CHAPTER 19: THE HUNT FOR PETTIGREW
Beneath Harry's feet, the grass glistened with dew, its whispering soft and cool. The sun was a fading ember, slowly retreating behind a curtain of ominous gray clouds. In the distance, the pines formed a jagged, dark silhouette against the dimming sky, casting long shadows over the looming Quidditch hoops and stands.
Amid this eerie landscape, a small, elusive shadow moved, its presence unsettling. It was none other than Pettigrew, the traitorous rat. Something deep within Harry stirred, like a slumbering beast awakening. The ice-cold knot in his chest unfurled, and a fierce, determined spirit emerged. His mind replayed a litany of hurtful memories, from the stinging insults of his uncle to the subtle cruelty of his aunt, and the disdainful looks Dudley had perfected over the years. He recalled the harsh words from some of his so-called friends in the magical world and the painful sound of Hermione breaking his wand. Every moment of emptiness that had gnawed at him gradually crumbled, and Harry made a silent vow: "I won't be reduced to nothing."
With unyielding resolve, he cast a Disillusionment Charm upon himself, blending seamlessly into the shadows as he prepared to confront Pettigrew.
The air was tinged with the sharp, sweet scent of pine resin as it gently caressed Harry's senses. With deliberate determination, he gathered the sap, smearing it across his fingertips and tracing lines of stickiness upon his face and the nape of his neck. It was a transformation as abrupt and merciless as Pettigrew's own betrayal of his friends.
"Incarcerous," Harry hissed, his voice laced with the weight of vengeance.
Barbed wires shot forth, snaring the rat within a web of unforgiving steel, their cruel edges cutting into his flesh. Hoarfrost quickly enshrouded the cold metal, transforming it into a frigid prison of icy spines.
Harry dispelled his invisibility with a cold, calculating gaze, his voice dripping with disdain. "Were you waiting for someone, Pettigrew? Another unsuspecting student to deceive? A loyal friend to betray?"
"P-Please, Harry," Pettigrew stammered, his voice trembling between relief and dread. "I thought you were Sirius."
"I'm not," Harry retorted, a thin smile playing upon his lips. This wasn't about vengeance for his parents or friends; it was personal, a matter of self-preservation. Just him.
Wormtail's voice quivered within the constricting wires, and his pallid, dirt-streaked skin bore the telltale marks of the steel's unyielding grip. "What are you going to do, Harry? Your parents would never want you to be cruel. These wires are cutting into me. They hurt."
Harry's smile widened, though it was anything but warm. "You know, Peter," he mused, "I don't think the dead want anything. They're gone. Empty. Nothing."
Pettigrew whimpered, his desperation laid bare. "Please, Harry. Please."
Harry's smile lost its warmth, replaced by a chilling ice as he said, "I want something, Pettigrew. Would you like to know what it is?"
Pettigrew, his voice quivering, tried to reason with Harry. "Revenge won't bring them back, Harry. If it could, I would have turned the Dark Lord's wand against him the first chance I got. Your parents were two of the five people who ever cared about me. I was never as remarkable as any of them, but they cared all the same. I wish, more than anything, that I had found the courage to stand up when the Dark Lord came for me. He was searching for Sirius and believed I might know where he was. I wish I had died then, and been remembered as well as I was for thirteen years. But I didn't, and I just want to live."
"I spent eleven years wishing for parents, for anyone," Harry retorted, his words dripping with sweet malice. "Wishes like that, they just don't come true."
From the concealed recesses of his robe, Harry's sleek ebony wand slipped into his hand, eleven and a third inches of determination.
Pettigrew, desperation in his eyes, pleaded, "If you kill me, Sirius will never have his name cleared! Take me to the Aurors, to Dumbledore, to Azkaban, but kill me, and he'll never be free."
Harry hesitated. But then, a revelation swept over him. Sirius hadn't attempted to capture Pettigrew and clear his name; he wanted Pettigrew dead. "He deserves to die," Harry thought. "I need him to die. He's already dead to the world." His grip on his wand tightened.
