Chapter 17: Spring 1993 (Part 2)
The only good thing that came out of Grace's petrification was that it brought the student body to its senses. Where in the months before people went out of their way to sneer and hex him, Harry now couldn't go anywhere without meeting apologetic and pitying looks. Harry couldn't decide if it was annoying or not. On the one hand, he appreciated not having to constantly look over his shoulder for attacks, which did wonders for his anxiety. On the other hand, very few people actually apologised for their mistreatment of him; most of his peers simply expected Harry to forgive them and act like the last four months hadn't happened. In addition, their agreement that Harry was not the Heir of Slytherin also meant that Professor Lockhart wasn't afraid to be seen with him—much to Harry's displeasure.
"It's the fickleness of fame," Lockhart told him knowingly one morning in late May. He clapped a surprisingly dainty hand on Harry's shoulder several times and flashed him an award-winning smile. "People love to believe the worst about the talented ones, Harry. The higher you climb, the longer you fall."
This was probably the most helpful advice Lockhart had ever bestowed on anyone at Hogwarts. Harry hoped his smile was more polite than a grimace. "Thank you, Professor Lockhart."
"Oh, come now, Harry," Lockhart said jovially, patting Harry's shoulder several more times. "We both know I'm not your professor. Call me Gilderoy."
Harry grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was for Lockhart to think was that they were friends. "Oh, no, I couldn't. You've earned the right to be called professor," he said diplomatically.
"Right you are!" Lockhart replied, tapping the side of his nose before pointing at him.
Harry nodded and managed to shake off Lockhart. "Thank you for your wisdom, Professor, but I am running late."
"Ah, yes. Your little apprenticeship," he said with a patronising smile.
To Harry's annoyance, Lockhart began trailing after him. He had no choice but to listen to Lockhart's ramblings as he continued towards the Hospital Wing.
"Poppy was telling us how you passed your Fourth-Year exams. And all without proper lessons!" Lockhart exclaimed. He tried to clap Harry on the shoulder but missed when Harry dodged at the last moment, throwing himself off balance. He stumbled over his periwinkle robes and crashed into a suit of armour.
Harry would have pretended not to notice the fumble if it had been any other person. But, seeing as it was Lockhart, Harry stopped and stared at the red-faced braggart, raising an unimpressed eyebrow like he had seen Snape use on numerous occasions. "Have you hurt yourself?" Harry drawled.
Lockhart straightened his robes and tried to right the suit of armour with a flourish of his wand. Nothing happened. "Not to worry, I tripped over the rug—" they glanced down at the rug-less stone floor. Lockhart cleared his throat again. "As I was saying. Congratulations on your exams. And if you would like some extra lessons from an expert—"
"I'll be sure to find one," Harry finished with a polite smile.
One of the portraits on the wall snickered.
Lockhart's smile was more of an embarrassed grimace. "Right, well. I'll just let you get on with it, then." He didn't wait for Harry to reply and quickly scurried away.
The rest of the walk to the Hospital Wing was blissfully quiet, and Harry had to resist the urge to hum a jaunty tune as he made his way through the corridors.
Harry paused, one foot in the Hospital Wing, and stared at the Healer that was not Madam Pomfrey. He was tall, with broad shoulders, sun-bleached brown hair, a healthy tan, and his teeth were an unnatural shade white that made Harry feel vaguely unsettled. The stranger wore knee-length lime green robes made of linen, a pair of linen trousers, and on his head was a white linen veil. But as odd as his appearance was, Harry thought the strangest thing about the man was the leather cowboy boots that clicked against the stone floor as he walked.
"Mornin'," the man said in a booming voice, waving a massive hand. He then let out something that might have been an introduction, but his accent was so thick it was unintelligible. That was assuming, of course, that the man had even spoken English. It was difficult to tell.
"You're Hairy Pawdur?" the man asked.
It took a moment for Harry to realise the man was saying his name. He gave the man a hesitant nod and inched further into the ward.
The man smiled and waved him in. "No need to be scared," he said with a laugh. "I'm Healer Rodriguez."
"You're from America," Harry guessed.
Healer Rodriguez nodded. He said something else, but his accent made it impossible for Harry to understand. "I'm fillin' in for Poppy today," Harry managed to catch. "She had a meetin' at St Mungo's."
This was news to Harry. He wondered why Madam Pomfrey hadn't mentioned it. "About what?"
Healer Rodriguez shrugged, unconcerned. "This and that."
Medusa chose that moment to peek her head out of Harry's bag. Harry half expected the Healer to freak out at the sight of a venomous snake in the Hospital Wing, but the man surprised him again.
"And this must be Medusa," he said, motioning for Harry to hand over the snake, which he did reluctantly. Healer Rodriguez cradled Medusa in his arms with surprising gentleness. "Well, ain't you just the purddiest little lady I ever did see," he cooed, tickling Medusa under the chin. Medusa went limp in his hands. Harry swore he heard her sigh with contentment.
Healer Rodriguez gave Harry a mischievous grin. "I've bin waitin' to meet her," he admitted, passing Medusa back.
Harry draped her over his shoulder. "Will you be overseeing the Hospital Wing today?"
"No, sir," Healer Rodriguez replied before pointing at Harry with a flourish. "You will. Let me know if you need anythin'." And with that, he flounced off, his robes swishing at his knees.
Excitement built in Harry's chest at the prospect of running the Hospital Wing for the entire day. He quickly settled into his routine, checking on the petrified patients first. It didn't take long for other students to begin trickling in needing to be healed—a broken wrist here, a botched transformation there, a student sneezing chocolate milk, a boy who had been hexed to have antlers by his disgruntled girlfriend. They happily let Harry set them right, which was a stark contrast to just a few weeks previously when few people would let him touch them.
"I think there's a student with Hippogriff Fever," Harry said, poking his head into the office. Healer Rodriguez was bent over Madam Pomfrey's desk, reading a patient file. "She said she got bit by a Hippogriff, and now she's growing wings."
