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The pipe was bloody enormous.
Harry had expected something resembling the normal plumbing at Hogwarts—cramped, damp, and generally unpleasant. What he got instead was a tunnel that could have comfortably housed a dragon. The landing hadn't been particularly graceful—more of a controlled tumble that left him with bruised ribs and Itisa looking distinctly unimpressed with his coordination.
"Well," Harry muttered, brushing dust off his robes, "at least we're not dead. Yet."
Itisa padded ahead with that particular feline confidence that suggested she knew exactly where they were going, even if Harry didn't. Her golden eyes reflected the dim light filtering down from somewhere far above.
Smart girl. She knows we're heading into dangerous territory.
Harry pulled out Newt Scamander's magizoologist staff, the carved wood immediately beginning to emit a soft, pulsing glow. Not the gentle warmth he'd grown accustomed to when detecting lesser magical creatures around the castle. This was intense, almost urgent, like the staff itself was trying to warn him about something massive and ancient lurking ahead.
"Brilliant," he said under his breath.
They walked deeper into the tunnel, and that's when Harry saw them.
Sheets of silvery material hung from the walls like grotesque tapestries, some pieces easily fifteen feet long. Harry's breath caught in his throat as his mind processed what he was looking at.
Basilisk skin. Decades worth of shed basilisk skin.
"Merlin's saggy left—" Harry cut himself off, remembering Andromeda's lectures about appropriate language. But honestly, what else was he supposed to say?
His business instincts kicked in immediately, calculating possibilities faster than he could consciously think them through. Each piece on these walls was worth more than most wizards earned in a year.
And there's enough here to make hundreds of talismans.
Harry approached one of the smaller sheets hanging within reach, examining it with the sort of reverence usually reserved for handling priceless artifacts. The skin was incredibly thin but felt strong as dragonhide, with a slight iridescent quality that suggested powerful magical properties. This wasn't just a solution to his talisman crisis—this was the solution.
"Itisa," Harry whispered, carefully detaching a manageable section of the skin, "I think we just solved our Italian Ministry problem."
His companion turned to look at him, her form seeming to flicker between the small black cat she appeared to be and something much larger. For just a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of crimson fur and muscles built for killing, before the illusion reasserted itself.
Right. Focus, Potter. Ancient monster first, international magical commerce second.
Harry folded the basilisk skin carefully and tucked it into his robes, making a mental note of the location. If he survived whatever was waiting ahead, he'd definitely be coming back here with proper collection equipment. And possibly a cart.
The tunnel began to widen as they continued forward, the ancient stones giving way to carved walls covered in serpentine designs that seemed to writhe in the staff's pulsing light. The air grew colder.
Then the tunnel opened into a vast chamber that made Harry's jaw drop.
"Sweet Salazar's serpents," he breathed, staring upward at towering stone columns carved to resemble coiled snakes. The chamber stretched away into darkness, its ceiling lost in shadows that Harry's staff couldn't penetrate. And at the far end, dominating the space like some ancient god of serpents, was the massive carved face of Salazar Slytherin himself.
The founder's stone features were sharp and aristocratic, with eyes that seemed to follow Harry's movement through the chamber. The carving was so realistic Harry half-expected it to speak, to demand an explanation for his presence in this sacred space.
Harry looked down, and his heart nearly stopped.
Ginny Weasley lay motionless on the ancient stone floor, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her red hair spread around her head like spilled blood, and her chest barely rose and fell with each shallow breath. Beside her lay a black leather diary.
"Ginny!" Harry dropped to his knees beside her, checking for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Too weak. "Come on, wake up."
That's when he noticed they weren't alone.
A figure stood near the far wall, translucent but gaining solidity by the moment. Tall, handsome, with dark hair perfectly styled despite being a bloody ghost. He wore a Hogwarts uniform that was decades out of date—1940s, if Harry had to guess. The boy looked perhaps sixteen, with the sort of prefect's badge that indicated both academic excellence and social standing.
But it was the wound on his shoulder that made Harry's blood run cold.
Three distinct puncture marks, partially healed but still visible through the translucent form. Exactly where Itisa had bitten Professor Quirrell last year when the man had revealed Voldemort clinging to the back of his skull.
Interesting. Very interesting.
"Ah, you must be Harry Potter," the ghost said, his voice carrying the refined accent of old pureblood families. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. Though I must say, I'm impressed you found this place. Not many could have opened the entrance."
Harry rose slowly, keeping himself between the ghost and Ginny. "And you are?"
"Tom Riddle," the figure replied with a slight bow that managed to be both polite and mocking. "Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. Though I suppose my greatest achievement was solving the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago."
"Right," Harry said dryly. "Solved it by pinning the blame on Hagrid, you mean. Very thorough investigative work there, Tom."