"Harry, please," Pettigrew whispered, his voice trembling.
A point of bright green light swelled from the tip of Harry's wand as he positioned it between Pettigrew's eyes. "Do you know what the first two words I remember are?"
Wormtail shook his head, still entangled in the unforgiving wires, his eyes wide with fear.
A broad, half-smile graced Harry's lips as he uttered, "Avada Kedavra." A brilliant green flash erupted, casting stark shadows of the pine trees onto the blank countenance of Peter Pettigrew.
With Pettigrew's life extinguished, Harry felt a newfound sense of liberation. He yearned to break free, not just from Dumbledore's plans but from the clutches of Riddle and all those who expected everything from him while giving nothing in return. In his mind, he conjured the image of the last page of Riddle's notes, with two words at the center: six letters and, below them, four more etched into the parchment. Listen. Pain.
Closing his eyes, he delved deep into the wellspring of magic. The pine trees dissolved into nothingness, and the sensory world around him, with its whispers, touches, and scents, faded from his consciousness. In the depths of his soul, a thousand ink-black fragments screamed, their voices a cacophonous storm that blotted out even the rhythm of his own heart.
Amid this chaos, Harry searched for the one fragment that was different, the one that was Riddle. He focused on each shard, listening to their anguished cries. Countless distorted reflections of himself paraded through his mind, mirroring the myriad possibilities of healing or never recovering from the shattering of one's soul and sense of self, if Riddle's words were to be believed. Doubt seeped into his thoughts, icy and viscous, like thick tar in the pit of his stomach.
"No. It's here," Harry resolved, determination returning. He would find the piece of himself he'd glimpsed in the diary, or the man he might become. Amid countless pairs of green eyes, he searched, unwilling to give in to uncertainty.
He welcomed each image of himself as they came, one after another, until finally, one arrived with an unsettling echo. It was Harry, seemingly no different from countless others, with his trademark tousled, unruly hair. However, beneath the familiar facade, a susurrus of something else whispered through the image. Red eyes gleamed behind the green.
"They deserve nothing," a smooth, high-pitched voice whispered into Harry's ear, as swift as a broom in flight. "They're nothing. It's us or them."
In an instant, Harry seized the fragment. "Out. Get out. You're not me. You're not!" He steeled himself and tore at the fragment, feeling a torrent of agony wash over him. The ice encasing his heart shattered and melted beneath the overwhelming pain.
"It has to go," Harry repeated, determination overriding the suffering. He ripped again, and something gave. The fragments screamed, their high-pitched wails ringing in his ears. The tear sliced through him like a rusted nail dragged down a windowpane. Harry's screams reverberated until his throat felt raw, and a metallic tang coated his tongue. His wand turned searing hot in his grip.
The pain was excruciating, and a thick, hot liquid streamed down his face. In the reflection of Pettigrew's lifeless eyes, Harry watched as ebony tears crawled down to his chin. They left inky trails on his cheeks, resembling mascara running in rivulets. These tears dripped to the floor, hissing as they hit, then swirled into a dense, black smoke.
Each tear felt like a nail's tip being driven deeper into the glass, its screech slicing through Harry like a sharp kitchen knife through tender skin.
"It has to come out. I refuse to die," Harry muttered through gritted teeth. He swallowed down a mouthful of coppery liquid and, with grim determination, pushed the metaphorical nail all the way. The glass of his soul tore apart like wet paper in the grip of a giant, shattering with an ear-piercing screech that coursed through him like a lance. As white sparks burst before Harry's eyes, he clutched at his ears, overwhelmed by the agony. "Damn. It might've been easier to die."
When he opened his eyes, it was into a world of loamy soil and pine needles. Harry lay curled in a ball, covered in dirt, surrounded by clawed earth. The sharp, sweet scent of pine resin mingled with the aroma of roasting. Silence descended upon him like the approaching dusk.
"It's done," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible amid the profound stillness.
