"ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴠᴇʀʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ, (ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴇʟᴅᴏᴍ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ɪᴛ)."
― ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀᴏʟʟ, ᴀʟɪᴄᴇ'ꜱ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ / ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ-ɢʟᴀꜱꜱ
Chapter Nine: The Heir of Slytherin
Most people, it turned out, had decided to delay leaving until the holidays, which gave the Ministry of Magic the pretext for threatening to shut the school down as soon as term ended (just like last time, according to Madam Pomfrey).
Harry wasn't the only one to surmise that the Chamber of Secrets had something to do with the attacks. Students and professors alike tore through the castle, leaving no blade of grass nor stone unturned in their (fruitless) search.
Flamel, for his part, held fast and offered nothing.
"One death is like another," he would say, measuring out medicine and glowering at anyone lurking around the instruments (Mafalda or Hermione) or Flamel's ingredients stock (Ruby). The latter he seemed to find particularly annoying, especially because Ruby would usually question him endlessly on things that Harry would have thought mundane (like salt) or obvious (like iron), while Flamel gave increasingly frustrated and terse answers until it was possible to foist her off on the nearest adult.
When Harry questioned her about this strange behaviour, invariably, the answer would be "Nothing!" and a shrug.
Nothing clearly was not nothing. But who to ask? Greengrass (brunette, and Davis, blonde, thank you, Hermione) couldn't stand his presence for more than a minute, and he was keeping away from Nott for obvious reasons.
That left only Lavender... who was always crying. Harry hardly thought she had been paying rapt attention to... whatever Ruby was up to. Borrowing the Invisibility Cloak... sneaking around... breathing down Flamel's neck...
At least Snape was happy to see him.
"Potter... no, not you, the other one... do you call these slices even? Pathetic work, even for you..."
"I expect Malfoy's throwing a party right about now," said Ron as Snape walked off to chastise Neville.
"Are you joking? All the times I could have died so far and I didn't?"
Ron snorted; the knife slipped and missed his fingers by a hair. "Come on, he doesn't really want you to die; he'd lose his main conversation topic. Yeah, right now, he's probably telling anyone who will listen about how he always knew you were bad news."
"So... we're not talking about the Parselmouth thing?" asked Harry. "Or are you fine with it?"
Ron sighed, and seemed to be deciding whether or not to forgive him. "Always knew you were weird. As long as the whole school doesn't... look at the snake in that jar! I always thought it was dead."
"Me too," said Harry, locking eyes with the pit viper submerged in amber liquid. A shiver ran down his spine.
Don't speak to me, please don't.
The viper's head rose, and then, it began knocking its skull against the glass, making Snape's desk shake. He stared at it, hypnotised.
"Professor?" called Harry nervously.
"What is it, Potter?" came the disinterested reply.
"The jar―"
"The jar is perfectly fine, Potter!"
"No, it's not!" he insisted. The viper headbutted the glass once more, and it skidded to the front of the desk, wobbling on the edge. Harry dashed forward, arms outstretched, but he was too late; the jar fell to the floor and smashed right in front of him.
He stopped dead, gaping at the mess, and worse, the very-much-alive viper glowering at him and the entire class. Strangely, Harry found himself admiring the snake; larger than any of the others he'd seen around Hogwarts, gracefully-proportioned and slender with a large head, patterned like an expensive handbag, and yellow-eyed.
Somewhere behind him, a Slytherin girl shrieked.
Brunette, straight teeth... Greengrass, he thought amusedly.
Hermione's jaw had unhinged, hovering above the cauldron, frozen mid-stir. Ron put his finger to his lips, and shook his head once, slowly, but deliberately.
"Now look what you've done!" snapped Snape, striding towards the desk, and the class seemed to relax slightly. "This catastrophe I expect from Longbottom, but you especially, Potter, are supposed to―"
Greengrass screamed again, shrill enough to break glass. The snake had slithered onto the desk, displeased, and was angling for Snape, weaving back and forth like a cobra; fangs bared, eyes wide with rage.
Snape didn't seem to notice, engrossed as he was in chastising Harry.
This was no adder; the bite would certainly be nasty.
