Disclaimer: Nothing is mine; everything is J K Rowling's.
We have reached the end of everything I wrote, or half-started writing, in Tanzania. That's a good thing, because it should mean fewer typos, or less typos, since I can't seem to find them to count them.
For all those who might be getting concerned about my pace for H/F, you were warned this would be slow, it's all planned out, and not going to change. That said, there are two reasons not to panic. The first is that this might now almost be a hundred thousand words, but it's only a month old, it isn't getting abandoned any time soon and frankly it's unlikely to ever be dropped; I hate leaving things unfinished. The second is, well, you'll just have to read on and see...
In case anyone is curious, and partially because I just like typing, my original novel is a very ambitious attempt to create a fantasy epic of similar detail (if not the quality since I'm not arrogant enough to hope of achieving it) o Martin o Tolkien, though more the latter than the former, and then using a deeper view of character and more emotive spin on things. I actually write psychological thriller, despite loving fantasy more, and want to sort of combine the internal, mental aspect of my genre with the creative, descriptive part of fantasy.
Having re-read that paragraph I might try changing my middle name to two names beginning with 'R'. Could be something there ;)
Chapter 22
'Why are you still trying to get stronger,' the portrait demanded from its place beneath one of the serpent effigies.
'I need to be more powerful,' Harry reminded him. He was a little puzzled by his ancestor's question; he'd answered it before and the painting never asked the same thing again once it received a satisfactory answer.
'For someone so set on dying you seem remarkably reluctant to accept it.'
'I do not want to die,' Harry told the painting from behind clenched teeth. 'I want to live. I want my dreams. I want my hope and I want my life.'
Salazar Slytherin blinked and peered at him closely. 'So you are not going to let them use and sacrifice you.'
'Either I am sacrificed for the gain of everyone, or I must use somebody for my own gain,' Harry replied sombrely. 'I'm not Tom Riddle. I will not destroy the lives of others just to preserve or improve my own.'
'Riddle stands at one extreme, you at the other,' the founder cried exasperatedly. 'See the middle ground! Walk it! Don't throw away your life because you're paranoid of emulating your predecessor.'
'Voldemort is not my predecessor,' Harry hissed.
'He was my heir before you came and proved to me you were more worthy. He is, without a doubt, distant family of yours. Do not delude yourself into thinking he is some personification of evil that you must avoid.' The portrait too had switched too parseltongue. 'I will tell you of the Tom Riddle I knew.'
Harry waited, fuming silently. He knew enough about Voldemort to know he should not be following in his footsteps.
'A boy came into this chamber, thin, ragged and alone. A child who dreamed of becoming something great enough to be remembered, to protect the few who had protected him. He was family, my heir, my legacy and I offered him my help. As the years past he withdrew within himself, cut off from the few he had trusted. Albus Dumbledore threw him back to the muggles that loathed him without a second thought for his well being, the students avoided him, not wanting to be dragged into his spiral to self-destruction. Within this chamber he learned he had the ability to be something great and he was determined to seize it. He swore he would be stronger. He promised himself to be powerful enough to be respected.'
'You said that you would tell me about Tom Riddle,' Harry interrupted, 'not me.'
Salazar laughed coldly. 'I am.'
Harry blanched.
'Did you think you were so different?' The founder asked him more gently. 'Even accounting for the effect of the horcrux within you the two of you would have been similar. I have said nothing because I knew you would not want to listen, but I will not stay silent if it means you will throw away your life over it.'
'Perhaps,' Harry responded, still slightly horrified by the resemblance between Tom Riddle and he, 'it is best I do, if I am so like him. The world does not need or want a second Lord Voldemort.'
'Don't be a fool,' Salazar snapped. 'You are a hundred times worse than Godric. It took Rowena and I a month to convince him the first time he killed that he was still a good person and a good wizard. You stand here with only noble intentions and speak about dying before you become a dark wizard. Did you not listen when I explained to you the principles of magic?'