The man pursed his lips in thought. "Has she grown a beak yet?" When Harry shook his head, he stood and motioned for Harry to follow him out of the office. Healer Rodriguez crossed the ward in three long strides, leaving Harry, with his shorter legs, to sprint after him. He leaned over the patient's bite wound with the excitement of a child on Christmas. "I've never seen this in person before. Is it common here?"
"Hogwarts has a heard of Hippogriffs," Harry explained. "We get a few cases a year, but Professor Kettleburn generally keeps the sick ones quarantined."
Healer Rodriguez nodded thoughtfully before fixing Harry with an expectant look. "Whadya think we should do?"
"Draw out the infected blood with a Murtlap poultice and a stomach soother to help with nausea. The feathers will stop on their own within the next two days," Harry decided, already summoning the necessary supplies. "And send a note to Kettleburn about a possible outbreak."
Healer Rodriguez hummed and continued to watch the wound, which had begun to sprout feathers, with fascination.
"Would you like to treat her?" Harry asked hesitantly.
His eyes grew round, and he gave Harry a radiant smile. "Can I?" he asked, giddiness colouring his tone. Without waiting for Harry to respond, he dropped into the chair next to the patient. He began to slather it with Murtlap, chattering away in his thick, unintelligible accent. The girl shot Harry a panicked look, but when she tried to say something, her voice came out as a squawk.
Unsure what else to do, Harry gave her a thumbs up and walked away, making sure to draw a set of privacy screens around them. As he considered what to do next, the doors to the Hospital Wing opened again, revealing Ron Weasley and John. Harry's heart lurched at the sight of them. After their accusations, Harry had barely spoken to either boy; the pain was still as fresh as it had been in December, and Harry doubted he could keep things civil.
"What brings you in today?" Harry asked, beckoning them into the ward. He doubted his capacity to treat them, but as Healer Rodriguez was busy, the responsibility fell on Harry to at least check them in.
Ron shot John a nervous look. "I'd like to visit Ginny," Ron mumbled. "If that's allowed."
In the four months Ginny lay comatose in the Hospital Wing, Ron was her only brother who had yet to visit. Harry didn't blame him; it was difficult to look at a loved one in such a state. He could barely stomach caring for Grace, and she was merely petrified. He could only imagine how scary it was to look at your younger sibling and know that they were a hair's breadth from death.
"Of course," Harry replied gently, motioning for him to follow. "I can only allow you, though. Madam Pomfrey has decided that only family should visit her."
Ron nodded and trotted behind Harry, ducking behind the privacy screen around Ginny's bed. Face pale and drawn, Ron inched close to her bed and took her lifeless hand in his. "How is she?" he asked, his voice thick.
"She's quite sick," Harry admitted after considering his words. Truthfully, Ginny was doing very poorly. Whilst they had managed to stabilise her back in February, it was a constant battle to keep her alive. Whatever curse she had encountered was powerful and continued to leach her life from her, despite the fact that it was nowhere to be found. "She's been placed in a coma to buy us some time while we look for a cure."
"You still haven't found it yet?" The question wasn't accusing, which surprised Harry. Given their history, he had expected more accusations.
Harry conjured a chair and offered it to Ron, who fell heavily into it. "I'm still looking," Harry reassured him.
"Thank you," he whispered, not taking his eyes off Ginny.
Feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, Harry turned and began to leave, only to stop when Ron called his name.
"I'm sorry," Ron mumbled, not looking at Harry. "For thinking you were…"
"The Heir of Slytherin?" Harry supplied, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from slipping into his words.
Ron's ears turned red, but he finally turned to face him. "That was mean of me," he admitted. "I shouldn't have accused you of anything. You've always been a decent bloke."
Harry's first thought was to roll his eyes, stomp away, and maybe throw a hex over his shoulder for good measure. After all, what Ron had accused him of was unthinkable. On some of his more miserable nights, he even wondered if it was Ron's fault for Harry and John's estrangement. It was so easy to blame Ron for everything that had gone wrong. It was certainly easier than dissecting his own relationship with John.
But then he remembered his father's words over Christmas and how scared Ron and John had been. About how scared the entire school was, really. And scared people weren't always the most rational—like how Percy Weasley had attacked him when he was trying to save Ginny.
So, Harry bit back a sarcastic retort and forced himself to nod in acknowledgement. Because despite Ron's lacklustre apology, he was still apologising. That was more than what most Hogwarts—his own brother—had done. Harry thought that if Ron could be brave and own up to his mistakes, the least he could do was acknowledge it. "Thank you, Ron," he murmured, bowing his head.
Ron didn't say anything else, and Harry took that as his queue to leave. Stepping out from behind the privacy screen, Harry looked over to the doors, where John still lingered. Curious and more than a little hopeful that Ron's repentant attitude had inspired John, Harry wandered over to his brother.
"Did you need anything?" he asked quietly. He had assumed John had tagged along for moral support, but as Harry surveyed his brother's face, he realised that he looked quite ill. John's face was pale and drawn, and his normally bright eyes were dull and sunken in. Harry reached forward to run his fingers through John's lifeless hair without thinking.
For a moment, it seemed like John leaned into his touch before he reared back and slapped Harry's hand away. "Don't touch me."
This was said with so much hostility that Harry was at a loss for words. He raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "You look ill. Are you feeling alright?"
"Why do you care?"
Harry's first reaction was to roll his eyes and snap back, but he took a moment to breathe before responding. After so many months of silence, it was foolish to think he could jump back into a relationship with his brother. Even if he hadn't been the one to destroy said relationship. "Because you're my brother?" he replied at last.
John scoffed and rolled his eyes.
The dismissive response hurt more than he thought it would. Instead of snapping back with an emotional response, Harry tried again. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Why have you forgiven him?"
The non sequitur caught Harry off guard. Mainly because he didn't know who 'him' was supposed to be. Unless John was talking about Ron? That would make the most logical sense, although Harry wasn't sure how John had overheard their conversation. They had been behind privacy screens, which were charmed to prevent eavesdropping. "He apologised?" he said slowly.