Then, searing waves of pain erupted from his wand hand. Harry clenched his teeth and stifled a scream into his forearm. He examined the cracked, blackened flesh of his wand hand, where the slender ebony of his wand remained, surrounded by the charred ruins. In the cracks, he glimpsed the bone beneath the tortured flesh.
"Don't panic," he admonished himself. "It has to be fixable. Madam Pomfrey regrew my bones."
With effort, Harry pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain, and carefully extracted his wand from the wreckage of his right hand. Another wave of agony washed over him as a sizeable chunk of flesh, about the size of a Galleon, came away with the wand.
With the urgency of the situation pressing upon him, Harry transferred his wand to his left hand and ignited Pettigrew's lifeless body. As the flames consumed the traitor, he sent the remains flying into the Forbidden Forest with a blasting curse. But the exertion took its toll, and Harry's magic sputtered out. He sank to one knee, his strength waning.
"I need to get to the hospital wing," Harry muttered through clenched teeth, determination still driving him. With the last reserves of his magical energy, he focused intensely on the very top step of the staircase leading out of the Chamber of Secrets. With sheer willpower, he transported himself there, and the world twisted around him as he emerged from the stairs, collapsing onto the still-damp floor of Myrtle's bathroom.
The water, while painful, acted like a tonic, clearing some of the fog from his mind. Harry clawed forth a bit more magic, using his left hand to disillusion himself. Stumbling and disoriented, he made his way to the infirmary. Dark spots swirled before his eyes as he shouldered the doors open and let his charm drop, finally reaching the sanctuary of the hospital wing.
"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey's hurried footsteps echoed toward him.
"Madam Pomfrey," Harry croaked, his vision darkening at the edges, the world seeming to sway.
"Drink this," she ordered. A cold, glass bottle was pushed against his lips, and a vile, peppery liquid flooded down his throat. The next breath he took felt like inhaling ice, making him gasp.
"Sweet Merlin!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed. "What did you do to your hand?"
"I burnt it," Harry replied, gazing into the weeping, seeping cracks in his palm, each throb akin to the strike of a hammer. "Badly."
"With what!? I haven't seen burns like this since the last war. If I find out you were trying to cast Fiendfyre, Mr. Potter..."
"I wasn't," Harry interrupted.
"Then how, exactly, did you do this?" Madam Pomfrey asked, running her wand tip over his mangled hand. As she did, flesh and skin began to creep back over the bone, filling in the grotesque, pink cracks, while charred flesh crumbled to dust.
"Think of something. Fire. Fire?" Harry delved into his thoughts, and an image of swirling flames came to mind, with the jagged, tattered wings of a Hungarian Horntail dragon looming behind them. "Dragon. The egg."
"The golden egg was guarded by a dragon. I thought fire might make it reveal its secrets," Harry explained.
Madam Pomfrey's expression turned stern. "That was incredibly stupid of you." She gripped his chin firmly. "Another minute of exposure to whatever fire that was, and you would've lost this hand, Mr. Potter."
Harry tried to lighten the mood, saying, "And there wasn't even a hint of the tongue of Mordor."
A nearby patient in the next bed chuckled.
Madam Pomfrey sighed, her tone softening as she tucked her wand away. "You're healed. I would insist you remain here for the night so I can keep an eye on you, considering you've exhausted most of your magic with whatever you were doing, but I doubt you'd stay."
"Already?" Harry flexed his hand. "Seems as good as new."
"Yes, Mr. Potter, already. Now go, and this time, take more care. I distinctly remember telling you that I did not want to see you here again at the beginning of the year." Madam Pomfrey's words held a mixture of scolding and concern as she let him go, reminding him of the promise he'd made to himself.
"If you insist," Harry replied, his steps unsteady as he made his way toward the door. The initial relief provided by Madam Pomfrey's potion had faded, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in his limbs and leaden eyelids.
As he left the hospital wing, a heavy sense of failure settled upon him. "I think I failed," Harry thought. "I blacked out before I could do anything with the Horcrux. I need to speak to Salazar."
Harry retraced his steps, returning to the chamber beneath the school. Salazar's portrait called out to him, "You came back. What did you do, Harry?"