'There is no light and dark, only power, and the intent that directs it,' Harry remembered.
'Then there is nothing that needs to be said. You are like him, but you are not him. I am sure I am not the only one who sees the similarity, Dumbledore must as well, Riddle often spoke of the man as something akin to an idol.'
'He does.' The image of the headmaster's playing face when Harry flashed him Tom Riddle's blinding smile swam briefly in the eye of his mind.
'And has he ever shown any concern that you might become another Voldemort? He may be raising you to sacrifice, keeping you alive until your death suits him best, but he knows that the two of you are still different.' The founder straightened up and raised his chin proudly; a sure sign some pithy phrase was about to fall from his lips. 'The two of you are apples, fallen far apart, but from the same tree.'
I suppose it is better than some of his metaphors.
Harry felt more than a little relief that his ancestor did not believe him too similar to Tom Riddle. A small voice of doubt murmured that the painting had probably not known him as well as it thought it did if it had not been able to predict what he would become, but Harry allowed himself to be convinced.
'It still changes nothing,' he reminded the portrait. 'I have to die, or Voldemort will eventually find a way to return and many more will suffer.'
'The horcrux that anchors him has to be destroyed,' Salazar corrected, 'you do not have to die for that to happen.'
'Someone has to die. I won't use the Killing Curse to tear apart my soul just to save myself.'
'It will heal,' the founder insisted. 'If it works somebody who should die will be dead and you will remain unchanged. The soul reflects you. As long as your intentions do not shift down a darker path your soul will be fine and you will never so much as see Tom Riddle's footprints again.'
'I won't do it.' Harry wished fervently that the portrait would give up. He wanted to test his magic, not argue with his canvas ancestor and wrestle with the less selfless side of his conscience.
'So you say,' Slytherin lamented. 'I wonder how many more of your trusted friends will try to use you before you realise that you too are entitled to be selfish.'
'I have no trusted friends left,' Harry told him flatly. 'There is small chance of me being used as you seem to fear. Those that would not stand by me will drift apart and I will no longer care for them. I will find equals who understand, or I will die strong enough to be respected by all.'
'I would sooner the former, than the latter, but if you insist on following this selfless path, one even Godric would have baulked at, then I fear the latter is the best you can hope for.'
Harry shot his ancestor a cold glare and drew his wand from his sleeve.
The disillusionment charm was the first thing he cast, to check whether his perfect invisibility had been fluke.
'You mastered it,' Slytherin murmured, impressed. Evidently it had not been luck.
'Papilionis ,' Harry whispered, ignoring the painting.
The Chamber of Secrets was filled with black butterflies. They swarmed and swirled around him in a whirring demi-sphere of wings.
'The butterflies,' he heard Salazar grouse faintly beneath the thrum of his conjurations'. 'What was wrong with conjuring snakes, a proper Heir of Slytherin would conjure serpents. Anything would be more seemly than little butterflies.'
Harry grinned and flicked the first butterfly in the portrait's direction as he transfigured it from the harmless insect to a razor-edged shard of steel.
'Stop that,' the painting exploded as the projectile ricocheted violently off the serpent above him.
In a matter of moments Harry covered the chamber in flurry of steel pieces. He had grown adept at this, the scratched, criss-crossed hide of the dead basilisk bore mute testimony to his practice with the piece of magic. It was a neat, clever combat enchantment, even if he had to say so himself. Harry did have to say it himself, because the only other who knew about it was Salazar and he'd rather light himself on fire than admit he approved of his heir using butterflies.
'You've grown very good at using that embarrassment,' Slytherin remarked acidly.
Harry ignored the snide comment and dispelled his butterflies and strewn projectiles in wisps of black smoke.
Turning to the pool he prepared to use his most draining enchantment. He always ended every session of magic use by trying to hold it as long as possible. Salazar had assured him that by practicing a spell so demanding, both magically and mentally, he would improve swiftly.
'Not from the water,' the portrait ordered. Harry turned to regard it curiously. His conjuration had always had an elemental twist to it, the strength of the summoned serpent came partially from whatever he had created it from.