Leave it be, said a little voice. Let it bite him. He deserves it.
"Stop!"
The snake dropped, just as the adder had, and turned towards Harry, as if waiting for another order.
"Go," he said, the blood rushing to his head, as if the snake were a naughty dog, pointing at the door. "Go! Go home! And don't bite anyone else."
The snake gave him a steady, piercing glare, then slithered off, dry scales rustling on the stone floor.
The first thing Harry noticed was Snape's expression; eyebrows lifted in shock, awe, and was that... maybe a very grudging respect.
"Return to your seat, Mr. Potter," he said quietly, and without a hint of the usual spite.
Harry turned around, and wished he hadn't. Everyone was staring.
It was worse than walking to the Sorting Hat. He sat back down next to Ron, cleared his throat, and asked him to pass the knife so he could go back to slicing bat spleens in peace.
He looked up, just as the door to Snape's storeroom swung open, and out came Ruby, careful to stay out of Snape's line of sight as she tiptoed back into place next to Lavender, who didn't seem to notice much these days. Catching Harry's eye, she held out her hands slightly, as if to suggest that she hadn't taken anything, which Harry personally found unlikely.
So much for no one finding out about him being a Parselmouth.
It was all Snape's fault. Why hadn't he listened about the jar in the first place?
Unless, of course, he'd suspected Harry all along. It was weird that the snake decided to wake from his slumber and escape now.
And Snape, being the Potions Master, had the means with which to save himself from the venom should he be bitten.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
"He set me up, Ron," whispered Harry.
But why? Why me? How could he have suspected?
And what's Ruby trying to steal from the storeroom?
Hedwig came to meet him in the Great Hall, arriving in a cascade of feathers and elegant disdain. The seat on either side of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, was empty, unsurprisingly.
"It's a summons," he announced, rolling up the slip of paper that Hedwig had brought him. Harry sighed. "From Dumbledore."
At least he's a grown-up who doesn't want you dead and has the power to keep both of us safe.
"You should go," said Ron. "It's probably important."
Harry sighed, and put the paper in his pocket. "You realise people think I'm the Heir of Slytherin, don't you?"
Hermione snorted inelegantly, and Hedwig gave her a supercilious look.
"Sorry, Harry, it's just you, the Heir of Slytherin― sorry, it's ridiculous!"
"But it's what people think."
"Who cares if people think you're nipping down to the Chamber of Secrets every night? We know you're not, and Dumbledore certainly doesn't think―"
"And what about me, Ron? What about what I think, because I'm not so sure!"
"What do you mean, you're not sure?" asked Ron, frowning.
"I meant what I said," said Harry, glaring at the slip of paper. "I'd better go, anyway... best not to be late."
There was a commotion around the Slytherin table as he left.
"Why do you think the Dark Lord went after him in the first place?" asked Zabini loudly, to anyone who cared to listen. "He probably didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him... and after all, nobody knows how he survived the Killing Curse... of course it was Dark magic, Potter must be a natural at it."
The glare Harry shot him, mercifully, was enough to make him shut up.
Harry looked behind him; Hedwig was flying towards him, and, grateful for the moral support, he waited to let her land on his shoulder before continuing down the hallway and up the stairs to Dumbledore's office, muttering the password on the note to reveal the passage hidden behind the gargoyle.
The office, to his surprise, was empty. Fawkes was noticeably absent from his perch, and Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.
Sighing, Harry stepped closer to the open window, and pulled it shut to stop the draft of cold air.
"I have heard the rumours, Harry."
He nearly leapt out of his skin, turning around and locking eyes with Dumbledore himself.
Fawkes, too, had reappeared.
"I do not believe them," continued the Headmaster, folding his hands. "But still, I must wonder who is responsible. For the occurrences of fifty years past... I fault myself."
"We ought not to gossip, Professor," said Harry, finding his voice, but still somewhat self-conscious.
"Oh," said Dumbledore, with a grim twinkle in his eye, "we ought not to, but yet, we will. Will you sit, Harry?"
He did, and Dumbledore followed suit, more business-like than Harry had ever seen him.
"The monster will be back; I am sure of it. Harry, can you remember what you were doing or where you were before Anthony was attacked?"