Tom's expression flickered with something that might have been annoyance. "Hagrid was keeping a dangerous creature. The evidence was quite compelling."
"The evidence was complete rubbish, and you know it." Harry's voice carried the sharp edge he'd learned from Professor Snape. "Acromantulas don't petrify people. They eat them. Messily. But I suppose accuracy wasn't your primary concern."
"You're quite right, of course." Tom smiled, and there was something unsettling about the expression. "I needed a scapegoat, and Hagrid was... convenient. Just as young Ginny here has been convenient."
Harry glanced down at the unconscious girl, his jaw tightening. "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing she didn't do to herself, in a way." Tom began pacing, his form becoming more solid with each step. "She wrote in my diary, you see. Poured her heart out, shared her secrets, her fears, her hopes. And with each entry, she gave me a little more of herself."
The diary. Of course, it was the bloody diary.
"You've been feeding off her," Harry said, the pieces clicking into place. "That's how you're becoming solid again. You're draining her life force."
"Such a crude way to put it." Tom looked genuinely offended. "I prefer to think of it as... sharing. She gave me her vitality, her magical energy, and in return, I gave her friendship. Someone who understood her, who listened to her problems."
"Someone who manipulated an eleven-year-old girl into opening the Chamber of Secrets and nearly getting half the school petrified." Harry's voice was flat with disgust. "Real noble of you, Tom."
"I did what was necessary." Tom's mask of civility slipped slightly. "The blood traitors and Mudbloods needed to be reminded of their place. Slytherin's vision—"
"Slytherin's vision didn't involve possessing children through cursed diaries," Harry cut him off. "That wound on your shoulder—where did you get it?"
Tom's hand moved unconsciously to the bite marks, his expression becoming genuinely confused. "I... it's strange. Why would I have this wound?"
So he does not know how he got that wound.
Harry filed that information away for later consideration. "Right. So about this diary—what exactly is it? Because it's clearly not just a journal if it can drain someone's life force and create ghostly prefects from the 1940s."
"It's complicated," Tom said evasively. "A preservation of memory, you might say. A way of ensuring that certain knowledge, certain aspects of a person, don't die with the body."
"That's a lot of words to avoid giving me a straight answer." Harry glared at him.
Tom studied him with those dark eyes, and Harry felt like he was being evaluated. "You're not what I expected, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The child who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort when he was barely more than a baby."
Why would a student from the 1940s care so much about events that happened in 1981?
"Most people don't expect much from twelve-year-olds," Harry replied carefully. "Though I have to say, for someone who died fifty years ago, you seem awfully interested in recent events. Most ghosts are more focused on their own time period."
"Recent events?" Tom laughed, and the sound echoed strangely in the vast chamber. "My dear boy, I'm interested in you. The child who survived the Killing Curse, who somehow destroyed the most powerful Dark Lord in a century. How did you do it? What made you so special?"
Harry's suspicion deepened. Something about Tom's interest felt personal, almost obsessive. "Why do you care? What's Voldemort to you?"
"Everything," Tom said softly.
Harry stared at Tom Riddle's cold smile and felt the final piece of the puzzle click into place. The shoulder wound. The obsession with Voldemort. The way Tom spoke about the Dark Lord like he knew him personally.
Because he did know him personally.
"You want to know how I defeated Voldemort?" Harry said quietly. "Because you are weak."
Tom's expression shifted from smug confidence to sharp interest. "Weak? That's an interesting assessment."
"Not an assessment. A fact." Harry's voice carried the absolute certainty that came with Slytherin cunning finally seeing through a particularly elaborate deception. "You're not really Tom Riddle, are you? Or rather, you are, but you're also someone else. Someone who got very upset when a one-year-old managed to destroy his body."
Tom studied Harry for a long moment, then began to laugh. It started as a chuckle and built into genuine amusement, echoing off the ancient stones of the chamber.
"Brilliant," Tom said, applauding slowly. "Absolutely brilliant. I knew there was a reason the Sorting Hat placed you in Slytherin. That kind of deductive reasoning, that willingness to see past the obvious... yes, Harry Potter, you are definitely one of us."
Tom raised his hand, and letters began appearing on the chamber wall in burning gold: TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.
Harry watched as the letters began to move and rearrange themselves, shifting position until they spelled out something entirely different: I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.
"An anagram. But what is wrong with your real name? What's wrong with Tom Riddle?"
"Tom Riddle was a half-blood orphan with a Muggle father," Tom replied, his form becoming more solid as his true nature was revealed. "Lord Voldemort is something far greater. Something immortal."
"Something that got defeated by a baby," Harry pointed out.
