Chapter 14 – Goodbye Gilderoy, Hello Voldemort
That evening, Harry recounted the incident with Lockhart to Severus during their usual dinner in the quiet of the Potions Master's quarters.
"I'm telling you, Severus, he's a fraud," Harry said, pushing a piece of roasted potato around on his plate.
Snape arched an eyebrow, his expression one of mock surprise. "This revelation astounds me ," he drawled sarcastically.
Harry rolled his eyes. "No, I mean it. I've known he was a fraud since his first class... we all have... but now he seems dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Snape echoed, his tone dubious.
"Yes! What if he'd tried something on Ginny? He'd have made things worse—he doesn't even know basic healing spells. It's not just annoying anymore; it's reckless."
Snape's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. "Well, well, the Boy-Who-Lived cares about incompetence in education. A worthy cause. Though hardly a novel observation in Lockhart's case."
Harry frowned, not in the mood for Snape's dry humour. "I mean it. Someone's going to get hurt if he keeps pretending to be this brilliant wizard when he's clearly not."
Snape regarded him for a moment before nodding, a glint of calculation in his dark eyes. "Then perhaps it's time to expose him for what he truly is."
Harry perked up, leaning forward eagerly. "How?"
Snape leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in contemplation. After a moment, his lips quirked into a sly smile. "It would need to be something public. Something undeniable. He thrives on attention, so the collapse of his façade must occur in front of an audience. And..." Snape's eyes glittered, "...it would be quite amusing if he were caught in the very lies he's so fond of telling."
Harry nodded, hanging onto every word. "So, what's the plan?"
Snape leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Lockhart enjoys regaling us with tales of his alleged heroics. We'll give him a chance to prove himself—a hands-on test, as it were. Let him demonstrate one of his more... fantastical exploits."
Harry's brow furrowed. "But he'll just make up an excuse, won't he?"
"Not if the entire school is watching," Snape replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And so, the plan took shape. During breakfast the next morning, Snape casually mentioned to Lockhart that several students had expressed an interest in a live demonstration of his skills. "Perhaps," Snape suggested silkily, "you could show us how you defeated that 'Swamp Ogre' from your second book. I believe it involved a complicated charm sequence?"
Lockhart, predictably, puffed up with self-importance. "Oh, of course! My techniques are unmatched. Perhaps a demonstrationthis Friday, in the Great Hall?"
By Friday, the entire school was abuzz with anticipation, curious to see Lockhart's so-called brilliance in action. The staff had gone out of their way to acquire a harmless but intimidating magical creature for the demonstration—a Boggart, disguised in a large, locked trunk.
When the time came, Lockhart strode into the Great Hall with his usual flair, his robes billowing dramatically behind him. He waved to the students as though he were a rock star taking the stage.
Snape and Harry watched from the sidelines, sharing a brief glance of mutual understanding.
Lockhart launched into a lengthy, exaggerated retelling of his "Swamp Ogre" battle, complete with wild gestures and dubious sound effects. When he finally approached the trunk, he hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
"Any moment now," Harry whispered to Snape, struggling to keep a straight face.
Lockhart cleared his throat and raised his wand. "Prepare to be amazed!" he declared, voice quivering slightly.
The trunk opened with a loudsnap, and the Boggart leapt out, immediately transforming into an enormous, menacing ogre wielding a club. The students gasped, and Lockhart froze, his wand trembling in his hand.
"Erm... Ahem... Yes, uh, exactly as I expected..." he stammered.
The Boggart-Ogre roared, stepping closer. Lockhart panicked, waving his wand wildly and shouting nonsensical incantations that only succeeded in making sparks fly uselessly from the tip.
"Is this part of the plan?" a Ravenclaw whispered to her friend.
The hall erupted into laughter as Lockhart tried to back away, tripped over his own feet, and landed flat on his back. The Boggart, sensing its advantage, loomed over him.
Snape finally intervened, stepping forward with an exaggerated sigh and effortlessly banishing the Boggart with a flick of his wand. "How... unimpressive," he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain.
The students erupted into cheers and applause—though it was clear the praise was for Snape, not Lockhart.
As the humiliated professor scrambled to his feet, Harry caught Snape's eye, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Lockhart, now a stammering mess, made a hasty retreat from the hall, mumbling excuses about a "wand malfunction."
