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The park looked exactly as it had four years ago.
Harry sat on the same weathered bench, his twelve-year-old legs dangling just as they had when he was eight. The autumn air carried the same crisp bite, the same scent of dying leaves and distant rain. Even the small snake was there, coiled beneath the bench where his feet couldn't quite reach the ground.
This is wrong, he thought, staring at the familiar path that wound between the oak trees. I'm not eight anymore. I shouldn't be here.
But his body felt small again, vulnerable in a way that made his chest tight with something that wasn't quite fear. More like... anticipation. The kind that twisted your stomach while you waited for something you desperately wanted but weren't sure you deserved.
He knew what was supposed to happen next. The cloaked figure would appear. The figure would reach into his robes, then place a small kitten on the grass before disappearing without a word.
Harry waited.
The minutes stretched like taffy, each second dragging past with maddening slowness. The snake beneath the bench shifted restlessly, its scales whispering against the metal slats.
"Where is he?" Harry muttered, his voice carrying the higher pitch of his younger self. "He should be here by now."
The path remained empty.
Harry's hands clenched into fists on his lap. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The cloaked man always appeared. Always. That was how the memory worked, how the dream always played out. The man would come, he would leave Itisa, and then Harry would scoop her up and carry her home.
But he's not coming.
The realization hit like a Bludger to the chest. Harry shot to his feet, the bench creaking behind him as he stumbled toward the oak tree where the figure should have emerged.
"Hello?" he called, his voice cracking like that of a child who was trying very hard not to sound scared. "Are you there?"
Nothing.
Harry broke into a run, his small legs carrying him down the familiar path. His shoes slapped against the packed earth as he searched behind every tree, every bush, every shadow that might conceal a cloaked figure with precious cargo.
"Itisa!" he shouted. "Itisa, where are you?"
The name echoed through the empty park, bouncing off the trees and returning to him hollow and mocking. He spun in a circle, his eyes scanning every inch of the space where he'd first found her, where she'd looked up at him with those golden eyes and mewed so softly it had nearly broken his heart.
She has to be here. She's always here.
"Itisa, please!" Harry's voice cracked entirely now, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "Come to me! I'm here, I'm waiting!"
But there was no answering meow, no small black form padding toward him through the fallen leaves. The park remained as silent as a graveyard, as empty as his arms had been before that miraculous day four years ago.
Harry dropped to his knees on the exact spot where he'd found her, his hands scrabbling through the dead leaves as if she might somehow be hidden beneath them. The rational part of his mind—the part that had been Sorted into Slytherin for its cunning—knew this was pointless.
This was a dream, a memory, and memories don't change.
But dreams do, the frightened eight-year-old part of him whispered. Dreams can become nightmares.
"She's supposed to be here," he whispered to the empty air, his voice barely audible above the rustle of leaves. "She's supposed to be here, and I'm supposed to find her, and everything is supposed to be perfect."
A hand settled on his shoulder.
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He could feel the weight of it through his small body, could sense the presence of someone standing behind him.
The cloaked figure. Finally.
Harry began to turn, relief flooding through him. The man had come at last, just later than usual. Everything would be all right now. The dream would continue as it always did, and he would find Itisa waiting for him beneath those familiar oak trees.
But the voice that spoke wasn't the voice he expected.
"She is gone."
Harry whipped around, his heart hammering against his ribs. The figure looming over him was indeed cloaked. This person was tall, his cloak was as dark as night, and the wind made him look like the grim reaper, but without a scythe.
And his eyes...
The eyes that stared down at him from beneath the hood were bright green as emeralds. They were cold as winter frost, ancient as the stones of Hogwarts itself.
"She is gone," the figure repeated, and Harry could hear the finality in those words like the closing of a tomb. "And she is not coming back."
"No," Harry gasped, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. "No, that's not—she's not gone. She can't be gone. She's with me, she's always with me—"
The green eyes followed his movement, implacable as a serpent watching its prey. "You were too late, Harry Potter. Too slow. Too weak. And now she is gone forever."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, to argue, to demand that this stranger explain himself, but the world was already beginning to dissolve around the edges.
The park faded. The bench, the trees, the scattered leaves—all of it wavered like heat shimmer and began to disappear.
The last thing Harry saw was those terrible green eyes, so like his own, watching him with something that might have been pity.
Then everything went black.
Harry's eyes snapped open, his heart racing like he'd just run a marathon. For a moment, he expected to see the familiar stone walls of his Slytherin dormitory, the green hangings of his four-poster bed.
But the light was wrong. Too golden, too warm. And there was no sound of his dormmates breathing in their sleep.
Still dreaming, he realized with a mixture of relief and apprehension. But where am I now?
The golden grass beneath Harry's feet felt more real than anything in the nightmare had. He pushed himself upright, blinking away the lingering terror of those cold green eyes, and found himself standing in Loretta's ethereal realm once again.
At least this place makes sense, he thought, though 'sense' was perhaps too generous a word for a dream dimension created by a centuries-dead witch.
"Thou hast suffered a most grievous nightmare, young speaker," came Loretta's melodious voice from nearby.