Tom's expression darkened. "A temporary setback. But here we are, Harry, face to face at last. And I must say, I'm pleased to see you were sorted into Slytherin. It proves what I've always believed—that you and I are not so different."
Harry felt something cold and furious rise in his chest. "Not so different? You think we're similar because we're both in Slytherin?"
"Ambitious, cunning, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve our goals," Tom said, gesturing around the chamber. "You came here alone, didn't you? Didn't wait for the adults, didn't follow their rules. You saw what needed to be done and you did it. That's pure Slytherin thinking."
"You're right. I am ambitious. I am cunning. And I am willing to do whatever it takes to achieve my goals. But that's where the similarities end, because you have absolutely no idea what it means to be a Slytherin."
Harry took a step forward, his green eyes blazing with anger. "Salazar Slytherin built this school alongside three other founders. He worked with them, learned from them, contributed to something greater than himself. Yes, he disagreed with them about blood purity, but he was still part of something bigger."
"Your point?" Tom asked.
"My point is that real Slytherins understand that individual brilliance means nothing without purpose, without something worth protecting. We're ambitious, but not just for ourselves. We're cunning, but we use that cunning to build rather than destroy. We're willing to do whatever it takes, but we know the difference between necessary sacrifice and pointless cruelty."
Harry's voice grew stronger, echoing in the vast chamber. "You? You're not Slytherin's heir. You're a parasite. A pathetic half-blood who was so ashamed of his heritage that he had to use a different name. You've spent decades hiding in diaries and possessing children because you're too weak to face the world as yourself."
Tom's face contorted with rage. "How dare you—"
"I dare because I'm actually a Slytherin," Harry cut him off. "And you're nothing but a stain on our history, and just like every stain, you will fade away."
"I will not fade away!" Tom snarled, his form blazing brighter with fury. "I am immortal! I have conquered death itself! I will return to my full strength, and when I do, I will show you what real power looks like!"
"Will you?" Harry's voice was ice-cold. "Because from where I'm standing, you look pretty faded already. What are you now, Tom? A memory? A ghost? A echo of someone who used to matter?"
"I am here!" Tom screamed. "I am still here, while your precious parents are nothing but bones in the ground! They died because they were weak, just like everyone who opposes me dies!"
The mention of his parents sent a spike of rage through Harry. "My parents died protecting something they loved. You're dying because you never learned what that meant."
Harry's hand moved to his wand in one smooth motion. "But you're right about one thing, Tom. This ends here."
"Bombarda!" Harry shouted, the spell Nymphadora had taught him in secret blazing from his wand toward the diary.
The spell struck the black leather cover and... did absolutely nothing. The diary didn't even shift from the impact, and Tom started laughing, his laughter echoing throughout the entire chamber, reaching the roof and echoing back down.
Tom's laughter died away, replaced by something far more sinister.
"I think it's time for you to sleep, Harry Potter," he said softly.
Then Tom began to speak in Parseltongue, and Harry's blood turned to ice.
"Awaken, my servant. Come to your master's call. The enemy stands before us—destroy him."
Harry slammed his eyes shut so hard his face cramped, just as something massive crashed into the chamber. The sound was like a avalanche of muscle and scales hitting ancient stone, reverberating through the vast space with enough force to make dust rain from the ceiling.
Sweet Salazar, that thing is enormous.
But then Harry heard something else—a sound that made his heart leap with relief. The distinctive growl of a Nundu dropping all pretense of being harmless.
Itisa was transforming.
The air filled with the sound of shifting bone and muscle, magical energy crackling as sixty pounds of disguised housecat became something considerably more dangerous. Harry could hear her paws hitting the stone—not the soft pads of a domestic cat, but the heavy impact of a predator double the size of a lion.
"What is that creature?" Tom's voice had lost its smug confidence, replaced by genuine surprise.
"That," Harry said, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice despite their desperate situation, "is Itisa. You might have your basilisk, Tom, but I've got her. So, I am safe."
Tom stared at the Nundu with something approaching respect. "A Nundu. How... unexpected. Though even the most dangerous land predator cannot stand against the King of Serpents."
"We'll see about that," Harry replied.
Tom's expression hardened, and he turned toward the basilisk, speaking in rapid Parseltongue. "Kill the boy! Now! Destroy him!"
But Harry was already responding, his own voice joining the conversation in the ancient serpent tongue. "Wait! Don't listen to him! He's using you, just like he used the girl!"
The basilisk's massive head turned slightly.
"The boy speaks our tongue," the basilisk hissed, her voice ancient and female. "How curious. But the master commands, and I must obey."
"He's not your master!" Harry shot back. "He's a parasite hiding in a diary! You're a thousand years old—you remember when this chamber was built! Did Salazar Slytherin treat you like a slave?"