'The air,' the founder suggested. 'If you can conjure it effectively from nothing but the air around you it will become a far more versatile and dangerous tool in any duel or combat you might find yourself in.'
Harry remembered how hard it had been to conjure his butterflies from the air and frankly thought that his ancestor had probably spent a few too many centuries down here on his own if he thought conjuring a seventy foot basilisk from air was even possible.
'Don't look so sceptical,' the painting snapped. 'I don't want you to give it flesh, blood and scales, coalesce it from the air, give it form from the element just as you have always done.'
Harry's scepticism did not fade in the slightest, but he did his best to rearrange his face into something more hopeful.
He slashed his wand away from his across his chest, focusing as clearly as he could on forming a basilisk form the air, its fang-filled maw and smooth scales striking from nothing across the chamber.
There was a blur of motion, like heat-haze in the distance, then the tongue bridge shattered like so much glass, spraying pieces across the pool.
'Never listen to my suggestions again,' Salazar told him sternly. There was a piece of bridge lodged in the edge of his frame and more than a few marks across the canvas from smaller bits of debris. 'Your focus must have been frighteningly intense to create an effect like that.'
The two of them silently regard the damage until Harry waved his wand and cast the mending charm. The bridge reformed perfectly, but Salazar's portrait was not affected by the spell.
'I don't understand why we couldn't see it,' the fonder muttered. 'I expected,' he clarified at Harry's raised eyebrow, 'for translucent serpent similar to the water based one. Yours was barely visible. It was as if you tried to form it from nothing rather than air, and somehow succeeded.'
Harry frowned, trying to recall his exact thoughts when he had performed the enchantment. He had, he realised, visualised creating it from nothing, but he had done the same for the butterflies without any unexpected effect.
'I think you made it a vacuum,' Salazar suggested tentatively. 'Somehow your mind made that conjured basilisk out of nothing, grasping the idea of something being made of nothing so completely and comprehensively it worked. I've never seen anything like it,' he finished a little jubilantly.
'I can test it again,' Harry suggested lightly.
'Not in the chamber,' Slytherin hissed. 'Go and ruin the Room of Requirement instead.'
Harry chuckled and tucked his wand up his sleeve. He was rather proud of just how destructive that piece of magic had been. He hoped he was able to replicate it in the future, no simple shield charm was going to stop an impact like that.
Then the implications of Salazar's explanation struck him and his pride drained away.
My most powerful spell is based on understanding the feeling of nothing.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. The irony was so bitter it burnt.
'Are you leaving?' The painting stared up at him from its propped up position. 'If you are you're not going until you've put me back in the study. I refuse to be left on the floor. I am Salazar Slytherin.'
'Technically you're just his painting,' Harry pointed out. The portrait was a little too fond of reminding him of who it was.
Slytherin opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. Harry relished the brief moment of speechlessness that came before he was buried in a torrent of furious parseltongue.
'Ungrateful, am I?' he repeated, picking one of the few tangible words. 'You went back on your words about show me how to remove the anti-levitation charm on this thing. I'm not very grateful about having to keep carrying it back and forth.'
'I don't know how,' the portrait admitted. The snake had buried its head in Salazar's robes out of shame.
'You're Salazar Slytherin,' Harry repeated in mock pride.
'Rowena put it on, not me. I wasn't as good as she was at enchanting things.'
'So in other words I have to keep carrying you around.' Harry was none too impressed by that.
'It's an honour,' the portrait assured him good-naturedly. 'Think of all the things I've taught you.' Harry couldn't exactly deny how much the painting had helped in his effort to improve himself. It had been by far his best teacher. Perhaps because, unlike all the other professors who were somewhat distanced from the student body by their positions and thus never quite part and party to what was happening, Salazar was near enough to help. Whatever the reason was the ancient, slightly eccentric, short-tempered piece of canvas has become the one thing he trusted most. There was only one piece of advice from it he would not follow.