Harry turned toward the sound and found her exactly where he'd expected—sitting cross-legged on a small red carpet that looked like it belonged in some Arabian tale. The golden grass around her seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, creating a circle of warmth that made the rest of the dreamscape feel distant and unimportant.
What struck him immediately was how the moonlight had changed. Where before it had cast everything in pale blue shadows that reminded him of winter mornings at Hogwarts, now it bathed the realm in deep crimson that made Loretta's skin glow like burnished copper.
"The moon," Harry said, pointing upward. "It's red now. Why?"
"Dost thou not recall why thou art here, young wizard? 'Tis because thou hast questions that burn within thy breast like dragon's fire."
Right. Questions. Harry looked at her more carefully, noting the way the moonlight played across her features. Loretta was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were—like a perfectly crafted blade or a Nundu's golden eyes. Her blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her medieval-style dress did nothing to hide the generous curves of her figure. But it was her expression that held his attention: cunning and knowing.
"You warned me before," Harry said, settling into the grass opposite her carpet. "About two pieces of a fractured soul that needed to be destroyed. What did you mean?"
Loretta's eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval. "Ah, thou dost remember. Very good." She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on the cadence of someone sharing a particularly complex riddle. "Imagine, if thou wilt, a most precious vessel—a goblet wrought of the finest silver, used to hold the very essence of life itself."
Harry nodded, following along despite his growing suspicion that this was going to be one of her maddeningly cryptic explanations.
"Now imagine that this vessel is shattered—not by accident, but by deliberate design. Each shard that breaks away carries within it a drop of that life essence, scattered to the winds like seeds upon barren ground." Loretta's hands moved as she spoke, miming the breaking of something fragile. "To make the vessel whole again, one must gather each shard, each drop, and destroy them utterly—for they have become corrupted by the very act of separation."
Harry stared at her, his Slytherin mind trying to parse the metaphor. "So... someone broke their soul into pieces? And hid them in objects?"
"The soul is not meant to be divided, young speaker. 'Tis an abomination that corrupts both the maker and the made." Loretta's expression grew stern. "These fragments must be destroyed, lest they spread their poison like a plague upon the land."
That tells me exactly nothing useful, Harry thought with growing irritation. The diary in the Chamber had definitely been corrupted—he'd felt the malevolent presence radiating from it like heat from a forge. So, was there a soul of Voldemort in that diary? How was that even possible, and why would someone tear their own soul into pieces
"Could you perhaps explain that in terms that don't require a degree in medieval poetry?" Harry asked, letting a bit of his frustration creep into his voice.
Loretta simply smiled that enigmatic smile and smoothed her skirts. "Some truths must be discovered rather than told, dear child."
Of course they do. Harry bit back a sarcastic retort, recognizing the futility of pressing her further. Loretta would share what she wanted to share, when she wanted to share it, and not a moment before.
"Fine," he said instead, gesturing around at the golden landscape. "Then tell me about this place. Why does it look like... well, like something out of a fairy tale?"
For the first time since he'd met her, Loretta's expression softened into something approaching genuine warmth. "This realm doth mirror a place most dear to my heart—a meadow where my brother and I would play as children, when the world was young and magic was but a whispered secret among the wise."
"Your brother," Harry repeated. "Merlin."
"Aye." Loretta's voice carried a note of deep affection. "We were young when our gifts first manifested, and the world knew naught of what we would become. People in those days feared magic more than they do now, if thou canst believe such a thing. So we would steal away to this hidden place, far from prying eyes, and practice the art that sang in our blood."
Harry tried to imagine it—two children discovering they could reshape reality with thought and will, having no one but each other to share the wonder and terror of it. "You must have been close."
"He was everything to me," Loretta said simply, and something in her tone made Harry's chest tighten with recognition. "My brother, my teacher, my dearest friend, my... We shared everything—every triumph, every failure, every dream of what magic might become."
The way she spoke about Merlin reminded Harry uncomfortably of his own feelings about Itisa. That fierce, protective love that made the thought of loss feel like a wound.
As if reading his thoughts, Loretta tilted her head and regarded him with those ancient, knowing eyes. "But speak to me, young speaker. What troubles thy heart? I sense great turmoil within thee."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, absently plucking at the golden grass. "I keep having dreams about the day I found Itisa," he admitted finally. "The same park, the same bench, the same moment when that cloaked figure left her for me to find. But lately..." He trailed off, remembering the terror of searching empty shadows.
"Lately the dreams have changed," Loretta prompted gently.
"Tonight she wasn't there. Itisa wasn't there, and some stranger with my eyes told me she was gone forever." Harry's hands clenched into fists. "I don't understand why I'm having these dreams. Does it mean something? That I might actually lose her someday?"
Loretta was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the crimson moon overhead. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but implacable.
"Loss is woven into the very fabric of life, dear child. To love something is to accept that one day thou might be parted from it. 'Tis not a curse—'tis simply the way of all things."
"No." Harry's response was immediate and fierce. "I won't accept that. I'll protect Itisa with everything I have. I'll never let anyone take her away from me."