John sneered—a harsh, ugly look that had no business on his soft face. "That's all it takes to get back into your good graces, then?" he asked. "To beg for your forgiveness?"
"You should try it sometime," Harry snapped back before he could stop himself. "At least he's brave enough to admit he cocked up."
A cold laugh that sounded nothing like John's slipped from his brother's lips. "Like I'd want to kiss the hem of your bigoted robes. After all that he's said, you still want him around?"
The anger drained out of Harry, only to be replaced with confusion. "Want him around? He's your best friend. Ron apologised for accusing me of being the Heir—"
"Not him, you wanker," John said, his voice rising. Red spots appeared on his pale cheeks. "You're stupid little pet. Nott."
It took Harry a moment to process John's words. "You're mad about that? John, I forgave him ages ago."
"He called Hermione and your friend a you-know-what."
"He apologised," Harry reiterated, feeling a sharp pain in his temples. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will the headache away. "And he'll apologise to Grace when she's be restored."
"Like that makes a difference. He's a smarmy little worm who's—"
Harry cut John off. "Yes, well, we can't all be St John. The rest of us make mistakes."
John was silent for a moment and gave Harry a look of pure loathing. "You know what? Keep him. The two of you deserve each other," John snarled. "Enjoy your new little brother."
He stormed out of the Hospital Wing before Harry could react, slamming the doors behind him. Harry wondered if the cracking sound he heard was the wood splintering under the force or simply the sound of his heart shattering into a million pieces. He stared at the door, numb.
"Is everythin' alright?" It was Healer Rodriguez.
Harry took a moment to compose his features before turning around. "That was my brother. We're…" he wavered, words escaping him.
Healer Rodriguez hummed in understanding, his eyes becoming glossy as he thought. "Ya know, speakin' as a little brother myself, I think ya should go after 'im," Healer Rodriguez said.
Harry shook his head, hating how his eyes burned. "He doesn't want to see me."
Healer Rodriguez shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. "Maybe not. But I think it would mean a lot to 'im to know ya care enough to chase after 'im."
Doubt swirled in Harry's stomach. Would he? Once upon a time, Harry would have answered yes. But John was so different lately, so angry. They had had their share of arguments before. They were brothers, after all. But this year, it was like Harry was staring at a complete stranger rather than his little brother. "I thought I was supposed to be running the Hospital Wing today?" he replied at last.
"It'll still be here when ya get back," Healer Rodriguez replied. He jerked his chin towards the door, which creaked open. "Now, go."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. He took off, hoping to catch his brother before he got too far. The corridors were empty save for Professor Flitwick, who told him off for running. Harry paused to catch his breath and collect his thoughts, wondering where John would have gone. Surely, he couldn't have gone too far? He had only been a minute or so behind him.
If only he hadn't given Snape the Marauder's Map.
Harry deliberated where to go next. He didn't know what John's schedule looked like, but he highly doubted that he would go to a lesson halfway through the hour. Or would he have gone back to Gryffindor Tower? Or perhaps a stroll through the grounds? Harry moved to a nearby window and peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of John's scruffy hair. He saw nothing but Hagrid tending to his vegetable garden, Fang the Boarhound scaring off crows with thunderous barks that echoed across the grounds.
There was movement in the corner of his eye, and Harry spun around just in time to see the hem of someone's robes disappear around a corner. His first thought was that it was another student wandering the corridors. After all, if it had been John, there was no way he'd have ignored Harry. He'd have approached, angry at being followed or apologetic for their fight, but he wouldn't have ignored Harry. And there was no way that the stranger hadn't seen him standing in the corridor.
But just as the thought occurred to him, he heard something that he couldn't quite explain but sent a chill down his spine: the low, unmistakable reptilian hiss of a snake. It wasn't saying anything that Harry could understand, but he knew the sound as acutely as his own voice. He did know, however, was that this snake was angry.
Ice pricked Harry's veins as he crept down the corridors, placing his feet so that he wasn't overheard. When he reached the corner where the stranger had disappeared, he peeked around, finding the corridor empty, save for a tiny individual—John. His brother reached up, the sleeve of his robes falling past his wrists, exposing bony elbows too big for his thin, pale arms. He touched the stone wall, tracing something that Harry couldn't see, swaying on his feet.
Any and all rational thought fled his brain at the sight of his skeletal brother. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry approached John, wand in hand and a diagnostic charm on the tip of his tongue.
He was mere feet from John when he smelt the blood. It didn't take long to find the source. Whereas before Harry thought his brother was simply touching the stone wall of the corridor, he now realised that John was writing a message. The tips of his fingers were raw and oozing as he finished writing: His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.
Perhaps he should have run in the other direction. Maybe he should have found a competent adult to deal with the situation. But as he watched his brother write something akin to a suicide note in his own blood, a strangled cry of, "John?" slipped from his lips.
John tensed at the sound of his name, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, very slowly, he turned around and fixed him with a dead-eyed stare, his pupils blown so wide that not even a ring of hazel was visible. The sight froze the blood in Harry's veins. He couldn't explain what he was looking at, but he knew that something was very, very wrong with his brother.
Harry raised his wand, but John was faster. With a movement too fast for Harry to see, John whipped his wand and shot a stunner at his chest. Harry was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Genius Fratris
Harry awoke all at once, gasping and flailing, on the wet stone floor of a dark room. He squinted and looked around, only to realise that it wasn't just low lighting that made it difficult to see—his glasses were missing. After searching his pockets furiously for his wand, he found that it was missing too. He stumbled to his feet, his body aching as if he had gone several rounds with a Bludger, and tried to take in his surroundings.
From what he could tell, he was in a dimly lit, subterranean corridor. Half of the floor was covered in the bones of small animals that slid and crunched beneath Harry's feet. The other half of the corridor was flooded with murky water that came up to his ankles in some places and his knees in others. Harry trudged forward, one hand on the slimy wall as he guided himself, half-blind down the corridor, eyes squinted for any sign of John or a way out. He came to a dead-end, the solid wall engraved with two massive intertwined snakes. Harry realised at once where he was.
