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The time for talking came to an end, and I got rid of the last piece of clothing in time. It was at that moment that the ritual was activated - I had intentionally created it to be fully automated in case I was incapacitated at that moment. I did it as a precaution, so to speak.

The red-blooded drawing began to glow, and flashes of varying brightness and saturation raced through it from side to side. The concentration of magic in the pattern was growing, and I could feel it in every fiber of my being because some of it was taking from me, and some of it was draining the basilisk's body and heart. The sacrifice of the flesh is the reason why no one likes the masters who work with it. Also, if this flesh is something valuable directly for the master, has some sacred meaning, then you can get the ocean of magic by this sacrifice and not puff, producing it yourself.

When I clearly began to feel the body's urges to transform, a translucent energy bowl like a half-sphere of Protego appeared beneath me - in it would be what was left of me.

Sharp pain and then darkness. How long have I been here? An hour? A year?

Again the pain, and with it came the sensation of being very large, but extremely... Low density? A brief moment, and it was as if I was squeezed, compressed, shaped. My hearing and sense of smell returned, and light flashed in my eyes, starting to disappear at once. The stone floor felt pleasantly cold on my bare feet. The body felt quite normal, and the eyes quickly adapted to the darkness of the Chamber of Secrets. Step... Not very dexterous - I almost lost my equilibrium, but I quickly caught my balance and took the second step with much more confidence. I couldn't help but run my hands along my head, parodying the cinematic rebirth of one Dark Lord. Hmm, even the hair is there, the same touch as before. With a wave of my hand, I summoned my robe and put it on, and with the other hand, I summoned my wand and looked around.

Hermione was standing nearby, but she looked disheveled and crimson.

"Did something happen?" I asked, approaching her.

"Other than your death, the disintegration into bloody soup, and resurrection from a cloud of black and red smoke?"

"Did it look like that?"

"That's not what matters!" she burst out. "Here, look!"

The girl pointed a little to the side with her hand. When I turned my gaze to the indicated spot, I could hardly refrain from a series of coarse swear words. A little further away on the floor were none other than Ron and Harry, securely bound by Incarcero and clearly gagged by Silencio, judging by their moving mouths. The boys were under a strong impression, and the invisible cloak was lying beside them.

"And what to do with them?" asked Hermione dejectedly.

"What a surprise..."

<Ha-ha-ha!> a woman's tinkling laughter echoed in my head, driving me into a wild stupor. Who the hell is that laughing in my head?!

<What a funny boy, ha-ha-ha,> the woman continued to laugh, which made both my eyes twitch.

<How to break my diadem, he can do that...>

What? What kind of joke is that? How did this relic of the past end up in my head?

"Max! Are you even here?"

I looked at Hermione, at the ceiling above my head, at the guys, at Hermione again, at the burned out ritual diagram and the remaining third of the basilisk carcass not claimed by the ritual. World! What evil thing have I done to you!

"Max!" Hermione rubbed the sleeve of my robe.

"Shit... I hate Horcruxes..."

The dimly lit hall of the gloomy Slytherin Chamber of Secrets, as well as the cold of the dungeons, were not conducive to long and complicated thinking exertions. Neither did the two bewildered human larvae. Ron and Harry, tightly bound by the Incarcero spell, are actively wriggling on the floor. Nor was the woman's voice in my head a good source of reflection. I was just tired of the whole thing. I headed for the pile of clothes I'd piled outside the ritual pattern etched into the stone floor. historical

"Max!" Hermione called out to me. "What do we do?"

"I don't know yet. Personally, I'm going to get dressed now."

Hermione looked away this time. Curiously enough, I hadn't taken off the Blacks' ring, and it was still on my finger. Magic, Max! The scars were still there, but they were less visible - not that the ritual had helped. Surely there must be some level of influence on my body, my soul, or something like that that I don't yet know or understand.

<Of course there is,> came the woman's voice in my head again, which I decided to ignore.

<Funny boy.>

I adjusted the edges of my winter robe and swiped my wand in a wide arc, pumping more magic into the Reparo, removing any trace of the ritual - not wanting to waste precious psychic resources on wordless and non-verbal witchcraft at all right now. The drawing in the stone was literally overgrown like a wound, and I walked toward the frozen boys. That discouragement was no longer read in their gaze, but a certain hostility and wariness were present in abundance.