"I fractured my soul," Harry confessed, a strange, numb feeling washing over him, a flat and even calm. "I found the Horcrux, and I tore it away."
Salazar peered down from the wall with a deep frown. "And? What did you do with it?"
"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. He searched again within the tumultuous screams of his soul fragments but could not locate the image with the echoing quality.
"How can you not know?" Salazar demanded. "You ripped it out, didn't you?"
"I might have," Harry mumbled, recollecting the sensation of the sticky, tar-like tears and the swirling smoke. He shuddered at the memory. "I lost control. It hurt."
"Can you feel it?" Salazar inquired. "If you have a Horcrux linked to you, then you should be able to feel it. Anchoring your sense of self to an object must create some kind of association with it. Do you have any sort of feeling, warmth, familiarity, or association that wasn't there before?"
Harry relaxed and allowed his mind to go blank. He became acutely aware of the warmth of his robes against his skin, the faint heat of his wand pressing into his forearm, and the coolness of the chamber seeping in through the soles of his feet. "No," he finally replied. "There's nothing."
Salazar nodded thoughtfully. "Then it's either destroyed, or, more likely, it returned to something it was linked to."
A faint trill of unease traced down Harry's spine. "Something it was linked to?"
"Can you feel the piece of Tom Riddle's soul within you?"
"No," Harry confirmed.
Salazar stroked his chin, considering. "I would hazard a guess that a living Horcrux ties the sense of self of the two individuals together rather than anchoring the creator's consciousness and magic to the body as a physical object. If you've torn that bond from yourself and not tethered it to another object, then you ought to be free."
"Ought to be?" Harry pressed for clarification.
"This sort of soul magic isn't my area of expertise," Salazar admitted. "However, no consciousness can survive alone, untethered. If you can't sense anything, then you've not anchored your own consciousness and magic to create a Horcrux of your own. I would imagine Tom was right, and you would have to be very attached to the object to begin with, so whatever was lying about nearby wouldn't work anyway." He shrugged. "I think it leaves only one option."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to know what you think that is. You're playing very coy, which means either you think it's very bad, or it's some kind of compliment."
"I think you accomplished exactly what you wanted," Salazar revealed. He patted the head of his serpent companion and flashed a broad grin. "You tore Voldemort's anchor free, ripping your own soul out of necessity. However, you did nothing to anchor your sense of self and magic to an object, so I believe Voldemort's anchor was cut free, and the Horcrux destroyed."
Harry felt a profound sense of relief, and some of the deep, sore ache in his bones began to fade. "I'm free. I'm free," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face.
"Looks like you'll have to put up with having an heir who acts like Godric a little longer than I thought you would," Harry teased.
Salazar's green eyes softened. "A tragedy I remain unable to correct."
"So, what now?" Harry asked.
"Focus on the tournament," Salazar advised. "Win it. The experience of using magic outside a classroom and in dangerous or testing circumstances will be invaluable. You will be far stronger for it."
"Of course," Harry agreed with a small, cold smile as he envisioned outstripping the other champions. "Winning will taste sweet."
"See if Fleur can avoid that," Salazar added, his amusement evident.
"You'll need to learn the charms to reverse self-transfigurations in case you make a mistake with your lungs," Salazar continued. "It's simple enough, an extension of the prior incantation, actually."
"It is?" Harry inquired.
"The charm detects the rough strength, flow, and intent of the piece of magic used, like looking at the dried-up bed of a river and estimating how big it gets in spring, then attempts to cast its opposite. There are many different forms of it used by various specialists, including healers."
"You know a lot of healing magic?" Harry asked.
"Snakes are not just associated with biting people," Salazar mused. "They were a symbol of healing and longevity before that was forgotten. I was never as gifted as Helga; she could use that charm to cure almost anything, but I was better than most. My skill at healing kept my wife alive for years longer than we thought possible after my other friends had passed."
"You were the last one?" Harry inquired.