"Open," he commanded, the hiss of Parseltongue echoing ominously in the corridor.
The wall vanished, and Harry got his first, albeit incredibly blurry, look at the Chamber of Secrets. It was long and narrow, about half the width of the Great Hall but twice as long, the ceiling so high that Harry couldn't see the tops of the stone pillars that supported it. He walked down a narrow stone pathway, ignoring the hisses of the serpents carved into the pillars until he came upon a towering stone statue. Harry couldn't make out the face of the statue, but he had to admit that he wasn't looking too hard. Because at the base of the statue, lying on the ground between two massive sandal-clad feet, was John.
Harry broke out into a run and dropped to his knees beside his brother. Pressing his ear to John's chest, he was relieved to hear a steady, if sluggish, heartbeat. "John," he said, giving his brother an aggressive shake. "Wake up."
When he didn't rouse, Harry began to dig around in John's pockets, searching for his wand.
"Are you looking for something?" The voice was smooth and pleasant. Charming even. And it sent a wave of terror through Harry's body because he knew that voice.
He leapt to his feet and spun around to face a tall, dark-haired man. "Voldemort."
Voldemort gave him a pleased look, and a smile twisted his lips. "You know me?"
It took every bit of his courage to summon his voice to respond. "Naturally." He tried to sneer his words like he was Snape looking down at an abysmal potion. Drawing his shoulders back, he attempted to make himself look calm and in control of the situation.
Voldemort stepped closer, his head tilting as he regarded Harry, just as he had done on Halloween night, eleven years ago. "Fascinating. You must be the brother, then. Harry, is it? The resemblance is unmistakable. Although dear John didn't seem to know who I was." When Harry didn't respond, Voldemort let out a little chuckle that might have been described as pleasant if it wasn't so cold. "He mentioned that you didn't talk much. He mentioned you quite a lot, actually. I've wanted to meet you for quite some time."
"We've met before," Harry replied through gritted teeth.
Voldemort stepped closer, his features coming into focus at last. It was then that Harry realised that he wasn't talking to the Voldemort he remembered. That Voldemort had been in his mid-fifties, his dark wavy hair somewhat receded, and his pale skin stretched tight across his skull. That Voldemort's nose had been reduced to nothing but thin, snake-like slits, and his eyes had turned the colour of freshly spilt blood. But the Voldemort standing before him now was clearly younger, handsome even. He didn't look much older than Harry himself. He was even wearing a Hogwarts uniform, a silver prefect's badge pinned to his chest.
"The night I tried to kill your brother?" he asked, desperate hunger in his voice.
Harry refused to give this maniac any answers. "You said that you were talking to my brother. How?"
If Voldemort noticed the abrupt change of topic, he was too eager to care. Drawing a wand—John's wand, Harry realised—he summoned something from John's body, which he presented to Harry. "My diary," he explained. "From when I was sixteen."
Harry fought down a wave of revulsion as his fingers brushed Voldemort's. He flipped the diary over in his hands, finding it blank, save for the name "T. M. Riddle" penned in neat cursive on the first page, smudged and faded with age, but still clearly visible.
"Riddle," he murmured to himself before looking at Voldemort with an incredulous expression. "You're a Muggle-born?"
Harry knew this was the wrong thing to say the moment it slipped from his lips. Something dark twisted behind Voldemort's eyes. He hit Harry with a blasting hex that sent him flying into the stone statue. Harry landed in a crumpled heap beside John, winded and gasping for air.
"How dare you—I am descended from Salazar Slytherin himself!" he spat, still aiming John's wand at him.
Harry stumbled shakily to his feet and fixed Voldemort with a defiant glare. "Fat lot of good that is," Harry replied. "Seeing as you were killed by a toddler."
"I cannot be killed," Voldemort shouted, his voice echoing throughout the Chamber. "I have made myself immortal. Your foolish brother has helped with that."
Harry raised an eyebrow, hoping he came across as unimpressed rather than scared shitless. "How so?"
Voldemort summoned his diary and waved it in Harry's face. "My diary," he said. "Your brother has been writing in it since February. Before that, Ginny Weasley."
Harry's face twitched, and Voldemort smirked. "Yes, you know her too," Voldemort agreed. "They both had similar things to say about you, you know?"
"Dear Tom," he continued in a high-pitched voice. "My brothers have forgotten all about me. Dear Tom, Harry's too busy to talk to me, but he said he was my friend. Dear Tom, Hogwarts is so lonely without friends. You're my only friend, Tom." Voldemort chuckled. "It was easy to get Ginny to write to me. I was patient; I offered advice. I grew stronger."
"Hang on," Harry said, interrupting Voldemort's monologue. "She wrote to you? In your diary?"
Voldemort's smirk grew, stretching unnaturally wide across his pale face. "A clever piece of magic," he said. "I preserved my sixteen-year-old self in this diary, hoping that, one day, someone would pour enough of their soul into it to release mine."
A cold chill ran down Harry's spine. "You're killing Ginny? You're the reason she's in a coma?"
"Catching on now, I see. They told me that you were clever," Voldemort replied. "Unfortunately, Ginny grew wary of me. She threw my diary away—tried to flush me down a toilet. That's when John found me. He's been writing to me since February. Dear Tom, everyone expects me to be smart like Harry, but I'm not. Dear Tom, I'm disappointing everyone because I can't live up to Harry. Dear Tom, Harry has loads of friends, and he doesn't care about me. Dear Tom, Harry's replaced me with Theodore Nott."
Voldemort scowled and tossed the diary away, and it landed a few feet from John's paling body. "You have no idea how exhausting it was to listen to their adolescent whingings. But I played nice. I gained their trust. As they began to pour their souls into me, I began to pour myself into them. I grew stronger."