"Salazar... spoke with respect," the basilisk admitted, though her coils were still shifting restlessly. "This one... commands. Demands. But the magic binds me..."
Tom snarled in rage. "Enough! I am your master now! Kill the boy or face my wrath!"
"Your wrath?" Harry laughed in Parseltongue, the sound carrying all the disdain he felt. "You're a memory! A fragment! She's the guardian of Slytherin's chamber, and you're just a squatter!"
The basilisk's great head lifted, confusion evident in her movements. But then her gaze fell upon Itisa, who stood with her eyes firmly closed.
The ancient serpent let out a cry of pure rage that shook the entire chamber.
"NUNDU! How dare you bring the death-bringer into my domain!"
"She's not here to hurt you—" Harry began, but it was too late.
The basilisk lunged.
The basilisk struck first, her massive head shooting forward like a battering ram aimed at Itisa's flank. The Nundu twisted away, her eyes still firmly closed. The basilisk's fangs scraped against stone where Itisa had been a heartbeat before, carving deep gouges in the ancient floor.
Itisa's claws found purchase on the serpent's scales, raking down the basilisk's side in parallel lines that drew dark blood. The basilisk shrieked—a sound like tearing metal that cracked the nearest statue and sent chips of stone raining down on the combatants.
"Magnificent," Tom breathed, watching the battle with fascination. "Two apex predators, each capable of destroying armies, meeting in single combat."
Harry pressed himself against the chamber wall, staying as far from the battle as possible while keeping his eyes fixed on Ginny's still form. Every instinct screamed at him to help Itisa, but he knew better. This wasn't a fight for twelve-year-old wizards.
The basilisk's tail whipped around, but Itisa leaped over it, landing on the serpent's back with her claws extended. The basilisk bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge her passenger, but Itisa held on.
Then the basilisk opened her mouth and sprayed a stream of venom that sizzled against the chamber walls, eating through stone like acid. Itisa bounded away, the toxic spray missing her by inches. Where the venom struck, the ancient carvings began to dissolve, filling the air with acrid smoke.
The basilisk coiled herself into a striking position, her body forming loops and spirals that could crush a dragon. She lunged again, this time aiming to wrap Itisa in her crushing embrace. But the Nundu was already moving, her enhanced hearing tracking every shift of scale against stone.
Itisa's body began to change, spikes erupting from her fur like thorns on a rose. They covered her from nose to tail, each one gleaming with its own venomous coating. She looked less like a large cat and more like a living weapon.
The basilisk's coils closed around empty air as Itisa twisted away, and several of the spikes along her flank raked across the serpent's hide. The basilisk hissed in irritation—the venom had no effect on her poison-immune system, but the physical damage was real enough.
"Clever girl," Harry said under his breath. "If you can't poison it, at least you can stab it."
Itisa suddenly fired a volley of spikes from her body like crossbow bolts. They struck the basilisk's side and embedded deep between her scales, drawing more blood. The basilisk's answering roar shattered three more statues and sent cracks spider-webbing across the chamber walls.
Then the basilisk did something Harry had never read about in any textbook. She opened her mouth and unleashed a bone-deep vibration that made the entire chamber shake. The sound was so intense it bypassed the ears entirely, hitting the nervous system directly. Harry screamed in pain, falling to his knees. The pain was similar to how his scar hurt back in the first year, but this time, his entire body was in pain.
Itisa staggered, her perfect balance disrupted by the sonic assault. It was the first sign of weakness she'd shown, and the basilisk pressed her advantage immediately. Her massive body uncoiled like a spring, launching her forward in a strike that would have crushed a hippogriff.
But Itisa recovered. She exhaled sharply, and crimson mist poured from her mouth.
The crimson fog engulfed a section of the chamber, and within it, shapes began to move. Multiple Itisas. The basilisk's head darted back and forth, trying to track which one was real, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the air.
The basilisk struck at one of the phantom Nundus, her fangs passing harmlessly through the projection. Then another. Her massive head swung left and right, confusion evident in her movements as she tried to distinguish reality from deception.
That's when the real Itisa struck.
Moving without a sound, the true Nundu emerged from the crimson fog behind the basilisk. Her claws, still covered in venomous spikes, raked across the base of the serpent's skull.
The basilisk's scream of pain and rage filled the chamber, but she was far from finished. She spun with surprising speed for something so massive, her tail catching Itisa across the ribs and sending the Nundu flying into one of the intact statues. Stone crumbled under the impact, but Itisa rolled with the blow and landed on her feet, ready to continue the fight.
Both creatures were bleeding now. The basilisk had deep gouges along her flanks and neck, while Itisa favored her left side where the tail strike had connected. But neither showed any sign of backing down.