"No sir. I can't remember... anything. I woke up, I went downstairs..." Harry screwed his eyes shut, straining to remember.
Dumbledore frowned, adjusting his half-moon spectacles.
"Then there may be foul play indeed... may I see your ring, Harry?"
Nodding, he offered Dumbledore his hand. Taking the hint, he did not remove it, only turning it side to side and tapping his wand to it, muttering something under his breath.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Harry said: "So, do you think I did it, Professor?"
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"I do not."
"But do you know who the Heir of Slytherin is?"
Dumbledore frowned once more, refusing to meet Harry's gaze.
"There are many who claim descendancy from the Founders of Hogwarts, to support their claims of a pure and noble bloodline."
"And who claims to be descended from Slytherin?"
"The Blacks, the Gaunts, the Selwyns, the Lestranges..."
None of these names were particularly surprising to Harry.
"...and the Greengrasses."
Dumbledore looked up, and saw Harry's confusion.
Greengrass... that girl in our year... Daphne... it can't be?
She's the Heir of Slytherin?
"There is only one thing that can substantiate it," said Dumbledore hurriedly. "Parseltongue ― the ability to speak to snakes."
Internally, Harry breathed a sigh of relief, not quite knowing why. Greengrass was terrified of the viper in Snape's class.
Perhaps it was simply a relief to know that the Heir wasn't that close to him.
He thought, inexplicably, of the hair Ron had found.
Could it be an Acromantula hair? Anthony hadn't been so sure of its origin.
"Although," Dumbledore began, "if the legend of the Chamber holds any truth to it, it is most natural for the monster to be serpentine. Perhaps... a basilisk."
"Is the monster really one of Hagrid's Acromantulas, sir?"
Dumbledore gave him a piercing look.
"That depends, Harry, on whether the Chamber of Secrets is pure mythos... but legends tend to have some truth to them."
"A basilisk, sir?"
"The king of serpents; a bloodthirsty monster of leviathan proportions, born from a serpent egg hatched in the shadow of a cockerel. Not only is its venom deadly within minutes..."
Harry thought of Anthony's severed arm, and the blackening, rotting skin where the venom had seared his flesh.
"...but its murderous stare kills instantly, although when reflected, it will only Petrify. Its only weakness is the scent of a weasel, which drives it away, killing the weasel, of course."
"So―" Harry gripped the edge of the desk, flooded with relief "―you'll send for weasels, then, sir?"
Dumbledore only smiled. "Hagrid is already hard at work."
Harry nodded, trying to process the sudden influx of information. Yes, he'd wanted answers; but answers were turning out to be overwhelming.
"And Anthony?" he asked, in a sudden burst. "What cures basilisk venom?"
"Phoenix tears."
Dumbledore seemed solemn, and yet Harry did not understand why. He glanced at Fawkes, but Dumbledore only shook his head.
"There is little that would make a phoenix weep. Water, as you may surmise, is wholly against its nature. When someone is truly vulnerable, truly at their lowest point... then, the phoenix will heal them."
"But it's life or death!" Harry protested.
"But yet, he does not despair; he is asleep. That is the tragedy."
Harry thought of the phoenix feather in his wand. Surely, if the bird's feather was used as a wand core, it might be possible that phoenix tears were sold, too? He relayed this to Dumbledore, who only shook his head.
"There is only one known domesticated phoenix, and he stands before you, Harry."
Fawkes dipped his head as if to acknowledge this, and Harry glared at him.
Cry! Just cry!
The bird seemed to burn brighter, his scarlet plumage glowing as heat rolled off of him in waves, his unnerving gaze locked onto Harry's eyes.
Involuntarily, he shuddered.
"So, is he just going to let Anthony die, sir?"
Because he was dying, slowly, fading away even as the Draught of Living Death held him locked in stasis.
"Harry, do not think that this is out of cruelty; Fawkes is incapable."
"So, are you just going to let Anthony die, sir?" asked Harry, standing up in a sudden rush of anger.
For a second, Dumbledore stared back at him, his gaze yet more strange and terrible than the phoenix's. And proportionally, it was no mere shudder that Harry felt.