"And therein lies a danger most profound," Loretta said, her eyes sharp with warning. "There are those who cling so tightly to what they love that they strangle the very life from it. They become so consumed with preventing loss that they lose themselves—and often destroy what they sought to protect."
Something in her tone made Harry look at her more closely.
"You're speaking from experience," he said. It wasn't a question.
Loretta's smile was rueful. "I am indeed. I too have struggled with the art of letting go, young speaker. I too have held fast to things that perhaps were meant to slip away like morning mist."
"What happened?" Harry asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"That is a tale for another time," Loretta said firmly. "Suffice it to say that I learned, perhaps too late, that love without freedom is not love at all—'tis possession. And possession breeds only suffering."
Harry wanted to argue, to insist that protecting someone you cared about wasn't the same as possessing them. But her tone made him hold his tongue.
"The dreams trouble thee because thy heart knows a truth thy mind refuses to accept," she continued. "One day, young speaker, thou wilt face a choice that will test thy love. Thou wilt be asked to choose between holding fast and letting go—and that choice will define not only thy fate, but the fate of all those thou holdest dear."
The words sent a chill down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the dream realm's ethereal atmosphere. "What kind of choice?"
But Loretta was already rising from her carpet, her form beginning to shimmer like heat waves. "That too is a truth thou must discover for thyself."
"Wait," Harry started to say, but she was already moving toward him.
She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead in a kiss that felt like benediction and warning combined. Her breath was warm against his skin as she whispered:
"Remember, dear child—sometimes the greatest act of love is knowing when to let go."
The dream realm dissolved around him like sugar in rain, taking Loretta's knowing smile and the crimson moon with it.
Harry's eyes opened to harsh morning light and the familiar disinfectant smell of the Hospital Wing.
The first thing Harry registered was weight on his chest—not heavy, but warm and reassuringly solid. His eyes fluttered open to find Itisa curled into a perfect black circle on his hospital blanket, her small form rising and falling with each breath. Relief flooded through him so suddenly it left him dizzy.
She's here. She's safe. It was just a nightmare.
The second thing he noticed was Nymphadora Tonks slumped in the visitor's chair beside his bed, her pink hair falling across her face in a curtain that couldn't quite hide the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she'd been there all night, and knowing Tonks, she probably had been.
Stubborn git, Harry thought with a mixture of affection and exasperation. She's supposed to be a sixth-year prefect, not my personal guardian.
"Well, well," came Madam Pomfrey's crisp voice from somewhere to his left. "The hero finally decides to rejoin the land of the living."
Harry turned his head to find the matron approaching with her usual arsenal of diagnostic tools and disapproving expressions. She looked exactly as Harry remembered from his various visits—steel-gray hair pulled back in a bun so tight it could probably deflect hexes, and the sort of no-nonsense demeanor that made even the most rebellious Slytherin think twice about arguing with her medical orders.
"Madam Pomfrey," Harry croaked, his voice coming out rougher than expected. "How long was I—"
"Nearly eighteen hours," she interrupted, waving her wand over him in a series of complex patterns. "Magical exhaustion, severe dehydration, multiple lacerations on your hands from what I can only assume was some sort of dangerous tinkering, and enough stress-related muscle tension to fell a hippogriff. Honestly, Mr. Potter, what were you thinking?"
I was thinking about saving a girl's life and possibly acquiring some very expensive basilisk materials in the process, Harry mused, but wisely kept that particular thought to himself.
"I was thinking Ginny Weasley was in danger," he said instead, which was technically true. "Someone had to help her."
Madam Pomfrey's expression softened slightly. "Yes, well, while your intentions were admirable, your methods were reckless in the extreme. You're twelve years old, not a trained Auror."
The movement of her wand caused Itisa to stir, and Harry felt his heart skip as those familiar golden eyes opened and fixed on his face. She stretched, then padded up to press her head against his chin with a purr that vibrated through his entire chest.
Thank Salazar she's all right.
But as Harry gently stroked behind her ears, his fingers found something that made his blood run cold. Small, raised lines beneath her fur—scars that definitely hadn't been there before the Chamber.
"Hey there, beautiful," he murmured, keeping his voice steady despite the knot of guilt in his stomach. "How are you feeling?"
Itisa's purr grew louder, and she butted her head against his hand with enough force to suggest she was perfectly fine. But Harry could see the truth in the careful way she moved, the slight favor she gave to her left side where the basilisk's fang had found its mark.
A soft hoot from across the room drew his attention to where Hedwig perched on the windowsill, looking remarkably calm for a storm bird in the presence of what she normally considered her mortal enemy. In fact, the two animals seemed to be maintaining a truce that was nothing short of miraculous.
Well, shared trauma does make for strange bedfellows, Harry supposed. Or strange petmates, in this case.
The chair beside his bed creaked as Nymphadora began to stir, her pink hair shifting to a more vibrant shade as consciousness returned. When her eyes opened and found his, her expression went through a fascinating series of changes—relief, anger, affection, and finally settling on exasperated fondness.
"Harry James Potter," she said, her voice carrying the sort of dangerous quiet that usually preceded spectacular explosions, "you absolute bloody moron."