The basilisk changed tactics, abandoning her attempts at crushing attacks in favor of speed and precision. She struck like lightning, her fangs seeking vital points. Itisa matched her move for move, her spike-covered body weaving through the attacks while her claws sought openings in the serpent's defenses.
The basilisk managed to score a hit, her fangs scraping along Itisa's shoulder and drawing blood. The venom would have killed any other creature instantly, but Itisa's supernatural constitution absorbed the poison with minimal effect. She retaliated by firing another volley of spikes, these ones aimed at the basilisk's eyes.
The ancient serpent jerked her head back, the spikes missing their target by inches. But Itisa was already moving, using the basilisk's defensive reaction to her advantage. She launched herself forward, her claws finding purchase in the scales around the serpent's throat. She raked downward, opening deep wounds that sent dark blood cascading onto the chamber floor.
The basilisk let out a gurgling roar and began to topple, her massive body swaying as the injuries took their toll. Her mouth gaped wide in a final, desperate attempt to strike—and that's when something impossible happened.
Another basilisk burst from the dying serpent's throat like some nightmare birth, smaller but fully formed, its scales glistening with blood and mucus. The newborn monster struck Itisa while she was still recovering from her killing blow, its fangs sinking deep into her stomach before launching her across the chamber.
Itisa hit the wall with a sickening crunch, blood streaming from the wound in her abdomen as she struggled to regain her footing. Behind the new basilisk, the original basilisk's corpse was already beginning to decompose, flesh sloughing away from bones with unnatural speed.
The new basilisk immediately began retching, spewing blood and bile across the ancient stones. Its movements were unsteady, clearly weakened by the traumatic emergence.
"I will not allow a deathbringer like you to destroy everything Salazar built," the basilisk hissed in Parseltongue, swaying but determined to continue the fight.
"Remarkable!" Tom laughed, clapping his translucent hands together. "Regenerative reproduction!"
But then the air itself seemed to change.
The temperature in the chamber plummeted without warning, as if something ancient and hungry had opened its eyes in the darkness. Harry felt it crawling into his bones like ice water in his veins—a presence so fundamentally wrong that every cell in his body screamed in revulsion. His magical core didn't just recoil; it cowered, pressing itself deep into his chest as if trying to hide from something that should not exist.
Then the vision hit him.
He saw himself sprawled on the blood-slicked stones, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, green eyes staring sightlessly at the chamber's vaulted ceiling. His skin was gray, lips blue, and there was something missing from his face. The corpse on the floor was just meat and bone, empty as a discarded shell.
The vision was so vivid Harry could smell his own decay, could feel the weight of death settling over him like a burial shroud. He gasped and stumbled backward, his hands clawing at his throat as if he could somehow pull life back into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe.
That's when Itisa made the sound.
It began deep in her chest, a vibration that seemed to originate from somewhere beyond the physical world. Not a roar—roars belonged to living things. Not a growl—growls had anger, emotion, life behind them. This was something else entirely. Something that crawled up from the deepest, oldest parts of the earth where forgotten gods went to die.
The sound wrapped around Harry's spine like skeletal fingers, reaching into the most primitive corners of his mind where instinct lived. Every ancestor who had ever hidden from predators in the dark, every generation that had learned to fear—they all whispered the same message in unison:
RUN.
The chamber walls seemed to pulse with the sound, as if the stone itself had developed a heartbeat that beat in rhythm with ending, with final breaths, with the last flutter of dying wings. Even Tom's translucent form flickered, his confident expression wavering.
This was what nightmares sounded like when they remembered they were real.
The new basilisk reared back, preparing to strike at the Nundu, but Harry found his voice.
"STOP!" he commanded in Parseltongue, pouring every ounce of his Voice Magic into the words. The command resonated through the chamber like a physical force. "You will cease this attack! I command you in the name of Salazar Slytherin himself!"
The basilisk's head snapped toward Harry, confusion evident in her posture. The magical compulsion in his voice was unlike anything she had experienced.
"Your voice? Why do you have his voice?" she demanded, but her attack had faltered, her attention divided.
That moment of distraction was all Itisa needed.
The Nundu's form blurred as she moved, faster than anything that injured should have been capable of. Instead of a direct assault, she exhaled a concentrated stream of silver mist that wrapped around the basilisk's head like chains. Within the mist, the air itself seemed to solidify, creating bands of pressure that constricted around the serpent's throat and jaw.
The basilisk thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but the ethereal bindings only tightened with her struggles. Itisa followed up with a series of strikes to nerve clusters along the basilisk's spine.
The ancient serpent collapsed, her body still but her eyes blazing with frustrated rage.
"This... this is impossible," she gasped. "I am the guardian of this chamber. I cannot be defeated by outsiders. Salazar...my shame...pleasure forgive me."