That evening, as Harry and Snape shared dinner in the Potions Master's quarters, Snape raised his glass of wine in a rare gesture of approval.
"Well done, Mr. Potter," he said with the faintest hint of a smile. "It seems our fraud has been thoroughly unmasked."
Harry grinned, feeling a rush of pride. "Thanks, Severus. Though I think the Boggart deserves most of the credit."
Snape chuckled softly, a sound so rare that Harry almost didn't recognise it. "Indeed. Though I must say, watching him flail like a headless chicken was... deeply satisfying."
Harry laughed, nodding. "I'll remember this forever. The day Gilderoy Lockhart finally got what he deserved."
The morning after Lockhart's public humiliation, whispers and murmurs buzzed through the Great Hall during breakfast. Students eagerly swapped exaggerated accounts of the Boggart incident, some mimicking Lockhart's flailing limbs and others recalling Snape's dry put-downs. The man himself, however, was conspicuously absent.
Harry, seated beside Draco and Ginny, kept his head down, trying not to smirk. Across the hall, Hermione gave him a knowing look, and even Ron—still sore about losing to his sister during the last Quidditch match—snickered when the conversation turned to their disgraced Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Where do you think he is?" Draco asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
"Probably hiding under his desk," Ginny said, grinning. "Or crying into one of his ridiculous books."
Harry opened his mouth to reply when a loud scraping sound drew everyone's attention. At the far end of the hall, Lockhart appeared, pushing a large, overstuffed suitcase and trying to sneak out through the main doors. His golden robes were crumpled, and his hair was noticeably unkempt, which only added to the pathetic image.
For a moment, the hall was silent as students registered what was happening. Then, a first-year Gryffindor shouted, "He's running away!"
The room erupted.
"Fraud!"
"Come back, Lockhart! Show us your 'Swamp Ogre Technique!'"
"Don't forget your memory charms, Professor!"
A gaggle of students—led by Fred and George Weasley—leapt to their feet and chased after him, hurling wads of toast, crumpled napkins, and shouted taunts as they went.
Lockhart turned, pale and panicked, waving a hand. "Now, now, let's not be hasty! I have important—uh—wizarding business to attend to!"
"Running away like a coward, more like!" Fred yelled.
The doors slammed shut behind Lockhart as he made his escape, the jeering students returning to the hall in triumph.
Near the staff table, Snape and Harry stood watching the commotion. As the students roared with laughter, their gazes met. A rare moment of camaraderie passed between them before Snape smirked and did something unexpected, extending his hand. They shared a brief, but unmistakable, high five before returning to their seats.
With Lockhart gone, Dumbledore decided to take over Defence Against the Dark Arts for the remainder of the term. The announcement was met with excitement from the students—though the Slytherins complained it wasn't Snape filling in—and curiosity about what the headmaster would teach them.
"Boggarts," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye as the first lesson began."You were introduced to them recently, so it seemed fitting."
Standing before the gathered class, he gestured to an innocuous wardrobe at the front of the room. "These magical creatures reveal our deepest fears, but remember: fear can be conquered with a touch of wit and courage. Today, each of you will face the Boggart and learn to disarm it with laughter."
The students lined up nervously, with a mix of anticipation and dread. Hermione went first, her Boggart transforming into Professor McGonagall, handing her a stack of failed exams. With a flick of her wand and a stammered "Riddikulus!" the image dissolved into McGonagall doing a ridiculous jig, much to the class's amusement.
Ron followed, and his Boggart became a gigantic spider, complete with hairy legs and twitching mandibles. His spell turned it into a roller-skating arachnid, which spun comically on the spot.
One by one, the students faced their fears. Finally, it was Harry's turn.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, stepping forward, his voice kind but firm, "are you sure? A Boggart may not be what you expect, and—"
"I'm sure, sir," Harry said, his blue eyes steady.
The class fell silent, holding their breath. Many assumed, like Dumbledore, that Harry's Boggart would take the form of Voldemort.
The wardrobe creaked open, and a tall, dark figure began to emerge. Gasps rippled through the room—only to turn into confusion as the form resolved itself.
It wasn't Voldemort.
The Boggart became Harry himself, but older—gaunt, hollow-eyed, and radiating a sense of despair so profound it chilled the room. The older Harry wore tattered robes, and in his hands was a lifeless body, cradled close to his chest.