He quaked; the room was airless as the headmaster studied him impassively, and Harry found that his stomach was clenching in terror. Even Fawkes seemed on edge.
I should calm down, thought Harry, looking down at the claw-like, spidery fingers gripping the desk, and realised with a horrible jolt that they were his.
No wonder Fawkes was so on edge. If water was incompatible with fire, shadows threatened its very existence.
With a sigh, he stepped back into his chair, and sunk deep into it, crossing his arms.
"Mmmm," was all Dumbledore said, regarding Harry as if he had never really seen him before. Harry, for his part, was not sure if he quite liked it.
"Is there really no other way to save Anthony?" he asked. "Then wake him up, let him be desperate then!"
"His parents are currently against it," said Dumbledore, and yet, he still seemed to be studying Harry. "They are, as they have good reason to be, uncertain that Fawkes will heal their son, and would prefer not to risk him dying in agony."
Dying in agony.
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"If there is nothing else you would like to ask me, you should return to your friends," he said heavily.
And, as Harry got up, he added: "I will speak to Professor McGonagall. For now, avoid crowds. I fear some students might... try to retaliate."
"So, stab it?" asked Ron.
Under Dumbledore's recommendations, they were nestled in a corner of the common room, far from prying eyes.
"No, you can't," said Hermione, the book Most Macabre Monstrosities balanced haphazardly in her lap. "Unless the weapon was made of something impervious to basilisk venom, like something made out of goblin-forged silver, the venom would run up the blade and kill you."
Harry leaned over to look at the drawing of a juvenile basilisk, hidden amongst a lavish bouquet placed on an equally opulent dining table; a small creature about four feet long, poison-green, with dragon-pupiled eyes and a white spot on its head, like a diadem. He didn't want to meet the full-grown version; that was for certain.
"Basilisk ashes can alchemically convert copper or silver into gold," said Harry, remembering something Flamel had said. "That'd be nice... if you could get a hold of that."
"Did you know that some of Slytherin's descendants were immune to snake venom?" said Hermione, still engrossed in her book. "Corvinus Gaunt, also known as the Raven, and Corvinus the Clever, who was a student at Hogwarts during the turn of the eighteenth century, used to throw dinner parties where he would poison guests with snake venom. To avoid suspicion, he would eat the food too, drinking from everyone's cup to 'prove' that the wine was pure, but since he was completely immune to even fatal doses of venom, Corvinus survived while all of his guests died painful deaths."
Corvinus, seated at the head of the table, watched Harry from the illuminated pages of the book, swirling his poisoned wine in a sardonic gesture. With his keen eyes, beak-like nose, and black clothing, Harry could tell how he acquired the name. In fact, he reminded Harry ever so slightly of Snape.
"Isn't that a bit pompous, calling yourself 'clever' as a nickname?" asked Ron.
"He didn't give it to himself, of course," sniffed Hermione; she seemed to have a grudgingly high opinion of him. "Ravens are birds that are one, associated with death, and two, too clever for their own good. Corvinus Gaunt died as a result of one of his own convoluted murder plots, and after he died, the Gaunt family became increasingly inbred and unimpressive, even though Corvinus gave massive amounts of money to Hogwarts and even gave architectural advice."
"And does Corvinus Gaunt have any descendants at Hogwarts?" asked Harry, fiddling with the ouroboros ring. His mind, again, went to Snape, who had been so incongruously furious at Madam Pince's death, who had been right there when Anthony was attacked and Ruby called for help. Who had had an inkling of Harry being a Parselmouth.
It can't be a coincidence, thought Harry. What if it's him? What if Snape's the Heir of Slytherin?
He had not been afraid of the pit viper in the least, after all.
Hermione thought for a minute, then shook her head.
"No," she said. "The last one was Madoc Gaunt, and he left in 1864. The line went extinct soon after."
Harry stared at the picture of the dinner party guests; someone else drew his eye.
A white-haired woman was sitting on the right-hand side of Corvinus and fanning herself with a large white peacock feather, with curls so stiff that they must have been set with gum arabic, rouged lips, drowning in jewellery, including a ring that was very familiar. She regarded Harry with a cool, ancient gaze that reminded him unnervingly of Flamel (who was, in fact, sitting in the very back). He held his hand up to the picture just to be sure... yes, it was indeed the ouroboros ring.