Itisa was not done yet as she approached the fallen enemy. The basilisk saw it coming and tried to defend herself, but she was too injured, too slow. Itisa's leap carried her through the air like a furry missile, claws aimed for the killing blow.
"ITISA, STOP!"
Harry's voice cut through the chamber like a blade, carrying all the authority of a true partner rather than a master. The Nundu twisted in mid-air, her claws missing the basilisk's throat by inches as she landed in a crouch beside the wounded serpent, and the cold temperature in the air disappeared.
Harry felt his eyes changing behind his closed lids, the familiar human roundness shifting into something altogether more serpentine. The transformation didn't hurt—it felt natural, like finally allowing a part of himself he'd kept hidden to emerge into the light.
"Basilisk," he said in Parseltongue, his words flowing like silk over steel, "I offer you something your master never has—choice."
The basilisk's massive head turned toward him, her movements sluggish from Itisa's paralyzing strikes. "What trickery is this, young speaker? You command with the Voice of Power, yet you speak of choice?"
"No trickery. No commands." Harry took a careful step forward, keeping his eyes closed. "I offer you healing, partnership, freedom from the chains that bind you to serve those who see you only as a weapon."
"What are you doing?" Tom snarled, his translucent form blazing brighter with rage. "She is bound to serve! The magic compels her!"
Harry ignored him, focusing entirely on the basilisk. "How long has it been since someone offered you respect instead of orders? Since you were treated as the guardian you were meant to be, rather than a tool for petty revenge?"
Harry could not look at her eyes, but he was sure she was surprised by his words. "You... you would heal me? After I tried to kill you?"
"Itisa was never your enemy. You tried to kill me because you were ordered to. That's not your fault—that's his." Harry gestured toward Tom. "Salazar Slytherin built this chamber as your home, not your prison. You deserve better than to be a slave to his memory."
"She is MINE!" Tom screamed, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. "The binding magic cannot be broken by a child's pretty words!"
"Your eyes, I cannot see them, but I know you have them, I haven't felt them since last time I looked at my Master." She spoke with such sadness, it reminded Harry of the way Hermione spoke when she told him that she never had friends in the Muggle school.
Harry was not sure what to make of that; he wasn't aware that Salazar Slytherin himself had eyes like his.
"I am... so tired," she admitted, her massive form settling lower to the ground. "A thousand years of solitude, broken only by commands to kill. I remember when Salazar spoke to me with kindness, when I was a guardian, not a weapon."
"You can be a guardian again," Harry said gently. "Not for blood purity or ancient grudges, but for something worth protecting. The students of this school, the knowledge contained within these walls—they need someone wise enough to know the difference between threats and children making mistakes."
The basilisk was quiet for a long moment, and Harry could practically feel Tom's fury radiating through the chamber. Then, slowly, the ancient serpent closed her deadly eyes.
"I accept your offer, young speaker. I am tired of being a tool for others' hatred."
"NO!" Tom's scream was inhuman with rage. "You cannot break centuries of binding magic! I am your master! You will obey!"
But the basilisk didn't even turn toward him. Instead, she settled her great head on the chamber floor with something that sounded almost like a sigh of relief.
Tom's form was flickering wildly now, his composure completely shattered. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice taking on a manic edge. "None of this matters. Soon I will be whole again, and when I am, I'll remind you both what happens to those who defy Lord Voldemort!"
Harry opened his eyes fully, the serpentine transformation still active, and turned to face the diary that lay beside Ginny's still form. His wand was in his hand before he'd consciously decided to draw it.
"Verdimillious Duo Spell!" The spell struck the diary dead center, but the black leather didn't even char.
"Bombarda!" Still, nothing happened.
Tom's laughter filled the chamber, cold and mocking. "Did you really think it would be that simple? Do you really think school spells can do much against the diary?"
Harry felt his jaw clench with frustration. Every spell he'd learned, every bit of magical knowledge he'd acquired, and none of it could touch the cursed thing that was slowly draining Ginny's life away. His talisman did not have any means of attacking. Sure, it could release the spells it absorbed as a flash of light, but he doubted that would harm the Talisman. His Talisman was purely for defence.
That's when Itisa approached.
The Nundu moved slowly, clearly still injured from her battle with the basilisk. Purple mist began forming around her mouth.
Harry recognised the mist; she had used that harmless mist on him many times during the years, and he had yet to understand what that mist could do. "Itisa, what are you..."
But she was already exhaling, a concentrated stream of purple vapor that struck the diary with the force of a hurricane. Harry scrambled backward, but even from several feet away, the residual effects hit him.
Pain exploded across his forehead, sharp and burning, as if someone had pressed a red-hot brand against his scar as he fell on his knees from the pain. He could hear Tom screaming—not the angry shouts from before, but genuine agony, the sound of something being torn apart.