Whispers broke out, but no one dared speak too loudly.
Dumbledore's face softened with understanding, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Harry," he said gently, "are you all right?"
Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry, but he didn't look away from the Boggart. "Riddikulus!" he said firmly, flicking his wand.
The older version of himself stumbled, suddenly wearing bright pink bunny slippers and holding a giant stuffed teddy bear instead of the body. The room burst into nervous laughter as the Boggart retreated back into the wardrobe.
Dumbledore clapped his hands once. "Well done, Harry," he said, his voice warm.
As Harry returned to his seat, his friends watched him with new found concern. Hermione leaned over, her voice soft. "Harry, are you okay?"
He nodded, though his mind was racing. The fear the Boggart had shown him wasn't Voldemort—it was failure, loss, and the crushing weight of responsibility. It was the possibility that, despite everything, he might not save the people he loved.
Snape, who had peaked in briefly at the sound of laughter, exchanged a sad, knowing look with Dumbledore from the back of the room. He too, had seen the Boggart's message—and it confirmed what they already suspected. Harry wasn't just a boy facing extraordinary circumstances. He was carrying the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders, and he knew it.
For the rest of the day, Harry was quieter than usual, though he forced a smile when his friends teased him about the teddy bear. But deep down, the image of his greatest fear lingered, reminding him of what was at stake.
That evening, after the commotion of the Boggart lesson had settled, Harry sat alone in the Slytherin common room, the flickering fire casting shadows across his face. His mind was still replaying the image the Boggart had shown him, the older version of himself—hollow, broken, and defeated. It unsettled him deeply, but there was one person he knew would understand.
He pulled out the elegant, leather-bound two-way journal Bellatrix had given him for Christmas and opened it to a blank page. For a moment, he stared at the parchment, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. Then, with a deep breath, he began to write.
Bella,
Today, in Defence Against the Dark Arts, we faced Boggarts. You probably know they show you your greatest fear. Everyone expected mine to be Voldemort, but it wasn't. It was… me. Older. Lost. Holding someone I couldn't save. I couldn't see who it was, but it felt like my whole world was crumbling around me. I know in my heart it was you.
Everyone laughed when I turned it into something silly, but I can't get the image out of my head. What if something happens and I can't protect the people I care about? What if I fail because I'm not strong enough?
I don't know why I'm telling you all of this, except that you always seem to know the right thing to say. I guess I need to hear it now.
Harry
He closed the journal and leaned back in his chair, staring at the flames. He wasn't sure when—or even if—Bellatrix would respond, but the act of writing his thoughts down had eased some of the weight pressing on his chest.
Moments later, the journal glowed faintly, signalling a response. Harry's heart quickened as he opened it. Her elegant, slanted handwriting filled the page.
Harry,
I'm not surprised your Boggart wasn't Voldemort. They call you the boy-who-lived for a reason, you are already so much more than him – at least that's my opinion and I knew him better than most. No, what you saw today was something far more terrifying than any Dark Lord—your own doubt.
You're afraid of failing because you care. You care deeply about people, about doing the right thing, about making a difference. That's what makes you special, Harry, and it's what makes you strong.
But you're also forgetting something: you're not alone. You don't have to carry the weight of the world on your own shoulders. You have me. You have Narcissa, Amelia, Sirius, even Severus in his snarky, sour way. And let's not forget Granger and that red-headed weasel girl..
If there's one thing I've learned about you, it's that you'll do whatever it takes to protect the people you love. You've already proven that, time and time again. But you can't let the fear of losing them consume you, or you'll end up exactly like that image you saw today.
As for failing? Even if you stumble, even if things don't go according to plan, I'll still be here. And I'll help you pick up the pieces. Always.
So stop worrying about what might happen and focus on what's in front of you. You're stronger than you think, my darling, and I believe in you.
Forever yours,
Bella
Harry read her response twice, his heart growing lighter with every word. Bellatrix's confidence in him felt like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of self-doubt.
He traced her final words with his finger, a small smile playing at his yours.
The warmth of the fire seemed to seep into his soul, and for the first time that day, he felt at peace. Closing the journal, Harry leaned back in his chair, Bellatrix's words still echoing in his mind.
You're not alone.
For the first time in a long while, he believed it.