Pieces began to fall into place the longer Voldemort talked. "You possessed them," Harry stated, remembering the dark, soulless-eyed stare John had given him moments before stunning him. He had used a spell that no average Second Year should have been capable of.
Voldemort nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. "Ginny noticed fairly quickly—the blackouts, waking up in a pile of chicken feathers, finding herself covered in blood. By the time I managed to open up the Chamber, she was already resisting me."
"You opened Chamber of Secrets," Harry said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Of course, you've already said that you're descended from Slytherin. Are you also responsible for the petrifications?"
Voldemort waved his hand as if he found the question inconsequential. "Indirectly. It was the basilisk."
There was a basilisk? Fear coursed through his body, and it took every bit of self-control to not take off in a panicked sprint. Not only was he half blind and without a wand, but now a massive snake that could kill him with a single glance was lurking about?
"Ginny was the hardest to control," Voldemort continued, unaware of Harry's inner turmoil. "It was almost a relief when John found me. He was so deliciously angry. It was almost comical how easily I could slip into his mind. When your friend Grace angered him, he didn't even fight me when I tried to kill her."
"You're sick," Harry snapped.
Voldemort gave him an unconcerned shrug. "Perhaps. But it was necessary. The stronger their emotions, the faster I gained my strength. Without them, I couldn't stand before you today."
"Except you aren't," Harry said, peering intently at Voldemort. He wasn't entirely translucent like a ghost, but he certainly wasn't a solid human. He hadn't finished freeing himself from the diary yet, which meant there was still a chance to save John. Now, if only he had a wand…
"Soon," Voldemort conceded with a tiny, indulgent smile. "Not that you'll be around to see it, of course." He looked up at the statue behind Harry and hissed in the unmistakable tones of Parseltongue, "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."
Harry didn't wait for the basilisk to arrive. He took off at a run, half-blind, sloshing through the water and slipping over animal bones; he wove through columns and dove through the tunnels that branched off the main chamber. He had no clue where he was going, but he knew he needed to put as much distance between himself and the basilisk as possible.
He lost track of how many turns he made through the tunnels, which grew darker the longer he ran. He could have run for twenty seconds or twenty minutes, and he wouldn't have known the difference. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with each breath, each crazed step, hoping it took him further from Slytherin's monster, yet knowing it couldn't. There was no way for him to outrun a basilisk.
And then Harry quite literally hit a wall. He bounced off it, his nose shattering on impact, and he landed in a heap on the bone covered floor. He had hit a dead end. There would be no escape, he realised with chilling clarity. He would die down here, and nobody would ever find him.
He could hear the basilisk, its dry scales rustling against the stone walls of the tunnel, its massive body grinding the animal bones to dust on the floor. It was close now, its cloying scent burning his nose. Harry wondered how long he had left to live.
Pressing his back against the wall, he tried to decide how he would rather go: being swallowed by the basilisk or to meet its deadly gaze. One would certainly be less painful—was death painful? He remembered how his mother died, her life snuffed out in an instant. Had she suffered? He supposed he would get the chance to ask her soon enough.
Harry curled his fingers into the ground, shards and fragments of animal skeletons digging into his skin. With apathetic resignation, Harry plucked a rat skull from the pile and stared at it. Much like this rat, he'd die down here in the Chamber. The thought provoked a wave of irritation in him. Harry liked to think his life was more than that—worthless and forgettable. If anything, he deserved a spectacular death and a lavish funeral to go with it. Something his father could attend.
That thought provoked another response in him, this one far more heartbreaking and sickening than the last. Harry didn't want to die. He didn't want his father to have to bury him or John. He didn't want his friends to mourn him. He wanted to live, to become a Healer, to save lives, to make a difference. And with this realisation, Harry knew what he had to do.
Mind working quickly as the basilisk slid towards him, Harry racked his brains for every bit of knowledge he had on the beast. Namely, how to kill one.
He stared at the rat skull clutched in his grimy, bloody fingers. "Gallus," he whispered.
Nothing happened. Of course it hadn't. Hissing the Latin word for rooster wasn't going to do anything. He thought harder, desperately trying to remember the Latin Uncle Remus had taught him. "Creo gallum."
The empty eyes of the rat skull stared back at him. The basilisk's tongue flicked around the corner.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath, trying to ignore the painful pounding of his heart. Now was not the time to panic. What was he doing wrong? He knew what he wanted, so why couldn't he do it? Was it because he wasn't using a real spell?
But when had he ever used a spell before, a part of him wondered. He rarely spoke on the best of days, and he had been casting spells silently since he was eleven. Early on, he figured out that it wasn't the words that made magic happen. It was him. It was always him and what he wanted.
His body shook, though whether out of fear or exhaustion, he couldn't say. He gripped the skull so hard that he worried it might crumble to dust. The basilisk entered the mouth of his pipe, its tongue catching the edge of his robes.
Breathe in.
He would make this rooster. He would make it crow. He would save his brother, and he would live.
Breathe out.
Then, like magic (which he supposed it was), the skull grew heavier in his hands, expanding, its smooth surface growing warm and feathered. Opening his eyes, he saw that the bones strewn across the ground around him began to tremble and glow before they too transfigured into roosters. Harry watched in surprise and fascination as he was quickly surrounded by a rooster army that filled the entire tunnel.
Then, as one, they crowed in a deafening chorus.
The basilisk shuddered to a stop, its jaws opened wide for a death strike, its fangs inches from Harry's face. It twitched, and with its mouth open, the great beast almost looked like it was laughing. Then it keeled over. Dead.
Harry stared at the basilisk, then the roosters, then the dead snake.
Bloody hell.
He shifted to his knees, shaking too much to stand. The overwhelming urge to curl up in a ball and nap overcame him, but he fought it off. He had a little brother to save, after all. Besides, the basilisk would make a terrible bed mate. A strangled, hysterical laugh spilt out of his lips. He reached out without thinking, his fingers wrapping around one of the basilisk's fangs, and pulled. With a wet snap, it broke free, its slimy coating stinging the skin of his hand.