'I am leaving,' Harry answered finally, picking up the portrait and hefting it back to its spot over the door. 'I need to eat, especially after using so much magic.'
'Watch out for your former friends,' the painting warned as he left. 'They do not seem so noble as you.'
As if Ron or Dean would have thought twice before saving themselves.
Harry was certain that if any of there other Gryffindors had been his position there would be an unexplained body on the grounds, probably in silver and green bordered robes, and one less anchor for Tom Riddle's spirit to cling to.
Lunch was pumpkin pastries. It was Harry's least favourite meal at Hogwarts, though still far preferable to anything Petunia or Vernon had ever voluntarily given him. Having pumpkin pastries meant that, between the food and the drink, over half the meal tasted of the oddly flavoured, orange-fleshed fruit and Harry was none to fond of pumpkins. He'd disliked them ever since almost cutting off his thumb in an attempt to make three ghost-like lanterns at Halloween when he was seven. Only the smallest of the three had even survived the night. The other two had caught fire from the inside and burned until they were twisted, unrecognisable masses of stinking, charred mess. Dudley and the other Dursleys had immediately claimed that the survivor was his work and Harry hadn't cared enough to argue.
Lunch was also when he was most likely to be visited by former friends, new enemies, or even the few people that fell into both categories. He managed at least half an hour, longer than usual, before a distinctly feminine presence took the place beside him.
Don't let it be Katie.
Cowardly as it might be Harry still couldn't bring himself to face her. He knew he might give in and take her back just to feel the warmth, to feel like he was somebody again, but a little later he would remember what she had done, or worse, she might do it again, and everything would spiral back to the empty hell he'd only just escaped from.
'Harry,' a strident tone announced from just outside the frame of his glasses.
Ah, the only person I might want to talk to less than Katie, of course.
He wouldn't be able to ignore her. Harry knew perfectly well that any attempt to ignore Hermione Granger would simply exacerbate things.
'Hermione,' Harry responded, then blinked. He had not meant for his voice to sound so cold. A little icy, yes, to demonstrate that they were no longer on speaking terms, but his tone could have given dementors hypothermia.
'Where have you been?' she demanded. Harry blinked again. He'd been expecting an apology for the breaking of his wand before she tried to squeeze information out of him like he was a particularly difficult book. He voiced as much in a tone that grew only marginally warmer.
'I already said I was sorry, Harry,' she insisted. 'I didn't mean to break it. I had been practicing the charm after Professor Flitwick said you could do it so well and it was the first thing in my head when I cast.'
'If you didn't come to apologise then why did you come?' Harry asked. There was a slow, cold chill of ice beginning to spread through his veins at the girl he was sitting next to.
I left them alone, he wanted to scream. Why can they not do the same.
'We're worried about you,' she said gently, or at least as gently as she could. 'You've been so different after the World Cup.'
'I've heard your theories,' Harry told her. 'You might be interested to know that Dumbledore believes me when I tell him I didn't put my name in for this tournament. Pass that along to Ron, he can tell his new friend Malfoy when visits him in the hospital wing.'
'How did you know about Malfoy, Ron said not to tell anyone,' Hermione whispered.
'What else did he say?'
'That Malfoy was bitten by a snake and Dean's collarbone and arm got broken in a fight between them on the seventh floor. He was really angry about it. I only found anything out because I pressed him when he and Malfoy were being even more antagonistic towards each other than normal.'
A temporary alliance that has since ended. That was good. Harry did not want his enemies joining forces again. He'd been lucky to get out so easily.
'That was it,' Harry said incredulously. 'He didn't mention the two of them trying to ambush me with the assistance of Malfoy and his two goons?'
'No,' Hermione shook her head. 'You broke Dean's arm, Harry,' she gasped, 'and Malfoy was almost paralysed by that snake.'
'He summoned it,' Harry defended casually. He certainly didn't feel he had done anything wrong. They had attacked him, not the other way around.
