great serpent… would one day be slain by a twelve-year-old Harry Potter.
At that thought, a strange calm settled over Wade’s heart.
The tall-backed chair finished turning around.
Amid the coiled body of the king cobra sat a grotesque, half-human, half-serpent infant.
His entire skin was blood-red; his pupils were narrow slits like crimson threads; his flat, noseless face had two thin openings that flared slightly as he breathed. His neck was disturbingly long and flexible, and in his small, soft hand he held a slender black wand.
But despite that horrifying appearance, above his head floated an utterly ordinary name—
[Tom Riddle].
Wade’s breath caught. He lowered his gaze, and his small body trembled uncontrollably.
As he looked down, he also noticed something else—a man-tall, oval mirror suspended in midair before Voldemort. The surface of the mirror was a milky white haze, reflecting none of the chapel’s surroundings.
Beside him, Harry seemed slightly dazed. Perhaps he had been frightened beyond reason; now everything around him felt like a nightmare—unreal, distant. Even when he looked at that eerie, monstrous infant, his expression hardly changed.
The boy’s eyes occasionally darted toward the king cobra, and his face showed a mix of confusion and fascination.
“My Lord!”
Barty Crouch Jr.’s eyes burned with feverish devotion as he looked at the creature. Seemingly blind to how grotesque and repulsive the baby was, he blurted eagerly,
“I have finally brought you Harry Potter!”
Voldemort twirled his wand idly, and a rasping laugh slipped from his throat.
“Ah, I know. I’ve seen it all…”
He glanced toward the blank mirror beside him.
“You have done well, Barty. Very well.”
A sickly blush of joy spread over Barty’s pale cheeks; he looked ecstatic, like a child finally rewarded with candy.
The scar-faced man and the tattooed woman exchanged a glance. Barty caught it and shot them a defiant look in return, his chest swelling with giddy pride.
So what if you get to serve by his side? The one who truly delivered his greatest victory… is still me.
The two mercenaries turned their eyes away again, though their expressions carried something strange—something Barty, in his arrogance, mistook for jealousy.
“A pity,” Voldemort said lazily. “The broadcast was interrupted. Otherwise, we could now be watching Dumbledore and the others… flailing in panic.”
“My Lord!”
At the mention of that dreadful white wizard, Barty stiffened. “We should proceed with the ritual immediately! Otherwise, Dumbledore could arrive at any moment—”
“Do not fret.”
Voldemort raised his twisted little hand, and spoke with chilling confidence.
“This place is bound by a Fidelius Charm. Dumbledore will never find it.”
“That is… wonderful…”
Relief washed over Barty’s face. He even felt a pang of guilt for having doubted the Dark Lord’s caution and brilliance.
But then—Voldemort’s tone abruptly turned cold.
“However… Barty Crouch Jr.—do you know what that boy said in front of the camera?”
Barty froze, and color drained from his face. Instinctively, he looked toward Wade.
To ensure Harry reached the end first and claimed the Cup, Barty had naturally kept a small palm-sized streaming mirror of his own, so he could monitor the tournament’s progress at all times.
Which meant—when Wade and Harry had stood before the trophy—Barty had been hiding nearby, hearing every single word of their conversation.
His smile froze instantly. A violent tremor ran through his entire body, and cold sweat beaded across his forehead.
“M–My Lord!”
Barty stammered, scrambling to defend himself.
“That boy doesn’t know the whole truth! It’s true that I was once captured by Dumbledore, but I never said a word! And I escaped quickly afterward! That Ryan Smith—he’s the eye you planted at Ilvermorny—he helped me distract the wizards guarding me…”
“Don’t be nervous.”
Voldemort raised a hand to silence him, his voice soft but chilling. “Of course I believe in your loyalty, my dear child. However… to remove any lingering doubt, to prove your innocence, I trust you won’t object to a small test, will you?”
Without hesitation, Barty dropped to his knees and crawled forward.
“Of course not! I’m willing to accept any trial, my Lord! Whatever you require—I’ll do it!”
“Then…”
Voldemort lifted his wand. A cold glint flickered in his crimson eyes.
“Legilimens!”
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