He opened the journal again, feeling his palms grow slightly clammy. He stared at the blank page, knowing what he wanted to say but not sure how to put it into words. Finally, after taking a deep breath, he began to write.
Bella,
Your words meant a lot to me. More than I can say. I've never had someone believe in me the way you do. It makes me feel like I can do anything, like maybe I won't fail as long as you're with me.
I've been thinking a lot about us, about how much you mean to me. I don't know if this is too soon or if I'm even saying it right, but… I think I love you. You're my soulmate, and I don't think I fully understood what that meant until now. But I know I don't ever want to lose you.
Harry
The moment he closed the journal, his heart raced. He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but he couldn't take the words back now. All he could do was wait.
A minute passed. Then another. Finally, the journal glowed faintly, and Harry opened it with slightly trembling hands.
Harry,
Well, aren't you full of surprises tonight?
You think you love me? That's adorable, my darling, but let me tell you something: love is not something you "think." It's something you know, something that consumes you, something that fills every corner of your heart and soul until there's no room for anything else. So let me ask you this: do you know you love me?
Because I know I love you. Yes, you, the scrawny little boy who's far too clever and noble for his own good. The boy who doesn't care about my scars, my past, or the darkness I carry. The boy who makes me laugh, makes me feel seen, makes me believe I can be more than what I was. The boy who, despite everything, has stolen my heart.
So if you truly know you love me, then say it again. Say it to me when I'm standing in front of you. Because I'll be waiting, Harry. Always.
Forever yours,
Bella
Harry read her words with a mix of awe and wonder. His chest felt tight, but not in a bad way. It was like the weight of the world had shifted, and for once, it didn't feel like it was crushing him.
A smile spread across his face as he ran his fingers over her final words. He knew what he had to do. The next time he saw her, he wouldn't hesitate. He would tell her again, in person. And this time, he'd make sure she never doubted it.
O – o – o - o
The eve of exams was heavy with tension. Harry had planned to tell Bellatrix he loved her, but lessons had been canceled to allow him to focus on studying, leaving no opportunity to see her. Instead, his evenings were spent in the Chamber of Secrets, exploring its depths and conversing with Salazar's portrait.
On this particular night, Harry was rifling through ancient tomes in Slytherin's office when the sound of heavy, uneven footsteps echoed through the chamber. He froze.
How is that possible? No one knows of this place but me,he thought.
Leaving the office, Harry stepped into the main chamber and was startled to find Ron Weasley standing there, swaying slightly as if in a trance. In his hand was a dead rooster, its blood dripping onto the stone floor.
"Ron?" Harry called out cautiously, his voice echoing off the chamber walls.
Ron didn't respond. Instead, his hand slackened, and a familiar, worn leather-bound book tumbled to the ground. The pages began to flip rapidly on their own, as if caught in a phantom wind. Harry's heart dropped.
The journal... I completely forgot about his correspondence with Bellatrix and his explorations of the chamber, he had let it slip his mind. Now, the consequences of that mistake were staring him in the face.
"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded, his wand instinctively drawn. But before Ron could answer, his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.
The journal stopped flipping abruptly, landing on its final page. Then, in an eerie shimmer of light, a figure began to rise from its surface. The shadow coalesced, forming into a tall, pale young man with sharp features and a cold, calculating smile.
"Harry Potter," the figure said, his voice smooth and chilling. "At last, we meet."
"Riddle," Harry hissed, his wand steady. "What have you done to Ron?"
Tom Riddle's lips curled into a smirk. "Imagine my disappointment when my journal ended up inhishands," he sneered. "Ron Weasley, so consumed by jealousy, so eager to feel understood. It was almost too easy to manipulate him. All he ever spoke about wasyou,Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened.
"But," Riddle continued, "I played the role of the sympathetic ear, telling him I understood his struggles, his frustrations. It was all worth it to find my way back to you."
"Why?" Harry demanded. "Why go through all this to meet me?"
Riddle's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "Because you are powerful. The most powerful wizard I have encountered—second only to myself, of course. How could a mere baby defeat the greatest sorcerer of all time? It fascinated me. I knew I had to meet you if I could." He stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "And now that I have... you are even more extraordinary than I imagined."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"They may call you Harry Potter," Riddle said, circling him like a predator, "but I can sense my own magic in you. How is that possible?" He gave a low chuckle, as if relishing the revelation. "It must have been Bellatrix's doing. She always was the cleverest of my followers."