Before Harry could respond, her hand shot out and delivered a sharp slap to his cheek that made his eyes water. The sting had barely registered when she leaned in and pressed a fierce kiss to the same spot, her arms wrapping around him in a hug that threatened to crack his ribs.
"Don't you ever, ever scare us like that again," she whispered against his ear, and Harry could hear the tears she was trying not to shed. "When McGonagall's message came through the Floo, when she said you'd collapsed in the Chamber of Secrets after fighting a basilisk—Merlin, Harry, we thought we'd lost you."
Harry's chest tightened with guilt. "I'm sorry, Tonks. I really am. But I couldn't just leave Ginny down there. She's only eleven, and whatever had taken her—"
"Was a piece of You-Know-Who," Nymphadora finished grimly, pulling back to meet his eyes. "Dumbledore explained. Some sort of memory preserved in a diary that was feeding off her life force."
Well, that's one way to put it, Harry thought.
"How is she?" Harry asked. "Ginny, I mean. Is she all right?"
Nymphadora's expression grew troubled. "Physically, she's fine. Madam Pomfrey had her back on her feet within a few hours. But emotionally..." She shook her head. "The poor thing is convinced it's all her fault. Keeps saying she should have known better, should have been stronger, should have resisted whatever influence that diary had over her."
Harry winced. He could understand that particular brand of guilt all too well—the crushing weight of responsibility for things that were largely beyond your control. "It wasn't her fault. That diary... whatever it was, it was designed to manipulate people. Even adults might have fallen for it."
"Try telling her that," Nymphadora said with a sigh. "Her brothers have been taking turns sitting with her, trying to convince her she's not responsible for the attacks. Even the twins are being unusually serious about it."
The Weasley twins being serious about anything was definitely a sign of how badly this had affected everyone.
Harry started to reach for his wand, intending to check its condition after the magical strain he'd put it through, but stopped when his hand began trembling uncontrollably. The tremor was slight but persistent, like a low-level vibration that refused to be stilled.
"What the—" He stared at his hand in alarm, trying to force it steady through sheer will.
"Magical overexertion," Madam Pomfrey said matter-of-factly, having apparently been eavesdropping on their conversation. "Your magical core has been pushed well beyond its natural limits, Mr. Potter. The tremors should fade within a few days, assuming you actually follow my instructions and rest properly."
Harry flexed his fingers experimentally, watching the small but noticeable shake with growing concern. "Will it affect my wandwork?"
"Not permanently, no. But for the next week or so, I'd recommend avoiding any complex spellcasting. Your magic needs time to stabilize." Madam Pomfrey fixed him with a stern look. "And before you ask, no, working on your precious talismans does not count as 'rest.'"
Brilliant. Just when I finally have access to basilisk materials that could solve all my Italian Ministry problems.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Harry had never seen so much red. The Hospital Wing had never felt quite so crowded.
Half the Weasley family streaming through the doors like a tide of red hair and freckles. He recognized most of them from meals in the Great Hall, but seeing them all together was somewhat overwhelming—especially when they were all focused on him with expressions ranging from gratitude to barely concealed awe.
Sweet Salazar's serpents, Harry thought, instinctively straightening in his hospital bed. This is either going to be very touching or very awkward. Possibly both.
Mrs. Weasley reached him first, moving with the determined stride of a woman on a mission. She was shorter than Harry had expected, with laugh lines around her eyes.
"Mr. Potter," she said, and to Harry's alarm, her voice was thick with unshed tears. "I... we... oh, how can we possibly thank you?"
Before Harry could formulate a response, she had enveloped him in a hug, smelling of flour and something that might have been homemade soap.
"Mrs. Weasley," he managed, patting her back awkwardly. "Really, it's all right—"
"All right?" she pulled back to look at him, her brown eyes bright with tears. "Young man, you saved our daughter's life. You went into the Chamber of Secrets—the Chamber of Secrets!—and faced down a basilisk to bring her home to us. How is that 'all right'?"
Well, when she puts it like that...
"Anyone would have done the same," Harry said, which was a lie but seemed like the sort of thing heroes were supposed to say in situations like this.
Mr. Weasley stepped forward then, his balding head catching the light from the Hospital Wing's windows. Where his wife was emotional, he carried himself with the quiet dignity of a man who understood the weight of what had happened.
"That's where you're wrong, son," he said simply, extending his hand. "Not everyone would have had the courage to go down there. Not everyone would have cared enough to try."
Harry shook the offered hand, surprised by the firm strength of the older man's grip. "Ginny didn't deserve what happened to her. No one did."
"No," Mr. Weasley agreed. "But she's safe now, thanks to you. That's something our family will never forget."
From somewhere behind his parents, Harry heard Ronald Weasley clear his throat in what sounded suspiciously like embarrassment. The second-year Gryffindor stepped forward reluctantly, his ears red enough to match his hair.
"Potter," Ron said, looking like the words were being physically extracted from him, "I... you're not bad. For a Slytherin, I mean."
High praise indeed, Harry thought with amusement.
"Thanks, Weasley," Harry replied with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. "You're not terrible yourself. For a Gryffindor."