"Who's that?"
"Aretaphila Selwyn, Corvinus's married mistress. She was also three hundred years old at the time of this painting; it was her birthday party. She was incredibly skilled in mind magic, and..." Hermione leaned forward, squinting at the writing "...a Parselmouth... she could speak to snakes!"
And she's the owner of my ring, thought Harry.
"She's buried in Godric's Hollow!" Ron burst out. "I've heard about her, she's horrible!"
"Horrible how?"
"She's the inventor of the Imperius Curse," said Ron, turning green. "My dad told me about it. It's an Unforgivable."
"But what does it do?"
"I told you," said Ron, shuddering. "It's Unforgivable."
Hermione, it appeared, was taking notes on what to look up in the library. But Harry was sure he had heard that name before.
"Isn't that what all the Death Eaters said they were under?"
Ron paled; Harry could count every one of his freckles.
"Ron, what does it do?"
"I-It controls people!" stammered Ron, eyes wide. "They said You-Know-Who did it to them, put them under his spell..."
"...His thrall," Hermione finished, tapping a finger to her mouth. "Literally."
Harry instantly thought of something horrid. The existence of Legilimency was frightening enough... but the thought of it being a spell, something anyone could learn easily...
He lifted his hand, and, trembling, wondered if the command of his limbs was even his own.
"Don't worry," said Ron. "It's ― it's really hard to cast." He swallowed nervously. "That's why they said You-Know-Who did it, to his followers."
Harry nodded, feeling decidedly off-balance, and excused himself.
Lockhart's class.
Again.
Harry could think of nothing more infuriating. Somewhat predictably, today's lecture covered basilisks, and somewhat unpredictably, since Lockhart had never encountered a basilisk and had little to show off about, the lecture was actually... educational.
"Today―" Lockhart summoned his slides with a flourish, and set the projector to crank with a wave of his wand "― we discuss ― the fearsome ― the terrible ― the very king of serpents ― the basilisk! Now, who can tell me from whence basilisks first arose ― ah, Miss Granger?"
Hermione sat up further in her seat, beaming and near-enough sparkling with excitement.
"Cyrene, sir. It was an ancient Greek and Roman city, but it's in Libya, as the oracle of Delphi, the Pythia, commanded."
"Five points to Gryffindor ― and who ―" Anticipating the question, Hermione's hand was had already shot up. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Herpo the Foul was the first to create basilisks, sir."
Ron nudged Harry. "She's such a know-it-all. And how do you spell Cyrene ― never mind, it's on the slide."
"Its gaze is lethal," Lockhart continued, "and so is its venom."
Harry realised that it matched up with Dumbledore's description, and with a horrible jolt, that the blackening carpet made sense as well.
"But how is a basilisk created, sir?" asked Justin Finch-Fletchley, leaning over his desk. "We―" he blushed "―I mean, Muggles, have things like selective breeding for plants, and domestic animals, you see. But I don't understand... how did Herpo create basilisks?"
Lockhart drew himself up to his full height.
"The process," he said grandly, "is not suitable for developing minds, Mr. Finch-Fletchley."
Harry, who knew very well, hid his smile.
"For best reference," said Lockhart, "I suggest you consult Pliny the Elder's Natural History, available of course at the Hogwarts library― oh, dear silly me," he added, looking around in over-affected embarrassment at his blunder. "Well here, if you'll allow me to read―"
Anything, thought Harry, not written by Lockhart or describing his exploits, even if the delivery was pompous, was welcome.
"...the serpent called the basilisk. It is produced in the province of Cyrene, being not more than twelve fingers in length."
That can't be, thought Harry. Whatever attacked Anthony was large enough to make the ground shake.
"It has a white spot on the head, strongly resembling a sort of a diadem. When it hisses, all the other serpents fly from it: and it does not advance its body, like the others, by a succession of folds, but moves along upright and erect upon the middle. It destroys all shrubs, not only by its contact, but those even that it has breathed upon; it burns up all the grass, too, and breaks the stones, so tremendous is its noxious influence."