Harry shimmied past the basilisk and stumbled back the way he came. One of the roosters shuffled behind him like a lost puppy, its talons scrabbling on the stone floor. He followed the hordes of roosters through the tunnels, which eventually opened into the Chamber. John was still motionless at the far end, though Riddle was nowhere to be found. Dropping to his knees, he pressed an ear to John's chest, listening to the thready beat of John's heart. He didn't have long, Harry knew.
Harry's mind raced through his options. The diary obviously was the catalyst for John's decline—destroying it was his highest priority. It would also eliminate Voldemort's teenage ghost, which was a bonus. The only problem was said ghost currently had John's wand, which could be their only hope of getting out of the Chamber.
"Oi! Riddle!" Harry shouted, his stomach churning. "I killed your snake! You're next."
Pain like nothing Harry had ever felt before invaded his senses. It was all-consuming, banishing rational thought as his body arched and twisted in ways no human body should ever bend. And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, when it surely had ended, or he had grown used to the pain, it intensified, doubled, tripled, quadrupled, so that every breath, every scream that tore his throat, every muscle that tensed and writhed under the unrelenting torment, was in agony.
Just as soon as it started, it was over. Harry collapsed on the damp stone floor, his body curling into the foetal position on instinct. It hurt to breathe, to blink, to exist. Even his hair hurt. He trembled, his muscles screaming as if he had sprinted a marathon.
Voldemort stood over him, more solid than before, his face bone white with fury. He aimed John's wand at his chest, hands shaking so violently that he couldn't keep the wand tip steady. "I can't be killed!" he shouted, bending down close enough that flecks of spittle landed on Harry's face.
Legs trembling, Harry kicked Voldemort away and rolled to his knees. "Try me, dickhead."
And with that, he plunged the basilisk fang into Riddle's diary. The effect was immediate. Ink spurts out of the hole like a geyser, and within seconds, Harry's white apprentice robes were stained black. Voldemort convulsed, seemingly in pain, and let out an unearthly, pained screech that echoed off the stone chamber walls long after he had vanished. John's wand dropped to the floor, and Harry dove for it, diagnostic spells on his tongue.
They were unnecessary. John's eyes—hazel once more—flew open, and he sat up with a strangled gasp. He glanced around the Chamber with wide-eyed confusion before his gaze landed on Harry.
"Hold still," Harry grunted as he tried to check John's vitals.
John let out a sob and threw himself at Harry instead. Harry had just enough time to catch him before John wrapped his arms around Harry's neck and buried his head into his shoulder. Between the tears and incoherent babbling, Harry could hear John's profuse apologies for… well, everything.
"Later," Harry said after kissing the top of John's wet and matted hair. "Can you stand?"
John nodded and stumbled to his feet, offering Harry his hand. Harry grasped it and let John pull him up, only to collapse in a heap. His legs twitched, and his body buzzed unpleasantly, making movement nearly impossible. A side effect of the Cruciatus Curse, no doubt. Not that he'd tell John that, of course. His brother already felt guilty enough.
"I'm just tired," Harry muttered, trying to stand once more. He leaned heavily against his brother, using him as a human crutch as they made their way out of the Chamber and into the corridor Harry had woken up in. They limped together, John acting as Harry's eyes as they looked for an exit. Harry vanished piles of animal bones, trying to clear a path for them, but finding each spell left him more exhausted than the last.
"Are you alright?" John asked quietly after a vanishing left Harry winded. "You're burning up."
Harry nodded, only to vomit when the world swirled around him. "'m just tired," he repeated. "Let's just get out of here. Do you remember how you got in?"
John shook his head, his cheeks flushing as shame twisted his face. "I don't remember much after our argument," he admitted. "I woke up in the Chamber, and Tom came out of the diary. Nothing else after that."
"Who?" Harry asked, trying to distract himself from the burning in his extremities.
"Tom Riddle," John explained. "He opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago."
It occurred to Harry that John had no clue who he had really been talking to. He considered informing him that Riddle was the memory of the man that murdered their mother but ultimately decided against it. Harry wanted to find his way out of the Chamber of Secrets, which would rather be difficult if John had a meltdown. Instead, he nodded and let John fill him in about what he had been up to since they last spoke in December, including finding the diary in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and investigating Slytherin's monster.
They came to the end of the long corridor and found themselves at a dead-end, this time standing before a wide tunnel that bent upwards at a steep angle. There was no way to climb it and had Harry been feeling better, he might have been able to transfigure a set of stairs for them to use. But as it was, his head was spinning, and his limbs were so heavy he wasn't sure he could even lift John's wand.
"Any ideas?" Harry asked, his voice faint to his own ears.
John shook his head and looked up at him with a fearful yet expectant expression. Even if Harry hadn't been several years older than John, he was still his older brother. An older brother who had always could be counted on to fix things, no matter how badly John had cocked up.
Letting out a slow breath, Harry limped forward and began to feel around the walls of the tunnels, searching for some sort of mark. Sure enough, he found a small relief of a snake etched into the wall, which hissed with pleasure when Harry asked to be let out of the Chamber. There was a loud grinding sound as the tunnel turned into a narrow set of circular stairs.
"Well, that was easy," John remarked, helping Harry up into the tunnel. "I can't believe you just had to ask."
"Slytherin tended to choose the easiest options when it came to these things," Harry explained, remembering the snakes in the fireplaces and the one that marked the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He lifted John's wand and attempted to light its tip, only for it to sputter out after a few seconds, leaving Harry winded and light-headed.
Noticing his struggles, John took back his wand, his brow furrowed with concern. He tried to light the wand, which he did with ease. "Bloody hell," he yelped. "What happened to your face?"
Harry touched a hand to his jaw and found it covered in massive boils. Had Voldemort hexed him somehow? Only, they didn't hurt like they would have if he had been hit with a Pimple Jinx. Instead, they itched and tingled like something was pulsing beneath his skin. "Don't worry about it," he said at last. "I'll have Madam Pomfrey set me right when we get to the Hospital Wing."