That actually got a small grin from Ron, who seemed to appreciate the returned jibe more than empty politeness. Harry noticed who he assumed to be Percy Weasley looking at him strangely, as if Harry were some kind of interesting puzzle piece.
But before the moment could develop into anything resembling actual friendship, the twins materialized on either side of Harry's bed, moving in the same way as if this exact moment was something they had practiced together.
"Harry Potter!" Fred declared with theatrical grandeur.
"Slayer of serpents!" George added with equal drama.
"Hero of the Chamber!"
"Savior of small redheads!"
"This," Fred continued, gesturing broadly, "clearly calls for another Grand Prank of epic proportions!"
Harry felt a grin tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. The memory of last year's Great House Robe Swap was still legendary among the student body—three days of chaos as everyone's uniforms randomly shifted to different house colors. Seeing Draco Malfoy in Gryffindor red had been worth every detention they'd received.
"Oh, absolutely," Harry said, getting into the spirit of things. "I was thinking we could enchant the suits of armor to applaud every time someone mentions basilisks. Really drive home the heroic atmosphere."
"Brilliant!" George exclaimed. "Or we could—"
"FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY!" Mrs. Weasley's voice cut through their planning like a Severing Charm through parchment. "Don't you dare drag this poor boy into another one of your schemes! He just spent eighteen hours unconscious from magical exhaustion!"
The twins had the grace to look slightly abashed, though Harry could see the wheels still turning behind their eyes. They'll probably try to recruit me properly once I'm out of the Hospital Wing.
"Mum," came a small voice from near the doorway, "can I... can I talk to him?"
Harry looked past the assembled family to where Ginny Weasley stood half-hidden behind one of her older brothers. She looked pale and fragile.
She looks how I felt after the nightmares started, Harry realized with a pang of sympathy.
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Weasley said immediately, stepping aside to clear a path.
Ginny approached his bed slowly, her hands twisted together in front of her. When she finally looked up to meet his eyes, Harry was struck by how young she seemed.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry for what I did, for what I put everyone through. I know it's my fault that—"
"Stop," Harry interrupted gently. "Ginny, what happened to you wasn't your fault. That diary was designed to manipulate people. It took something that should have been innocent—writing in a journal—and turned it into a weapon."
"But I should have known—"
"You're eleven," Harry pointed out. "I'm twelve, and I barely understood what was happening even with all the clues. How were you supposed to recognize something that had fooled adults for fifty years?"
Ginny's lower lip trembled slightly. "But people got hurt because of me. Colin, Justin, Mrs. Norris—"
"People got hurt because of Tom Riddle," Harry corrected. "You were as much a victim as they were. Maybe more so, because you had to carry the knowledge of what was happening while being powerless to stop it."
And because you nearly died in the process, he added silently. But she probably doesn't need that particular reminder right now.
Ginny stared at him for a long moment, and Harry could see her struggling to accept what he was saying. Finally, she nodded slightly—not full agreement, but maybe the beginning of it.
"Thank you," she said simply. "For coming after me. For... for not leaving me there."
"I would never leave someone behind," Harry replied. "Especially not someone who didn't deserve what happened to them."
The gratitude in Ginny's eyes was almost painful to look at, but before Harry could say anything else, Mrs. Weasley was ushering her daughter back toward the group.
"Come along, dear," she said softly. "Let's give Mr. Potter some time to rest."
As the family began to file toward the door, Mr. Weasley paused beside Harry's bed one more time.
"If you ever need anything," he said quietly, "anything at all—you know where to find us. The Weasley family doesn't forget its debts."
Great, Harry thought as he watched them leave. Now I have an entire family of Gryffindors who think they owe me a life debt. This should make House politics interesting.
But as awkward as the gratitude might be, Harry had to admit there was something warming about seeing Ginny surrounded by people who loved her, who would do anything to keep her safe. It reminded him of the Tonks family.
"Well," Nymphadora said once the Weasleys were gone, "that was unexpectedly sweet. Though I notice you didn't mention the part where you were probably calculating the market value of basilisk materials while rescuing the poor girl."
Harry gave her his most innocent expression. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I am a pure-hearted hero motivated only by noble intentions."
"Uh-huh," Nymphadora replied dryly. "And I'm the Queen of the Pixies."
The telltale whoosh of Floo travel echoed from Madam Pomfrey's office, followed immediately by the sound of rapid footsteps and familiar voices raised in what sounded suspiciously like an argument.
"—told you we should have come straight here instead of stopping to pack—"
"—needed to bring his spare clothes and that bloody talisman kit he's always fussing with—"
"—could have been dying while you were folding his socks—"
Harry felt a smile tug at his lips despite his exhaustion. Leave it to Ted and Andromeda to bicker their way through a family crisis.
The Hospital Wing doors burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges, revealing Ted and Andromeda Tonks in various states of dishevelment. Ted's usually neat brown hair stuck up at odd angles, suggesting he'd been running his hands through it, while Andromeda's typically perfect appearance showed signs of hasty dressing and barely controlled panic.
