"Ben… what's he talking about?" Hermione whispered.
Ben kept his eyes on Tom, not daring to meet her gaze.
"The Diary, it's a dark object," he said. "I took it from Ginny after I saw Lucius Malfoy slip it into her cauldron. But then it disappeared from my room."
Tom's grin widened. "Yes, you were too guarded, too clever. So I found someone easier to reach. And she—" he motioned toward Cho's limp form, "—was perfect."
He knelt beside her with mock affection, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
"In love. Fighting with her best friend. Lonely. So eager to feel seen. She practically handed me the quill. I didn't even have to push... just listen. Just feed."
"Ben's fists curled, nails digging into his palms."
Tom's voice softened, sinister and sweet. "You should've heard the things she said about you," he murmured. "When she thought no one was listening. The ache, the jealousy, the longing. I soaked in every drop."
He looked up at Ben, eyes gleaming.
"Love is a sickness. A weakness. One I knew how to exploit. Every time you smiled at someone else, I twisted it into a blade—watched it sink a little deeper, watched her bleed."
"And I drank it all. Her pain. Her longing. Her jealousy. Sip by sip, I grew stronger."
He took Marianne's hand and gently brushed it against Cho's cheek.
"Until I was strong enough to take over," He smiled.
Ben's grip on the dagger trembled.
He knew Riddle was playing him—twisting guilt into a chain, buying time with every word.But damn it, it was working—Because Ben did feel guilty.
"But I couldn't quite leech enough to fully resurrect," Tom said smoothly. "So I was hoping you'd come. I just need one last push. One final choice."
"What choice?"
"You get to pick your favourite girl."
He grinned, slow and sharp.
"If you kill Marianne, I lose my shield—and you can strike me down with your shiny little soul-cutter." He grinned.
Then, came Marianne's voice, soft and almost teasing: "You wouldn't do that, would you, Benny? You're supposed to protect me, remember?"
Ben's grip on the dagger twitched. Her voice shouldn't have sounded like that—so light, so casual, like they were back on the pitch trading quips. Not here. Not now.
Tom chuckled, eyes gleaming. "She's in here somewhere. Watching. Listening. Just can't do anything about it. Bit tragic, really."
He turned to Cho. "And if you kill sweet little Cho over there… I lose the source of my strength." He made a pouty face. "But the poor thing would be so heartbroken."
Ben scoffed. "What if I choose neither?"
"Then I come back to life," Tom said lightly, "and they both die. Simple math."
"So come on—be a hero. Choose."
There was no choice. Not really. As long as the diary was intact, Tom would find a way. Kill Cho, and he'd drain Marianne dry. Kill Marianne, and the diary would keep feeding.
There was only one move left.
Ben's wand slid into his hand.
Hermione grabbed his arm. "Ben, don't—"
He finally looked at them. Really looked. Pale faces. Scared eyes. They had no idea what they were standing in front of. They shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have let them.
He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered—unsure if he meant it for them, for the girls on the ground, or for himself.
"It's not your fault," Hermione said firmly. "Don't you dare let him twist this."
Ben shook his head. "No. It is." His voice was steady, bitter. "I could've stopped it. I should've."
"Ben-" she said softly, not sure what to make of it.
Ben met her eyes. There was something fierce and quiet in his gaze. A kind of finality.
He turned to her, gaze sharp and soft all at once.
"You three should get out of here," he said.
Ron blinked. "What—no! We came all this way"
"I know," Ben said. "But this is not your fight."
"If Voldemort's trying to come back, it's everyone's fight!" Harry snapped.
Ben gave a small, almost sad smile. "You're brave, Potter. But bravery's not enough."
Then, softly, "Let me carry this one."
They didn't even see the spell. It shimmered faintly—like mist catching the light—and struck before they could react. Ron slumped. Hermione's eyes widened—then closed. Harry made it half a step forward, wand rising, but his knees gave out before he could speak.
A soft flash cushioned the floor. Another flick, and Ben moved them aside, out of harm's way.
A pause.
Then Riddle clapped, slowly and mockingly. "How touching. A noble little betrayal to protect your friends. But tell me—who's going to protect you?"
hisssssss.
It came from beneath the stone face—deep, ancient, hungry. Ben knew exactly what it was.
Riddle's voice dripped with amusement. "Choice hour's over. You're going to die—let's see if your rooster can save you this time."
The hiss echoed again, lower now, followed by the grinding shift of stone.
Ben nodded slightly. "You're right, Tom. Someone dies tonight."
He dropped to one knee—dagger slicing the air toward the diary—
But it snapped away at the last second, yanked straight into Marianne's hands.
"Ah-ah," Riddle said through her, waving it mockingly. "Nothing's ever that easy."
The statue of Salazar Slytherin hadn't moved, yet something massive slithered into view—coils sliding across the stone.
Ben didn't flinch. Eyes shut, he listened.
The problem wasn't the Basilisk—it was the absurd number of ways he could deal with it.
He could go full blindfolded hero and swing the bound sword around until it hit something scaly. Or down a Fortify Magic Resistance potion and some half-baked Concoction of Cursed-B-Gone brewed from troll fat, chicken feathers, and sheer audacity—and tank the venom and the cursed gaze like a true Dragonborn with a drinking problem.
Since the Basilisk's gaze was technically a curse—he could probably block it with a Greater Ward spell, if he was feeling brave or stupid.
And honestly? That all sounded like too much effort with zero guarantee it'd work. But hey, that was why he'd dragged Lockhart down here in the first place—to test a few of those the safe way, preferably from behind someone expendable and extremely blonde.
There was always the Dumbledore fan club method—shed a single, brave Gryffindor tear and hope a phoenix showed up with a loot box. But Ben had been down here too long, and he was so done playing Hogwarts: The Side Quest.
And did I mention roosters? That was unlikely to work a second time.
The scales rasped closer. One breath. Another—
Ben stepped aside just as the Basilisk lunged. Its jaws smashed into the stone where he'd knelt—or would have, if a swirling portal of black mist hadn't opened beneath it. The serpent vanished in one smooth, silent gulp.
Ben dusted his hands. "There. Filed under 'Later Problem.'"
-To be Continued...
Ben really said "kill the vibe, not the girls." Ten points to Ravenclaw for creative monster disposal. Lockhart? Still duelling his reflection.
Like the madness? Feed the author, not the basilisk — [Support me on P!treon/DreamyApe].