Harry's mind reeled, questions spinning out of control. "You are Lord Voldemort then?"
"Of course," Riddle said, his tone condescending. "Did you think I would keep my filthy Muggle father's name? I am Lord Voldemort. And you, Harry Potter, are not just the heir of Slytherin. You are my heir."
Harry froze. "That's not possible. My parents were Lily and James Potter. You killed them."
"Oh, I did," Riddle admitted, his smirk never wavering. "You are definitely a Potter now, and there's no changing that. But magic, dear boy, is a wondrous thing. You were not born Harry Potter. You were born my son. My legacy."
The words hit Harry like a curse, but before he could process them, Ron began to convulse on the ground, his body shaking violently as his face turned deathly pale.
"What's happening to him?" Harry demanded, panic creeping into his voice.
Riddle glanced at Ron with indifference. "He is sacrificing himself so that I may return. So that I can show you what a true heir of Slytherin is capable of."
"Stop it!" Harry shouted, stepping closer. "He'll die!"
"Yes," Riddle said simply, his tone devoid of emotion. "And I will live."
Harry flicked his wand, sending a curse hurtling toward the shimmering figure of Tom Riddle. The ghostly boy smirked and easily countered the spell, returning fire with a sharp flick of Ron's wand.
The chamber filled with flashes of light and the crackle of magic as their battle intensified. Harry was clearly at the advantage, until Tom fired a red curse towards Harry that caught him off guard. He tried to deflect it but was too slow, the curse hitting him in the arm. Harry was surprised when nothing happened. But as the fight continued Harry's muscles began to tense with each spell he cast, and he could feel his magical core draining, the raw power within him faltering under the strain. Riddle was unrelenting, his attacks growing fiercer, his smug confidence palpable.
"You're tiring, Potter," Riddle sneered, stepping forward. "It seems my heir isn't quite as impressive as I thought."
Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to falter. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he called out in Parseltongue, his voice echoing through the chamber. "$Come $to $me, $great $serpent!"
A deep rumble reverberated through the chamber as the massive basilisk slithered into view, its emerald eyes gleaming with intelligence.
Riddle froze, his face etched with surprise. "$You $dare $summon $the $basilisk $against $me? $I $am $its $master!" He turned to the snake, hissing in Parseltongue, commanding it to attack Harry.
The basilisk remained still, its unblinking gaze fixed on Harry. Riddle's expression twisted into confusion.
"Why doesn't it obey me?" Riddle hissed, his voice tinged with frustration.
Harry's lips curled into a smirk despite his exhaustion. "Because I am the true heir of Slytherin," he said firmly, his voice steady. "I command the basilisk, not you. This is my legacy, and I'll carry it forward—no matter the cost."
Riddle's face darkened with rage, and the battle resumed. Spells ricocheted off the chamber walls as Harry and Riddle exchanged volley after volley. Sweat dripped from Harry's brow, and his vision blurred as his strength waned.
Finally, Harry stumbled, his knees buckling. He could feel it—his magic was nearly gone. Desperation surged within him. "$Strike $him!" he commanded the basilisk in Parseltongue.
The serpent didn't move.
Realisation dawned on Harry. He had made a mistake. Riddle wasn't truly alive—he was tethered to the journal. Harry's eyes darted to the book lying on the floor, still smouldering from his earlier attack.
"$Strike $the $book!" Harry hissed urgently to the basilisk.
The serpent lunged forward, its massive fangs piercing the leather cover. Ink spilled from the journal like black blood, pooling on the chamber floor.
Riddle screamed, his form twisting and writhing as the ink seeped into his body. "$No! $This $isn't $over, $Potter!" he cried, his voice distorted and fading.
With a final, blood-curdling scream, Riddle's figure dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the ruined journal behind.
Harry collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. Riddle was gone, the battle was over, but it still felt like his magic was weakening. The basilisk lowered its massive head, its golden eyes watching him with a strange reverence.
"$Thank $you," Harry said in Parseltongue, his voice barely above a whisper. The basilisk gave a low, rumbling hiss before retreating into the darkness of the chamber.