"Harry!" Andromeda's voice cracked slightly as she caught sight of him propped up against his pillows. "Oh, thank Merlin, you're awake."
She crossed the room in what might have been record time for someone wearing heels, her medical training apparently warring with her maternal instincts as she visibly restrained herself from immediately checking him over for injuries.
"We came as soon as we received Professor Snape's Patronus," Ted said, following at a more sedate pace but with eyes that betrayed his own relief. "A silver doe appearing in our sitting room at half past six in the morning with news that you'd defeated a basilisk and collapsed from magical exhaustion—I think Andromeda aged about ten years in as many seconds."
Snape sent them a Patronus? Harry blinked in surprise. I didn't know he cared enough to contact my family personally.
"Professor Snape contacted you?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about his Head of House's motivations.
"I'm not sure he cares much," Andromeda said right away. "But you are his student, and a Slytherin, so is his job to inform the family when a student of his house is injuried."
"Though," Andromeda continued, her tone shifting from relief to something considerably more dangerous, "that doesn't mean I'm not absolutely furious with you, Harry James Potter."
Ah. Here we go.
Harry watched warily as Andromeda's expression transformed from concerned guardian to the sort of righteous maternal fury that could probably cow a dragon. Her dark eyes—so like Nymphadora's when she wasn't morphing them into other colors—blazed with a mixture of pride, terror, and barely restrained urge to throttle him.
"A basilisk, Harry?" she said, her voice carrying the sort of deadly quiet that made Professor Snape's intimidation tactics look amateur by comparison. "You went into the Chamber of Secrets, alone, to face a thousand-year-old basilisk? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?"
"Well," Harry said carefully, "when you put it like that, it does sound rather reckless—"
"Rather reckless?" Andromeda's voice climbed an octave. "Rather reckless? You could have died! You could have been killed, or petrified, or—or worse! What were you thinking?"
I was thinking about saving an eleven-year-old girl and possibly acquiring some very valuable magical materials, Harry thought, but decided that particular combination of noble and mercenary motives might not improve his situation.
"I was thinking that Ginny Weasley was going to die if someone didn't help her," he said instead, which was also true. "And I was the only one who could get into the Chamber."
"That's—" Andromeda began, then stopped, her anger visibly warring with what looked like fierce pride. "That's exactly the sort of thing you would do, isn't it? Rush headlong into danger to save someone you barely know."
"It's the Potter in him," Ted said with a mixture of fond exasperation and admiration. "James would have done exactly the same thing at his age. Probably with less planning and more dramatic flair."
Less planning? Harry thought indignantly. I had a perfectly reasonable plan. It just happened to involve a lot of improvisation once I actually got down there.
"Don't encourage him," Andromeda snapped, though some of the heat had gone out of her voice. "He's reckless enough without thinking his father would have approved."
"His father would have been proud," Ted said firmly. "Just like we are. Terrified out of our minds, but proud."
Harry felt something warm and complicated settle in his chest at those words. Even when they were furious with him, even when he'd scared them half to death, the Tonks still claimed him as family. Still worried about him like he mattered, like losing him would leave a hole in their lives that couldn't be filled.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, meaning it. "I'm sorry I scared you. But I'm not sorry I went after Ginny."
Andromeda's expression softened at his words, though she still looked like she wanted to wrap him in protective charms and keep him safely locked in his room until he turned thirty.
"I know you're not," she said with a sigh. "And that's part of what makes this so terrifying. You have your father's heroic streak and your mother's protective instincts, which means you're going to keep throwing yourself into danger every time someone needs help."
"Could be worse," Ted pointed out cheerfully. "He could have the Black family's tendency toward dramatic gestures and self-destructive behavior."
"He went into the Chamber of Secrets to fight a basilisk," Andromeda replied dryly. "How much more dramatic and self-destructive do you want him to get?"
"Fair point," Ted conceded. Then his expression grew more serious. "Though speaking of dramatic gestures, Harry, you should probably prepare yourself. News like this doesn't stay contained for long, especially not when it involves the Boy Who Lived performing another impossible feat."
Harry groaned, sinking deeper into his pillows. "Please tell me the Prophet isn't going to make this into some sort of ridiculous headline."
"Oh, it's going to be much worse than that," Ted said with the sort of grim satisfaction that suggested he'd been thinking about this problem for a while. "By the time the story spreads, you're going to have three separate titles attached to your name. 'The Boy Who Lived' was just the beginning. Now you'll also be 'The Boy Who Makes Talismans' and 'The Boy Who Slayed a Basilisk.'"
Sweet Salazar's serpents. Harry could already imagine the attention that would bring—more staring, more whispers, more people who wanted to either worship him or challenge him to prove they were better.
"Can't I just be 'Harry' to anyone?" he muttered. "It's a perfectly good name. Short, simple, easy to pronounce."
"Not when you keep doing things like single-handedly saving the school from ancient monsters," Nymphadora pointed out from her chair, though she was grinning with obvious pride. "Face it, Harry—you're stuck being famous."
Harry was quiet for a moment, absorbing the weight of what Ted was telling him. More fame meant more attention, more expectations, more people who would want something from him. But it also meant recognition for the work he'd chosen to do, for the choices he'd made.