John nodded, his lips pursed with concern, and continued up the narrow spiral staircase. And up. And up some more. It felt like they climbed for hours, and Harry, already exhausted from his encounter with the basilisk and Voldemort, wasn't sure how much farther he could go. But every time he thought about stopping, John turned back to look at him with those wide, fearful eyes, and Harry knew he had to continue. No matter how badly his lungs burned or his legs trembled, he continued the arduous climb back to safety.
When Harry thought he couldn't go any farther, like he might topple over and roll all the way back down the stairs, the stone walls of the tunnel turned to metal, and they were greeted by another one of Slytherin's marks. John leaned forward to ask the snake if it could please open, thank you very much, and together they tumbled out of the tunnel, gasping and panting, landing on the floor. Harry pressed a burning cheek to the cool tile floor and sighed with relief. He still couldn't see where they were, but it was open and well lit, with not a single animal skeleton in sight.
Just as he was falling into what he considered to be a perfectly well-deserved nap, John shook his shoulder violently and tried to flip him over. Any other time, Harry might have rolled over, but his body felt so incredibly heavy that he couldn't summon the energy. He couldn't even raise his arm to push his brother away. He settled for an incoherent mumble, which must have got the message across because John pulled away, leaving him in blissful silence.
It didn't last for long. Hands that were far too large to be John's were poking and prodding at him, flipping him over onto his back. The motion sent stings of pain through every nerve ending, but whoever was bothering him wasn't concerned about Harry's discomfort.
The large, hooked nose of Professor Snape entered into Harry's vision, and Harry got the unpleasant view of looking up the man's nostrils. Harry decided it was very fortunate that he didn't have his glasses on.
Snape was barking orders at someone. Or so he assumed. Sound had taken on a funny, echoey quality, as if he were listening to Snape's voice from underwater. Even his head felt like it was floating. Or maybe he was? Harry thought he might have felt himself being deposited onto a stretcher. Not that it particularly mattered to Harry. His brother was safe, and now he could rest.
Genius Fratris
Harry awoke to a cat purring on his chest, and he knew before he had even opened his eyes that it was Wobbles, John's three-legged cat. This was mainly because Medusa was hissing angry expletives from somewhere nearby. He was in the Hospital Wing again, judging by the starched sheets that scratched his aching skin and the smell of antiseptic potions in the air. He was in bed nine—his usual bed—if he wasn't mistaken.
With tremendous effort, Harry managed to pry his stiff and swollen eyelids apart, squinting against the harsh light that filtered through the windows. By his best estimates, it was around midday, though he had no idea how long he had been sleeping for. And that was before the Chamber, he belatedly remembered, digging through his hazy memories—Merlin knew how long they had been in that hellhole.
"John," he gasped, flying to sitting position, his joints screaming in protest at the sudden change of position.
Someone placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. "He's safe." It was his father's voice, heavy with exhaustion and relief. "You're both safe."
Harry tilted his head, finally noticing his father's blurry outline in the chair next to his bed. A moment later, his father fit Harry's glasses over his face, throwing his face into sharp relief. His father's skin was uncommonly pale, and dark bags lined his hazel eyes. Five o'clock shadow darkened his face, highlighting the gauntness of his cheeks, and his hair was more of a bird's nest than usual.
Harry opened his mouth to speak but could only let out a strangled gasp before he descended into a hacking cough that tore his throat. His father produced a glass of water and helped Harry drink it, washing away that fuzzy, sticky feeling in his mouth.
"You've been unconscious for a while," his father explained. When Harry gave him an inquiring look, his father hesitantly continued. "Nearly three weeks."
Anxiety coursed through his veins and his heart rate accelerated, setting off a monitoring charm. He could only think of how much study time he had lost. He wasn't sure why this was the thing that his mind focused on, but it was better than remembering what had happened in the Chamber. Which, apparently, had occurred several weeks, not hours, ago.
But before he could say anything, the privacy screens around his bed shifted, and Madam Pomfrey bustled in, shooting his father an irritated look. "You were supposed to call the second he woke up, James," she chided as she approached the bed. She bent over Harry's bed and shined the tip of her wand in his eyes. "Well, you're not blind," she continued with a small sigh of relief.
"No more than usual," Harry agreed, frowning when Madam Pomfrey stowed her wand back in her pocket. After three weeks of unconsciousness, he thought she'd use more diagnostic charms. "I didn't realise that was an option."
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. "You're suffering from magical overexposure," she explained. With the help of his father, she shifted Harry into a sitting position and handed him a potion, which Harry swallowed without questioning.
Harry was vaguely familiar with magical overexposure. It was a condition that mainly affected young children and was caused when they tried to channel more magic than their bodies could handle—often resulting in the child's death. Magical overexposure happened quickly, generally after a powerful and aggressive bout of accidental magic, and was impossible to heal with magic. The only treatment was to wait out the symptoms and hope that the child was strong enough to survive. The worst part was that once someone had suffered from magical overexposure, they were more likely to experience it again. Muggle-raised children were especially susceptible to the condition, as they were unaccustomed to being around large amounts of magic; it was why magical education didn't start before eleven.
The sticky dryness in his throat vanished, and an icy tingle flooded his veins as he was instantly rehydrated. "How?" he asked, handing the empty vial to Madam Pomfrey.
"We were hoping you could tell us." His father sat back in his chair, curiosity and concern burning in his eyes. "What was the last thing you remember?"
Everything, truthfully. Not that he wanted to relieve those memories. He settled for what he believed was the cause of his misfortunes. "It was the roosters," he replied.
His father and Madam Pomfrey stared at him blankly.
"I needed to kill the basilisk," he explained further.
"Basilisk?" his father asked in a strangled gasp.
"That's what Voldemort used to petrify the students," Harry explained to Madam Pomfrey. "Voldemort was—"
"Tom Riddle. From the diary," his father finished, still looking rather distressed about the basilisk. "Dumbledore said as much. But let's circle back to the basilisk. John didn't mention one."
