92 Chapter 92: Soul Stitching

"No," Professor Sherlock Forester shook his head steadfastly, "you're not."

Tom Riddle's head snapped down, his eyes shooting malignant flames at the DADA professor.

"I'm not what?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the icy stone chamber.

"You are a fragment of the real Tom Riddle, or more accurately, a fraction of his soul," a sense of enlightenment gradually etched itself onto Sherlock's face, as if a thousand piece puzzle was finally falling into its rightful places, "Voldemort split his own soul by the sheer force of some kind of evil spell. A piece of his fragmented soul was embedded into his Hogwarts diary, giving birth to you."

His words hung in the air as the venom in Tom's eyes was overshadowed by a strange mix of confusion and fear, his aura shifting subtly, even as he clenched his fists tighter.

"You think you're so clever don't you, Professor Forester? Quite cunning. If only you had been a professor when I was attending Hogwarts, my actions would have probably been seen through by you from the very start," he acknowledged, his words dripping with bitterness.

"Yet, for all your insight, you're still useless in the face of the great Lord Voldemort. You are on the brink of death already! You couldn't even defeat a mere fragment of me."

As Tom spoke, the horrifying basilisk, which had been nursing its wounds from their previous encounter, was reluctantly rousing from its tormented slumber.

It was in a pitiful state, dark venomous blood oozing from a gaping wound on its lower jaw, but even such a debilitating injury didn't diminish the menace it radiated. With its razor-sharp focus, the basilisk started hunting for Sherlock's scent.

Even with the basilisk geared for attack, Sherlock remained utterly unfazed, completely focused on Tom.

"You finally admit it. You're not just a remnant of Voldemort's past. You are Voldemort! You carry a fragment of his soul!"

"Correct! You're not wrong," Tom agreed graciously, confident in his belief that no one would survive to spread what was happening here.

"I am him, he is me. We hail from the same soul!"

A radiant smile blossomed across Sherlock's face, lighting up the gloomy atmosphere. Harry and Ron stood stock-still, barely noticing the basilisk. They had been watching Sherlock from the sidelines and were completely taken aback. They had never seen him smile so genuinely, with such pure joy. His joy seemed to spread a warm light, brighter than the torches around the room.

"I get it now," he whispered softly.

Slowly, he reached out his hand, causing Tom to flinch back visibly. His fingers passed through Tom's almost ghost-like form, causing the air to shift around them. Tom began to squirm.

"What are you doing, Forester?" he hissed.

Sherlock remained silent, a spell erupting from his lips. A dull, grey light engulfed Tom and Sherlock's hand, making Tom feel an external force manipulating him, molding him into a shape reminiscent of a slender thread. He felt like his very soul was being picked apart and yet, he could do nothing to resist it.

His confidence was replaced with terror. "What have you done to me! Stop! How dare you! Do you even know what you're doing?"

Despite the desperate screams, Sherlock didn't flinch, not even for the briefest moment. The grey light continued to consume Tom, until he was a formless point of light. A shrill scream echoed as he was forced into nothingness.

Sherlock could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he continued forming incantations. A burning sensation pricked Sherlock as the scar on his left arm signified his strength. Yet, he didn't stop. He used the soul restoration spell he learned from his mother's spell book. The spell transformed Tom's soul fragment into its purist form - a soul entity. He morphed it into a thin thread before starting to stitch his torn soul.

While Sherlock was engaged in the spiritual confrontation with Tom, the basilisk was preparing for another round with Sherlock. Sniffing around the chamber, the basilisk continued its hunt, desperate for a kill.

Harry, finding the Sorting Hat unresponsive, simply put it on Neville's head. He then yelled at Ron, "We must distract the Basilisk! We need to buy Professor Forester time!"

Ron pulled out his wand, still patched up with Spellotape from their previous encounter with Malfoy. It had been connected by a weakening thread but now even that had ripped, making it useless. Tossing aside his broken wand, Ron picked up the Neville's wand which Voldemort had dropped. With their wands at the ready, they hoped to distract the massive serpent from its prime target.

Meanwhile, Fawkes, the phoenix, had finally emerged from its stupor. It started flying, launching itself at the basilisk, aiming to blind the monster farther.

But the giant serpent was proving to be an even fiercer adversary. The absence of sight and sound weakened its prowess but pushed it to fight harder. In the ensuing struggle, Ron was knocked unconscious by the basilisk's mighty tail slamming him against a cold wall causing Harry to yell out, "Ron!"

Meanwhile, Neville sat paralyzed, watching the mayhem unleash around him. Finally finding the much-needed strength from within, he pleaded to the Sorting Hat to let him help his friends, "I want to help them! Please, let me help them!"

These words echoed silently in his mind as, to his amazement, the hat seemed to respond, Neville suddenly felt a heavy stiff object hit his head, almost making him pass out. He tried to take off the hat and felt a long, hard object had appeared within the hat.

Pulling it out he realized - it was a magnificent sword!

"Thank you!" Gratitude welled up in Neville's heart as he thanked, albeit unsure of who he was actually talking to. Neville rose, clutching the sword. With all his might, he scrambled to his feet, heading courageously towards the Basilisk.

He lifted the sword high above his head and staggered towards the Basilisk's massive body before finally plunging it deep into its flesh! A deafening roar echoed in the chamber as the basilisk thrashed out in pain, flinging Neville away.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's transformation of Tom's soul fragment had been successful. He felt an unprecedented sense of formidability, as if he could employ his intentions to make reality morph into his imagination!

With newfound energy emanating from within his soul, he turned to focus to Harry, Ron and Neville. His eyes twinkled faintly in a golden hue, looking at the Basilisk still struggling desperately. With a mere thought, he transformed the broken furniture in the room into countless long spears, all hovering ominously in the air. Sherlock simply raised his hand lightly. Without an incantation, without waving a wand, without any casting gesture. Just a thought was all it took.

With another thought, each of these deadly spears plunged into the basilisk, ripping its flesh apart and bringing an end to the terrifying creature.