And it means the Italian Ministry will definitely want to do business with me now, he realized with a spark of satisfaction. Nothing like basilisk-slaying credentials to establish your credibility in international magical commerce.
"You know what?" Harry said finally, looking between Ted and Andromeda with genuine gratitude. "Let them call me whatever they want. Let the Prophet write their ridiculous headlines and the Ministry politicians make their speeches. As long as I have you two—as long as I have a real family who cares about me for who I am, not what I've done—I think I can handle the rest."
Andromeda's expression grew suspiciously bright, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. "You'll always have us, Harry. No matter what titles the world gives you, no matter how famous or powerful you become—you'll always be our boy."
Our boy. The words hit Harry with unexpected force.
"Good," he said, then straightened slightly as a thought occurred to him, his eyes burned. "Because I'm going to need your help with something fairly urgent."
Madam Pomfrey, who had been bustling around the far end of the Hospital Wing during the family reunion, looked up sharply at his words.
"Mr. Potter," she said in the tone of someone who had dealt with far too many patients who confused 'urgent' with 'convenient,' "what could possibly be so urgent that it can't wait until you've properly recovered from magical exhaustion?"
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, determined to prove that he was perfectly capable of—
"Oh no you don't," Nymphadora said immediately, appearing at his side with the sort of reflexes that would have made a professional Quidditch Keeper proud. Her hands pressed firmly against his shoulders, pushing him back against the pillows.
"I'm fine," Harry protested, though the way the room tilted slightly when he'd tried to stand up suggested otherwise. "I just need to—"
"You need to rest for at least a week," Andromeda interrupted. "Magical exhaustion isn't something you recover from overnight, Harry. Your magical core needs time to stabilize, and your body needs time to recover from the strain you've put it through."
"But the basilisk materials—" Harry began.
"Will still be there in a week," Ted added reasonably. "Ancient magical creatures don't exactly have expiration dates, you know."
Madam Pomfrey nodded approvingly from her position near the medical supplies cabinet. "Finally, someone with sense. Mr. Potter, you are not leaving this bed until I'm satisfied that you won't collapse the moment you try to cast a simple Lumos charm."
Harry opened his mouth to argue further, but the arrival of another visitor cut him off before he could make his case.
"Ah, excellent. I see our young hero is awake."
Professor Dumbledore entered the Hospital Wing with his usual serene composure, though Harry noticed the headmaster's blue eyes were sharper than usual behind his half-moon spectacles. He looked like someone who'd spent the night piecing together a particularly complex puzzle and wasn't entirely pleased with the picture that was emerging.
"Headmaster," Harry said, straightening as much as his horizontal position allowed. "I'm glad you're here. I need to—"
"Rest and recover," Dumbledore finished with a gentle smile that somehow managed to be both kindly and implacable. "Yes, I imagine you have quite a few urgent projects demanding your attention. But first, I believe we have some matters to discuss regarding yesterday's events."
The headmaster's gaze moved to encompass the assembled Tonks family and Madam Pomfrey. "I hope you won't mind if I request a few moments of privacy with Harry? The nature of what occurred in the Chamber is... rather sensitive."
Sensitive is one way to put it, Harry thought. 'Potentially world-altering' might be more accurate, depending on what Dumbledore knows about purple mist that can destroy dark magical artifacts.
"Of course," Ted said immediately. "Though if it's all the same to you, Headmaster, we'd prefer to stay. Harry's family now, and we have a right to know what he's gotten himself into."
Dumbledore studied the three Tonks with those penetrating blue eyes, and Harry could practically see him weighing considerations that probably stretched back decades.
"Very well," the headmaster said finally. "I believe Harry is fortunate indeed to have such devoted guardians."
Madam Pomfrey looked considerably less pleased about being excluded from the conversation. "I suppose you'll want me to make myself scarce as well?"
"If you wouldn't mind, Poppy. I promise to keep the discussion brief and avoid anything that might agitate our patient's condition."
The matron huffed her displeasure but retreated to her office, muttering something about headmasters who thought medical advice was merely a suggestion.
Once they were alone, Dumbledore conjured a chair for himself and settled down beside Harry's bed with the sort of thoughtful expression that suggested he was choosing his words very carefully.
"Now then, Harry," he said gently, "I wonder if you might tell me exactly what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. The other professors and I have examined the scene, of course, but I suspect there are details that only you can provide."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to organize the events of the previous day into something resembling a coherent narrative. Where to start? The diary that turned out to be Voldemort? The basilisk fight? Itisa's purple mist that somehow destroyed a dark magical artifact?
"It started with the diary," Harry said finally. "Tom Riddle's diary. Ginny had been writing in it, and it was... feeding off her somehow. Draining her life force to make Tom more solid."
Dumbledore nodded, unsurprised. "And this Tom Riddle—did he tell you anything about himself?"
"He claimed he was the one who solved the Chamber mystery fifty years ago. Said he framed Hagrid for it." Harry's jaw tightened slightly. "Then he revealed that 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' was an anagram for 'I am Lord Voldemort.'"