Through tear-blurred vision, Harry watched the diary begin to change. The black leather started to rot, developing patches of green and brown that spread like some accelerated disease. Pages began crumbling like ash.
"Impossible!" Tom's voice was growing fainter, his translucent form becoming even more transparent. "It cannot be destroyed!"
But it was being destroyed. Harry could see it happening, could feel the malevolent presence that had filled the chamber slowly draining away like water from a broken vessel. The diary looked less like a book and more like a piece of fruit left to rot in the sun.
Tom's form flickered one final time, his face contorted with rage and disbelief.
"This... is not... possible..." he whispered, and then he was gone.
The diary gave one final shudder and crumbled into dust, leaving nothing behind but a small pile of letters and leather. One might be able to tell that it once used to be a diary or a book.
Harry slumped against the chamber wall, his serpentine eyes slowly reverting to their normal green, and allowed himself a moment of pure, exhausted relief.
"Basilisk," Harry said in Parseltongue, his voice carrying across the vast space to where the basilisk lay coiled. "Your injuries—will you survive them?"
The great serpent's head lifted slightly, her movements still sluggish from the damage Itisa had inflicted, her eyes remained closed. "I will heal, young speaker. My kind are resilient, and the wounds, while painful, are not mortal. Time and rest will see me whole again."
Relief flooded through Harry's chest. Whatever else had happened here, at least he wouldn't have the death of a thousand-year-old guardian on his conscience.
"The healing will take time," the basilisk continued, sounding vulnerable and afraid. "Weeks, perhaps months in the deep chambers where the earth's magic runs strongest. I will be... alone again. As I have been for so long."
The loneliness in those words hit Harry. A thousand years of solitude broken only by orders to kill, by being used as a weapon instead of respected as the intelligent creature she clearly was. It was enough to break anyone's spirit, let alone someone who'd been Salazar Slytherin's companion.
"You won't be alone," Harry said firmly. "I promise you that. I'll visit when I can, bring you news of the world above. I won't let you be alone again."
The basilisk went very still, and for a moment Harry wondered if he'd said something wrong. Then she made a sound that could only be described as a sob—a deep, resonant note that spoke of relief and gratitude and hope long deferred.
"Thank you, young speaker. It has been... so very long since anyone offered me kindness." Her massive form began to move, sliding toward one of the chamber's darker recesses. "I will remember this gift. When I am healed, perhaps we can speak of other things, but...do not bring her here again."
Harry knew she meant Itisa without needing to say anything else. "She is not your enemy, Itisa is my friend."
"Your friend is a death bringer. Nundus eat their cubs just to get stronger. Do not trust them." The Basilisk insisted, and Harry felt a burning anger growing in his chest like a fire.
"You are still alive." Harry reminded her with anger, and this caused the Basilisk to stop moving. "If Itisa is as dangerous as you say she is, then why is this place still here, and not a massive grevyard?" Harry asked, and the Basilisk had no answer to that, but Harry knew she still wasn't convinced.
"I understand you are close to her, but be aware. Nundus are enemies of all Life."
Harry watched her disappear into the shadows, her scales catching the dim light one last time before she vanished into whatever deep places she called home.
A soft meow brought his attention back to more immediate concerns. Itisa sat a few feet away, methodically cleaning the wounds on her stomach with her tongue. She'd reverted to her housecat disguise, though Harry could see the careful way she moved that spoke of significant injuries beneath the illusion.
"You magnificent, terrifying, absolutely mental creature," Harry said affectionately, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
Itisa purred softly, pressing her head into his palm. The sound was remarkably normal after everything they'd been through.
That's when Ginny stirred.
She came back to consciousness slowly, her eyelids fluttering as awareness returned. When she finally focused on Harry's face, her expression crumpled with shame and terror.
"Harry?" Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from whatever ordeal she'd endured. "Oh God, what have I done? It's all my fault. The attacks, the petrifications—I opened the Chamber. I let that thing loose on the school."
"Hey, none of that," Harry said gently, moving closer so she could see his face clearly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Ginny. You were manipulated by something that had decades to perfect the art of controlling people. That diary—it wasn't your fault."
"But I should have known," she insisted, tears starting to flow down her pale cheeks. "I should have realized something was wrong when it started writing back. I'm not stupid, I should have—"
"You should have what? Been suspicious of a diary that offered friendship to a lonely eleven-year-old girl starting her first year at a new school?" Harry's voice was firm but kind. "Ginny, that thing could have fooled smarter people."
She looked at him with something like wonder. "You... you came for me. Into the Chamber of Secrets. You could have died."
"So could you," Harry pointed out. "And you're the Twins's sister, and I didn't want something this terrible to happen to an innocent."