'Oh,' she seemed a bit too relieved. 'So it wasn't you.'
'It was me,' Harry took great satisfaction in her horror. 'I commanded it to bite him. He should know better than to summon snakes against me.'
She was silent for a very long time and Harry wondered if she was going to get up and leave him be.
'I heard about Katie,' she said softly. He had absolutely no idea how she had come up with the idea that he might want to speak about that with her.
'That's good,' he replied as sarcastically as possible, 'you're probably the only person who has and I really wanted to discuss it with you.'
Hermione flinched.
'We are not friends anymore, Granger,' he reminded her coldly, using her surname to make sure she understood. 'You broke my wand, one of the most precious things I had. I won't ever forget that and I certainly won't forget that your justification behind doing so it that you were so unable to accept I was just as talented as you that you had to attempt a spell you weren't ready for.'
'I was ready for it,' Hermione replied loudly, shaking her hair in indignation.
'I'm glad that that is the only part of my statement you wanted to contest,' Harry snapped. 'Because I'm not sure I could have suppressed my temper if you'd tried to convince me we could still be friends.'
'I don't know what has happened to you, Harry,' she responded with vehemence and the beginnings of tears.
'I'll tell you,' Harry replied, his speech distorting slightly as his emotions fluctuated beyond his control. 'My friends betrayed my trust and abandoned me over petty things, you broke my wand, I was lied to and used. Now I've decided to become strong enough that it can't happen again.'
Hermione got up and left without another word.
Harry watched her back recede into the crowd of students at the other end of the hall with a small, cold smile. He knew his former best friend well enough to be able to see when she was holding back tears.
He finished his pumpkin pastry with rather more gusto than ever before and sat back to think.
If he had to die, he wanted his sacrifice to be recognised and remembered, not for the fame or the glory, but just so he wouldn't disappear into nothing afterwards. He'd heard somewhere that a person died three times. He couldn't recall the first two specifically, though he assumed actual death was one of them, but he had never forgotten the last death. He didn't want the last saying of his name to come for some time, if at all.
There was some commotion at the far end of the hall and Harry, disturbed from his reverie, glanced over curiously.
'No,' he heard a cold, slightly french accented voice say in disgust. 'Not if you were the last male in this school.'
Ah, he realised. The charming Fleur Delacour.
She appeared to have as many problems as he had, but if she didn't he would be sorely tempted to add to them for her part in losing him Katie. As it was he suspected her attempt to steal him had had other, more stress based motives. It couldn't be easy for the french witch, balancing being a champion, a veela and more.
A crimson-faced, mortifed Ron Weasley slunk out of the crowd that surrounded Fleur. The pupils parted to let him go and amongst the slightly glazed expressions that were directed at Beauxbatons' champion were plenty of smiles at his former friends expense.
Harry shot the humiliated Weasley one of his own.
It turned out to be a mistake as he immediately turned on Harry.
'I don't know what you find funny, Potter,' he snarled. 'I'm just as successful as you are and you have to open the ceremony.'
Harry didn't reply. Ron was quite capable of making things worse for himself without his input.
'No wonder Katie dumped you,' he sneered, 'you don't have the courage to ask anyone. It explains why you can't bear to show your face around Gryffindor Tower. There's no room for cowards in the house of the brave.'
That was a step too far for Harry to stomach.
'I don't care about the Yule Ball,' he replied icily. 'Since you're so obsessed with the limelight and being seen you can polyjuice as me and take Hermione.' He smiled a little cruelly, spying Dean across the Hall. 'You'll only have to deal with your little sister making eyes at you the entire time.'
Ron spluttered incoherently and Harry chose to press his advantage.
'Alternatively you could do something to try and make yourself known in your own right, why not try asking Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball?' he suggested with a deceptively straight face. 'I'm sure she wouldn't be too scathing in her response, not when there are so many people around to witness your humiliation.'