Ted sucked in a sharp breath, while Andromeda went very still beside him. Nymphadora's hair flickered through several colors before settling on a worried shade of brown.
"I see," Dumbledore said quietly. "And what happened next?"
"He summoned the basilisk to kill me. But Itisa..." Harry paused, glancing at the small black cat curled on his blanket. "Itisa fought her."
"The basilisk was commanded to kill, but I managed to talk to her in Parseltongue. She was tired, Professor. Tired of being used as a weapon, tired of being alone. So I offered her a choice—freedom instead of servitude."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "And she accepted?"
"She did, and Tom said that it won't matter once he is back to full strength..." Harry hesitated, unsure how much to reveal about Itisa's attack. "I tried to destroy the diary, but nothing worked. But Itisa... she did something. Breathed this purple mist at the diary, and it just... rotted away like a fruit."
The headmaster leaned forward slightly, his expression intensely interested. "Purple mist, you say?"
"Yes. And when she used it, my scar hurt worse than it ever has. Tom started screaming, and then he just... faded away as the diary fell apart."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled in front of him as he processed what Harry had told him. The silence stretched until Harry couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at him.
"You know something, don't you? About what the diary really was?"
"I have theories," Dumbledore said carefully. "Many theories, in fact. But I need to verify certain facts before I can share them with you. The magic involved is... ancient and dangerous. Not something to be discussed lightly."
Of course he does. Harry bit back his frustration at yet another adult who seemed to think withholding information was somehow protective. First, Loretta with her cryptic metaphors about fractured souls, now Dumbledore with his 'theories' that he won't explain.
"Right," Harry said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Well, while you're checking your theories, I need to get down to the Chamber and collect—"
"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "you needn't worry about the basilisk's remains. They are quite secure, I assure you."
Harry tried to sit up again, only to be pushed back down by Nymphadora's firm hands. "But the skin, the scales, the venom—those materials are incredibly valuable. If someone else gets to them first—"
"No one else will be getting to them," Dumbledore said with quiet certainty. "According to wizarding law, you are the rightful owner of everything the basilisk possessed. Right of conquest is an ancient and well-established precedent."
Harry blinked in surprise. "Right of conquest?"
"Indeed. You defeated the creature in single combat—or rather, your companion did so at your direction. By law, everything it owned, including its physical remains, belongs to you. Not the Ministry, not the school, not anyone else. Even Minister Fudge himself could not legally claim so much as a single scale."
Sweet Salazar's serpents. Harry felt a surge of excitement. Decades worth of basilisk skin, legally his to use however he saw fit. The Italian Ministry contract would be the least of what he could accomplish with materials that valuable.
"The only restriction," Dumbledore continued, "is that you cannot use these materials in ways that would endanger the school or its students. I trust that won't be a problem?"
"Of course not," Harry said immediately. "I'm not about to turn Hogwarts into some sort of experimental talisman factory."
Though a small workshop in the Chamber itself might be incredibly useful, he mused. All that space, perfect privacy, and direct access to my materials.
"Excellent. Then I suggest you focus on your recovery, and we can discuss the practical arrangements once you're back on your feet."
Harry started to push himself upright again, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Actually, I could probably start working right now. Just theoretical work, nothing too strenuous—"
"Harry James Potter," Andromeda's voice cut through his planning like a blade, "do you remember our conversation during Christmas? About obsession and the Black family trait of pushing themselves too far?"
Harry deflated slightly under her stern gaze. "Yes, but this is different. This is important—"
"This is exactly the same," Andromeda said firmly. "You're so focused on your projects that you're willing to ignore your own health to pursue them. That diary, whatever it was, nearly killed you. Your magical core is exhausted, your hands are shaking, and you can barely sit up without assistance. And your first thought is to get back to work?"
"She's right, Harry," Ted added gently. "The materials will still be there in a week. Your Italian Ministry contract can wait a few more days. Your health can't."
Harry looked around at the three faces surrounding his bed—all of them worried, all of them determined to keep him from pushing himself too hard. Even Nymphadora was nodding in agreement, despite her usual encouragement of his more ambitious schemes.
"Fine," he said with a sigh that was only partly theatrical. "I'll rest. But only for a few days, and only if someone makes sure no one else goes poking around my basilisk."
"I'll personally make sure no one touches anything," Nymphadora promised with the sort of grin that suggested she was looking forward to the opportunity to intimidate anyone who tried. "Besides, it's not like anyone else can get into the Chamber anyway. You're the only Parselmouth in the school."
True enough, Harry reflected. And it's not as if ancient basilisk materials are going to suddenly deteriorate after surviving for a thousand years.
"All right," he said finally, settling back against his pillows with only minimal grumbling. "I'll be a model patient. But I want daily reports on the security situation, and if anyone so much as looks at the Chamber entrance sideways, I want to know about it immediately."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said with what might have been amusement. "Though I suspect your materials are quite safe. Very few people are eager to venture into a chamber that until recently housed a thousand-year-old basilisk."
Fair point, Harry thought. Nothing like a giant snake to keep casual treasure hunters away.
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