Shaking, Harry crawled to where Ron lay unconscious. He grabbed Ron's wand from the floor and focused his remaining strength. With a flick of the wand, he conjured a simple gurney. Carefully, he lifted Ron onto it, his hands trembling from exhaustion.
"We're getting out of here," Harry murmured to his unconscious classmate.
As he pushed the gurney toward the entrance of the chamber, his mind swirled with conflicting emotions. The revelation of his connection to Riddle, the truth of his heritage—it was overwhelming. But for now, there was only one priority: getting Ron to safety.
As Harry emerged from the entrance of the second-floor bathroom, the scene before him was both surreal and chaotic. A large crowd of students and staff were gathered around a chilling message scrawled in blood on the wall:
"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever."
Whispers spread through the gathered students like wildfire. Several younger students sobbed openly, clutching at one another in fear, while others stared in shock, frozen in place.
Hermione pushed through the crowd, her face pale. "Who is it? Who's been taken into the Chamber?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Professor McGonagall, her expression tight with barely concealed panic, turned toward the students. "Ronald Weasley," she said, her voice thick with worry.
At that moment, Severus Snape's sharp eyes caught sight of Harry as he emerged from the bathroom. His battered state—bruises forming on his arms, dirt smudged across his face, and an exhaustion so heavy it seemed to weigh him down—did not go unnoticed. Snape immediately strode forward, his robes billowing as he reached Harry. Without a word, he placed a protective hand on the boy's shoulder and subtly shifted him out of the view of the crowd.
The murmurs grew louder, but Dumbledore's calm yet authoritative voice cut through the noise. "It seems Harry Potter has once again saved the day, and so quickly. Remarkable," he said, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.
Harry flushed, wishing for nothing more than to disappear entirely. He wanted to avoid any attention, especially now, with the events of the Chamber still fresh in his mind.
"Minerva," Dumbledore continued, his tone more serious, "it seems Mr. Weasley will need Madam Pomfrey's immediate attention. Could you please escort him to the medical ward?"
"Yes, of course, Albus," Professor McGonagall said briskly. She moved to the gurney, her usual composure shaken but still intact.
Ron began to stir, his moans breaking the tense silence as McGonagall pushed the gurney through the crowd toward the hospital wing.
Dumbledore's gaze returned to Harry, the familiar twinkle in his eyes both comforting and disconcerting. "Mr. Potter," he said warmly, "perhaps you and I should have a chat."
Before Harry could muster a response, Snape's voice rang out, cold and firm. "Albus, the boy is in no condition for a chat. He needs rest. He has clearly been through quite an ordeal."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, acknowledging Snape's point. "Yes, of course. Rest comes first. But I expect both of you in my officetomorrow morning. I suspect there is much to discuss."
Snape inclined his head curtly, a silent promise to comply. Without waiting for further comment, he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder and steered him away from the scene, leading him toward the Slytherin common room.
As they walked, Snape leaned down slightly to murmur, his voice low and uncharacteristically gentle. "You'll have to tell me everything, Potter. But not tonight. You've done enough for one day."
Harry nodded weakly, his legs moving on autopilot. The weight of what he'd just endured pressed heavily on his chest, and he was getting more and more tired by the second."
Behind them, the whispers and stares of the crowd continued, but Harry barely noticed. All he could think about was the image of Riddle disappearing in a pool of ink, Ron's lifeless body in the Chamber, and the truth he now carried about his connection to Voldemort.
As Snape guided Harry through the quiet halls of Hogwarts, he couldn't help but notice the boy's uncharacteristic silence. His steps were unsteady, his shoulders sagging as his breathing became ragged. Snape's sharp, discerning eyes flicked to Harry's pale face and he realised with growing concern that the boy had nearly depleted his magical core.
"Foolish child," Snape muttered under his breath, his tone a mixture of irritation and worry. "You'll be lucky if you can stand by morning."
Before they could reach the Slytherin common room, a shadow moved in the dim corridor ahead. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out from the darkness, her usually sharp, commanding demeanour softened by a rare and visible concern. She looked uncharacteristically pale, her eyes scanning Harry with an intensity that made Snape pause.
"What happened?" she demanded, her voice low but urgent. She barely waited for an answer before stepping forward and placing a hand gently on Harry's cheek. "I felt it," she said, almost to herself. "Your magic... it's nearly gone."