"He might not have known. Voldemort was possessing John," Harry said. "He was also possessing Ginny. Is she awake too? I assumed she'd wake up when I destroyed the diary."
Madam Pomfrey nodded. "How did you destroy it?" she asked, redirecting the conversation.
"With a basilisk fang," Harry replied. "I ripped it out of its mouth after I killed it."
"With a rooster," his father said. When Harry nodded, his father sighed. "And where did you get the rooster?"
Harry thought this conversation had sounded a lot less ludicrous in his head. "I transfigured them from a rat skull."
"You didn't have a wand," Madam Pomfrey said with a slow nod. "We found it outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom shortly after you went missing. A wandless inanimate to animate transfiguration could be enough to cause overexposure—"
"Did you say them," his father asked, cutting off Madam Pomfrey's musings.
Harry shifted awkwardly under their heavy stares. "It was an accident. There were a lot of bones, and the roosters just sort of happened."
"How many roosters are we talking about, exactly?" His father asked, looking more exhausted than he had a few seconds previously.
"Maybe fifty?" he said nervously. "I wasn't exactly counting. I was more worried about the basilisk and Voldemort."
Mr Potter was spared from responding to this by the door to the Hospital Wing opening and footsteps approaching Harry's bed.
"Judging by the lack of snow in the Great Hall," came the soft, unmistakable voice of Professor Dumbledore. He appeared around the edge of the privacy screen, smiling when he saw Harry sitting up. "It would appear Mr Potter is awake."
"Snow?" Harry asked, shooting a confused glance at his father and Madam Pomfrey.
"Magical overexposure can be unpredictable," she explained gently. "You've had massive outbursts of accidental magic for the last few weeks."
"We've had to wear our scarves and winter hats for a week now," Professor Dumbledore continued jovially, conjuring a velvet armchair and sitting at the foot of Harry's bed. "It has been a most delightful experience. And, just yesterday, Professor Sprout had to tame the jungle you created in the library. But rest assured, Madam Pince harbours no ill feelings towards you and assures me that you are still welcome to borrow books."
Harry's cheeks burned, and he looked down at his lap. "Sorry," he muttered. There was a sigh, and when Harry looked up, he realised that every piece of furniture in the room was hovering several inches off the ground. Madam Pomfrey set it right with a wave of her wand while Dumbledore watched with fascination. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Not at all, dear boy," Professor Dumbledore said with a smile. "We're just relieved to see you awake."
Harry knew, even before Dumbledore asked, what was coming. Still, he was not prepared to explain what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets. He tried, in vain, to deflect the questions, asking why they couldn't just question John, but he was rebuffed; John had been unconscious for the majority of the ordeal and couldn't explain what had happened. At least Dumbledore wasn't asking for a memory this time. Although that might have had something to do with the scrutinising look Madam Pomfrey kept shooting at the Headmaster.
And so, he spoke, however grudgingly, his fingers, swollen and covered in boils, twisted in his bedsheets. He stubbornly refused to make eye contact with anyone as he talked, though he didn't falter. At least until he got to the part where Voldemort tortured him with the Cruciatus curse. He shot his father an anxious look, almost wishing he could ask him to leave. His father's expression was heartbroken and guilt-ridden, and Harry would have stopped there if Dumbledore hadn't pressed him further.
"This explains a great deal," the Headmaster said once Harry was finished. He sat back in his chair and stroked his long beard, watching Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
Wobbles chose that moment to headbutt Harry, demanding pets and sparing Harry from having to reply. Medusa let out an irritated hissed and approached, determined to get between him and John's cat, only for Wobbles to swat at her and knock her off the bed. Reacting on instinct, Harry dove for his snake before she could hit the ground, only to watch her freeze mid-air before floating back up to the bed. Harry turned to thank whoever had saved Medusa but found everyone was watching him with varying degrees of interest and not a wand in sight.
"The accidental magic will continue for quite some time," Madam Pomfrey explained whilst Harry carefully wrapped a grumbling Medusa around his shoulders. "You'll have to remain here for the rest of term. Healer Rodriguez wants to observe you for a while."
Harry furrowed his brow, recalling the strange American Healer that had taken over the Hospital Wing. "Why not you?"
"Magical overexposure is rare. I imagine he'll want to study you," she replied, shooing out Professor Dumbledore. "He had been hoping to speak with you before… well…He was rather impressed."
Harry wasn't sure why this mattered. He shot a glance at his father, who looked…proud?
"Madam Pomfrey, who is Healer Rodriguez, exactly?"
"I'm surprised ya didn't know." Healer Rodriguez was tall enough to peer over the top of the privacy screen, which he shoved aside with a massive hand. With a single step, he crossed the distance to Harry's bed and leaned over, his white veil threatening to slip off his head. As he righted it, a forked tongue flicked around his neck.
He didn't elaborate further, instead casting a series of diagnostic charms Harry had never seen before. "Well, Hairy, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"Bad news, I suppose."
Healer Rodriguez grinned. "Well, ya won't be able to finish your Animagus transformation this summer. Or perform any magic, really. No flyin', Portkeys, or Floo travel, either."
"How did you know about the Animagus transformation?" Harry asked, stunned.
Healer Rodriguez nodded to the glimmering runes that hovered around Harry's body. "You're real close. You'll hafta let me know how it turns out next summer."
"Next summer?"
Healer Rodriguez's grin grew. "That's the good news: I'm from the Asklepion," he explained as a pig-nosed snake poking its head out from beneath his veil. "And we'd be happy to have ya for our summer intensive next year."
"All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle." ― St. Francis Of Assisi
A/N: It's finally finished! This chapter was tricksy to write. Especially the final scene. It originally started out with Harry in a coma and James, Remus, Grace, and Cedric holding a vigil by his bedside. But there were too many characters, and really, I didn't want to leave the chapter on a cliffhanger. I think this new ending works better anyway! Hope you enjoyed it!