That actually got a small smile out of her, though it was shaky around the edges. "Ron's going to be insufferable when he finds out his sister needed rescuing by a Slytherin."
"Ronald's going to be so relieved you're alive that he probably won't care if You-Know-Who himself had been the one to carry you out," Harry replied. "Though maybe don't mention the basilisk fight to your mum. I have a feeling she'd have some strong opinions about twelve-year-olds battling legendary monsters."
Ginny's laugh was weak but genuine. "She'll probably ban me from returning to Hogwarts altogether."
"Then we'll just have to make sure she never finds out the interesting details," Harry said with a conspiratorial grin.
The sound of running footsteps echoed through the Chamber of Secrets, growing louder as they approached. Harry looked up from where he sat beside Ginny, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. On one hand, adult help was definitely welcome after the day he'd had. On the other hand, explaining what had just happened without revealing certain classified details about disguised Nundus and basilisk negotiations was going to be... challenging.
Professor Dumbledore burst through the chamber entrance first, his usual serene demeanor replaced by something approaching genuine alarm. His bright blue eyes swept the destruction—shattered statues, gouged walls, and what looked like the aftermath of a magical war zone—before settling on Harry and Ginny.
Professor McGonagall was right behind him, her tartan robes billowing as she rushed toward Ginny. "Miss Weasley! Oh, my dear girl, are you hurt?"
Professor Snape entered with his usual dramatic flair, black robes swirling as he surveyed the chamber with the analytical eye of someone cataloging evidence. Professor Flitwick brought up the rear, his small form nearly dwarfed by his colleagues but his expression no less concerned.
I'm fine, Professor, Harry saved me."
"Ginny, thank Merlin," McGonagall said, dropping to her knees beside the pale girl and immediately beginning diagnostic charms. "When Miss Lovegood told us where Mister Potter had gone to."
Luna. Right. Harry had forgotten about sending her to get help. Trust Luna to deliver a message that actually resulted in the right people showing up at the right place.
"Where is the basilisk?" Snape demanded, his black eyes scanning the chamber's shadows with professional paranoia. "The creature that has been terrorizing the school for months—where is it?"
"I defeated it," Harry said simply, which was technically true even if it left out some rather important details about negotiation and mercy.
All four professors turned to stare at him with expressions ranging from disbelief to professional curiosity.
"You defeated a basilisk?" McGonagall asked, her voice pitched higher than usual. "Mr. Potter, basilisks are classified as XXXXX creatures for a reason. Even experienced Aurors approach them with extreme caution."
"How?" Flitwick squeaked, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. "A twelve-year-old student, alone, against one of the most dangerous creatures in the magical world—how is that even possible?"
Harry opened his mouth to explain—or at least provide some sanitized version of events—but Dumbledore stepped forward before he could speak.
"I think," the headmaster said gently, "that Mr. Potter has been through quite enough for one evening. These questions can wait until after he's had proper rest and medical attention."
Dumbledore caught Harry's eye and gave him the slightest wink.
"Quite right," McGonagall said, though she looked like she had about a hundred questions burning on her tongue. "Mr. Potter, you look ready to collapse. When did you last eat? Or sleep properly?"
Now that she mentioned it, Harry couldn't actually remember. The day felt like it had lasted about a week, and the adrenaline that had kept him going through the crisis was rapidly fading.
"The important thing," Dumbledore said, moving toward where what was left of the diary remained, "is that Miss Weasley is safe and the immediate threat has been neutralized."
Harry watched as the headmaster crouched down and carefully examined the leftover of the diary. Dumbledore's expression was strange—not surprised, exactly, but deeply thoughtful in a way that suggested he recognized what he was looking at.
That's... interesting. What does Dumbledore know about cursed diaries that can preserve memories?
But before Harry could pursue that line of thought, exhaustion hit him like a Bludger to the skull. The magical effort of the past few hours—the Voice Magic, the serpentine transformation, the lingering pain in his forehead, the sheer emotional strain of everything that had happened—caught up with him all at once.
His vision blurred, and the chamber seemed to tilt sideways. He heard Itisa's meow in concern, felt Professor McGonagall's gentle hands catching him as he swayed.
"Mr. Potter?" McGonagall's voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. "Can you hear me?"
Harry tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. The Chamber of Secrets, the professors, even Itisa's worried golden eyes—everything faded to black as consciousness finally abandoned him.
His last coherent thought was a hope that someone would remember to send word to the Tonks family that he was alive. Andromeda was going to be furious enough about him charging into mortal danger without adding "forgot to write home" to his list of crimes.
Then the exhaustion claimed him completely, and Harry Potter collapsed into the dreamless sleep of someone who had saved the day and lived to tell about it.
Even if the telling was going to require some very creative editing.
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