"Rowena fell ill after her daughter was killed," Salazar recounted, his gaze distant. "Godric was killed in a duel, searching after some wand he deemed too dangerous to be left in the hands of others, well into his old age, the idiot. Helga died peacefully in her sleep, just a couple of years before my wife. Mundane, in the end, weren't we? You can't escape death; greater wizards than I have tried, and those who do are often consumed by it. Tom was."
"And you? Did you try?" Harry inquired.
"I was consumed," Salazar admitted in a whisper. "My search for a way to circumvent the barrier of death took everything. I died searching from my bed, too frail to do anything more than think and hope that my daughter might succeed in my place, unable to give up."
"Did she succeed?" Harry wondered.
"I wouldn't know," Salazar replied. "I was enchanted to carry the knowledge of my original self from death. Anything that happened after that point, I've needed to learn from an outside source. You, or Tom Riddle."
Harry blinked in astonishment. "We were the only ones?" He shook his head. "But it's been a thousand years..."
"It only takes our shared blood to open this chamber, but it takes more to want to find it," Salazar explained. "I overlooked that when I made it, assuming all my family members would be as I was. For a thousand years, my only company was the basilisk."
"I thought you might have turned the others away," Harry mused, "found them unsuitable."
"Found them unsuitable?" Salazar's expression grew thoughtful, his brows marred by deep lines. "They would've been my family. My legacy. You are as much like Godric as me, an irony of time you can't fully appreciate, but I didn't turn you away just because you're not identical to myself. That's not how family works."
Harry felt a small, hot lump of emotion rise in his throat. "It was how my family worked."
"Sorry," he said.
Salazar nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Apology accepted. It was not, I think, a mistake entirely of your making, and not the first time I've been so accused."
Harry contemplated that statement with some unease. "Riddle said the same thing?"
"I told you that you were similar," Salazar responded. "It takes a crucible of terrible caliber to forge a person of such strength. The greatest wizards and witches are always born from adversity. Every single one you name suffered and grew stronger for it. Some chose to rise above their pain and fears, others embraced them and chose revenge. They all had a drive that made them great."
"Tom Riddle succumbed," Harry added.
"No," Salazar said with an odd smile hovering on his lips. "Tom learned to let go of the things that hurt him. He remembered his mistakes and refused to repeat them. The world hurt him repeatedly, but he got back up every time. Something else drove him, ate away at him day by day, until there was almost nothing left of the boy who found me."
Salazar sighed and continued, "It doesn't matter now, though. What he's become is more important to you than the path that led him there."
"He can't be allowed to return," Harry declared.
"Tom was rarely stopped from getting what he wanted," Salazar remarked. "And neither of us knows how he intends to return."
"The book was singularly unhelpful on that," Harry said, poking the old tome with his finger and grimacing at the ache in his arm. "I need to rest for a bit. I'm absolutely shattered."
"Forget Tom and Dumbledore for a short while, Harry," Salazar whispered. "Focus on yourself as much as you can while you still can. If you dedicate your life to escaping the fate they've planned for you, then you'll be as lost in victory as you'd be in defeat. Survival is important, but there's more to life than just being alive."
Harry turned away from the painting and stared at the small gold hourglass dangling from the hook on the desk. "I know."
How could I not? he thought. He smothered the emptiness before its claws could cut too deep. Exhaustion sapped some of the hunger from the void, and its fog clouded his mind, muffling the feeling like voices in the mist. "One day, I'll be free of this nothingness, too. And then I'll never let it touch me again."
Welcome to PEVERELL_LEGACY on P.A.T.R.E.O.N . This is where the magic happens, where stories come to life, and where you get the first glimpse of what's next.
FOR SUPPORT AND EARLY ACCESS TO NEW CHAPTERS JOIN US ON P.A.T.R.E.O.N. PEVERELL_LEGACY
NOTE: I WILL PUBLIC NEXT UPDATE OF STORIES ON P.A.T.R.E.O.N A DAY BEFORE RELEASING ON FANFICTION, YOU CAN JOIN P.A.T.R.E.O.N. FOR FREE TO READ A DAY EARLY.