Lockhart, having completed his dramatic reading, looking around, beaming when the class grudgingly clapped.
"Thank you, thank you, you all are really far too kind..." He sighed. "I had thought of going into the arts ― heavens no, Miss Bones, don't worry yourself, not the Dark Arts, never fear! I meant, of course, the dramatic arts."
Here, he gave a pained smile.
"But nevertheless, I found my true calling, to rescue others with my considerable skills, to be a humanitarian, so to speak... and so will you all, I am sure."
Harry sat up, and stared at the slide projected onto the far wall; it depicted a drawing like those on the sides of ancient Greek urns, of a robed wizard carrying a snake-headed staff, accompanied by an enormous, fanged serpent, whose coils, folded many times over, encompassed the entire tableau.
"I wouldn't call that twelve fingers long," Ron whispered to Harry.
Harry was about to answer, but Lockhart, who had evidently heard, spoke over him.
"Excellent comment, er, Mr. Weasley, brilliant, just brilliant..." he went on, voice wavering as he gestured at the slide. "I was just going to address that, of course. Herpo's basilisk,, you see... it lived to be almost nine hundred years old."
"And snakes grow all their lives!" Hermione interrupted. "I'm sorry, it just suddenly made sense, Professor."
Something, however, did not line up. If this basilisk was nearly a full millenium old before it reached that size... why depict Herpo with it when he had lived at the time of his creation?
Harry did something he had never done in Lockhart's class before; he raised his hand.
"And how long did Herpo live, Professor?"
Lockhart blinked rapidly, seemingly taken aback. For once in his life, he seemed distinctly nervous.
"Well ― well ― he, er ― well ― let me get back to you on that, Harry, very complicated question ― here, I'll make a note, answer later ― w-why don't you have class off early, enjoy the, the, er, snow ― C-C-Class is dismissed!"
"He's turned into Quirrell!" whispered Ron as they scrambled for the door.
Herpo the Foul, Herpo the Foul... I can't remember!
"Who's Herpo the Foul, Hermione?" asked Harry.
She turned towards him and Ron, clutching her bookbag. She hadn't been sleeping well after that day in the library; the skin under her eyes was dark and her face looked hollow.
" An infamous Dark wizard who lived in Ancient Greece," she said quietly. "Just like Professor Lockhart said, he created the first basilisk―"
"― And he was a Parselmouth," Ron interrupted. At Hermione's glare, he added: "Sorry, he's on a Chocolate Frog Card. Want to see?"
Harry shrugged, and Ron passed him the card. He turned it over, lingering on the sketch of Herpo, and skimming the brief description below it. A particular sentence caught his eye.
As the earliest known Parselmouth, it is believed that all born with the trait are descendants of Herpo the Foul.
Herpo could be his great-great-great-something? Harry shuddered at the thought.
He passed the card back to Ron.
"Why'd Lockhart start acting so weird when I asked how Herpo got so old?"
"I don't know," said Ron, staring at his shoes determindedly.
"Maybe he had a Philosopher's Stone," Hermione suggested. "But he couldn't've, Flamel was the first... but how, then?"
"Look," said Ron, looking decidedly ill. "There's stuff we're not supposed to know about, some stuff we're not supposed to do."
Hermione gave him a funny look, and he continued: "You two don't really want to live until nine-hundred, do you?"
Harry snorted, but Hermione looked quite wistful.
"Oh, think of all the books you could read, how much progress you'd see! Like flying cars!" She sighed. "But it would be boring, I suppose, without anyone to spend all that time with, and horrible to watch everyone you love die."
Basilisks... Herpo the Foul... Parseltongue... the Heir of Slytherin... Salazar himself... and me? Where do I fit into this?
There was a vast, sticky spiderweb of lies and confusion, and Harry felt like a fly. Wrapped up in rope stronger than steel of the same weight, and waiting for the spider to find him.
At least the weasels had just arrived.
Notes:
I'm using something closer to the classical (non-HP) definition of a basilisk (probably inspired by a king cobra), which has a single weakness = the scent of a weasel (probably inspired by a mongoose). The crowing of a rooster is usually fatal to a cockatrice.