'As if I would ever lower myself to act like you,' Ron yelled loudly. 'You don't even have the courage to ask anyone to the ball, let alone Fleur Delacour.' The slightly dreamy way the red-head had said her name rather ruined the effect of his statement and Harry burst out laughing.
'I don't even want to go, let alone with Fleur Delacour,' he answered, unaware of the silence that fallen over the Great Hall in the quiet following Ron's yelling. 'Besides,' he added amusedly, 'she has so many fans, I wouldn't have time to finish my lunch if I wanted to join the queue and ask her.' The mocking lilt to his voice did nothing to contradict the sincerity of his statement. Harry really did not need the attention of going with the french veela, though he had to admit it would make a rathe spectacular form of revenge against Roger Davies.
The Great Hall was very silent for a lunch time he realised suddenly. Harry had spent too much time in the quiet of the chamber and Room of Requirement and didn't notice how unnatural the hush was until too late.
A very familiar sinking feeling manifested itself, growing heavier with each distinct, clear step that rang out across the floor of the hall from his left.
'So,' a soft, french accented voice commented from just above his shoulder. 'You find this… funny.'
Something about the tone Fleur Delacour used reminded him very much of the eyes of the Hungarian Horntail and a very primitive instinct to remain still seized him. Harry searched frantically through his mind for a way out, but he was all too aware of the other Triwizard champion standing close enough for him to feel her breath against the side of his head. He glanced around the room in hope of finding an escape.
Most of the students were watching in fascination, but Ron's face was caught somewhere between horror and worship, gradually transitioning towards shades of purple Harry hadn't seen since Vernon had found the broken the television remote. Dudley had sat on it.
He tried not to laugh at the expression and memory it recalled to him. He really did. It just sort of slipped out anyway.
A very soft-skinned hand caught him by the chin and turned his head round.
Harry found himself staring into a pair of very blue eyes. There were all sort of emotions swimming there that he hadn't seen, or even expected to see, from Fleur Delacour before. Ones that he recognised well. Pride was dominant there, but it was hollow, superficial, and underneath there was so much more. Harry had never, would never, have guessed how similar they actually were if he had not been able to see all his thoughts in her eyes. It was shock enough to momentarily rob him of coherent thought.
'I think you will make a good date to the Yule Ball,' Fleur told him quietly and firmly. It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. There was not a shred of doubt in her tone as to whether he would want to go with her.
She is used to getting what she wants.
Harry was half-tempted to refuse, but he knew, somehow, that Fleur genuinely preferred the company of somebody who didn't want to go with her over that of any of the others who succumbed so easily to her allure and he couldn't find it in himself to refuse. It would be cruel to steal away what must be her last hope of finding a date who would be capable of higher brain function in her presence.
A very small part of him reminded him of what Salazar had said about his nobility being used by others to their own ends, but it was swiftly drowned out. He didn't have the heart not to help her.
Glimpsing Roger Davies in the crowd probably helped him decide too.
'I agree,' he smiled. It was his most charming, bright version of Tom Riddle's expression and it earned a small, polite, proud curving of Fleur's lips.
Neither are real, he realised, and he wondered briefly if Fleur knew that too.
'Good,' she patted his cheek, then retracted her hand to flick her long, silver hair back over her shoulder. 'Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,' she murmured, so only he could hear. 'I'll meet you at the Owlery as we met before, so we can take a day to get to know each other a little before the Yule Ball.'
There really wasn't anything Harry could do but nod. He had heard the unspoken promise of an explanation in her tone, as well as the expectation of one from him.
I'll have to apologise for laughing.
Fleur Delacour left in a swirl of silver hair, leaving only the lingering scent of burnt holly in her wake.
AN: Please read and review. Thanks to everyone who does. The chapter you were all waiting for and probably not expecting quite so soon! In my defence it was before the 100 000 words mark... just about.
P.S. A word of caution for my wonderful readers. The next few chapters need to be just right and will take longer to write to get perfect, like the last two have. As I post pretty much as I finish each chapter, you may have to resign yourselves to the knowledge that you're only getting one chapter a day.
