"The Parseltongue" and the Basilisk (Part Four)

Carmichael crouched in a corner of the dark corridor, his back against the cold stone wall. His pale gray eyes were unfocused, but his magical senses spread from the edge of the opening like a net caught by the wind, covering the entire second floor. He could feel the water flowing through the pipes, the slow pulse of ancient magical patterns within the walls, and the faint tremor of the Protective Charms Dumbledore had reinforced around the castle as the night wind brushed against them.

When his senses swept over those Protective Charms, they moved like a swallow skimming the water, its wingtips barely touching the ripples without dipping beneath the surface. He did not dare dip beneath it.

Those Protective Charms were not meant to stop him, but if he triggered one, he would have no way to explain why he was in the Abandoned Bathroom on the second floor at two in the morning.

His fingers stopped tapping against his knee. The blank space beneath the opening was still there. His magic flowed down into it like water poured into a bottomless cup. No echo, no reflection, no response of any kind.

That sense of "nonexistence" had grown stronger. At the edge of the opening, even his magic seemed to hesitate, like someone who had glanced over a cliff and found their legs too weak to take another step.

He did not withdraw his magic. Lord Madara had told him to watch, so he would watch. Even if that blank space swallowed his magic, he would keep pouring it in until Lord Madara said, "Enough."

The badge on his chest burned again. Not with a cold sting, but with heat, as though someone had set the silver Ouroboros ablaze. Flames seemed to leap from the badge, through his