Harry swayed on his feet, his eyelids fluttering. Without a word, he collapsed forward into Bellatrix's arms. She caught him effortlessly, her hands trembling slightly as she cradled his limp form against her chest.
Snape's expression hardened, though his voice betrayed a flicker of concern. "He's overexerted himself. Foolish bravery will be the death of him one day."
"No, it is more than that, he is still losing his magic," Bellatrix snapped, her usual fire returning briefly as she adjusted Harry in her arms. She held him reverently, as though he were something fragile and precious. "There is not much time Severus."
Snape inclined his head trying to hold back the panic at her words. "Black Manor, then."
Bellatrix didn't waste a second. She turned on her heel, carrying Harry with surprising tenderness. Her grip was firm but protective, her every step exuding a determination that even Snape couldn't help but respect.
When they arrived at Black Manor, the tension in the air was palpable. Narcissa stood near the fireplace, her usual composed demeanour shattered by anxiety. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, and her blue eyes widened the moment she saw Bellatrix enter with Harry.
"Bella! What happened?" Narcissa demanded, rushing into the room. Her usual poise was gone, replaced by a frantic urgency that matched the fear in her eyes.
Bellatrix carefully lowered Harry onto the nearest sofa, her movements delicate as though she were handling something impossibly fragile. She brushed a strand of hair from his face, her fingers trembling slightly. "He's nearly drained himself completely. I can feel it—his magic. It's like a void," she said, her voice breaking.
Narcissa knelt beside Harry immediately, her hands hovering over him as if unsure where to start. "His magic is still being drained," she said, her voice sharp with alarm. She turned toward Severus, her eyes narrowing. "What happened?"
Snape crossed his arms tightly, his expression unreadable but tense. "I don't know the full story. He emerged from the girls' bathroom carrying Weasley on a conjured gurney, looking like this. At first, I thought he'd simply overexerted himself—until Bella pointed out it was something far worse."
"It must have been a spell," Bellatrix said urgently, tears brimming in her eyes. Her usual fire and ferocity were muted, replaced by raw desperation as she pressed her hand over Harry's heart. She could feel the faint pulse of his magic slipping away. "Cissy, please! There's only moments left. I can't lose him."
Narcissa swallowed hard, her expression fierce despite the fear in her voice. "Anima Vinculum" she said quietly, her voice laced with determination. She turned to Bellatrix, whose eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing.
"Do it," she whispered, pulling Harry into her lap as she delicately removed his clothes.
Narcissa closed her eyes, murmuring an incantation that had not been spoken aloud in centuries. The air seemed to grow heavier, charged with an ancient power.
Bellatrix pricked her finger with her silver dagger, her hand shaking as she drew intricate runes in her own blood around Harry's limp body. As she worked, she began chanting along with Narcissa, their voices blending in perfect harmony. The room seemed to hum with the weight of the spell, the ancient words resonating with an almost living energy.
Bellatrix leaned down, tears streaking her face as she kissed Harry, a kiss filled with all the passion and love she had held back for so long. Her lips lingered against his, pouring every ounce of her strength, her magic, and her heart into him.
The room erupted in a burst of golden light. It radiated from Harry's body, blindingly bright but warm, enveloping everyone present in a soothing glow. Bellatrix pulled back, gasping as she felt his magic stabilise, the frantic pull and drain finally stopping.
Harry inhaled sharply, his chest rising as though he had been underwater for far too long. His pale face regained a hint of colour, his breathing evening out.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of Harry's steady breaths. Narcissa sat back, pressing a hand to her chest as relief washed over her. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and gently ran a hand through Harry's unruly hair.
"He's all right now," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.
Bellatrix stayed kneeling, her hands still cradling Harry's face. She rested her forehead against his, her tears falling freely now, though her expression was one of quiet relief. She had been so close to losing him. Bellatrix shifted to press a soft kiss to Harry's forehead before whispering, "You're safe, my love. I won't let anything happen to you.
For a moment, the three adults stood in silence, their gazes fixed on Harry's pale face.
"Let him rest here," Narcissa said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll see to it he recovers properly."
Bellatrix nodded but didn't move far, settling into a nearby chair where she could keep a watchful eye on Harry. Snape gave a curt nod before stepping back toward the door.
"Let me know if his condition changes," Snape said before disappearing into the shadows.
As the quiet of the manor settled over them, Narcissa took a deep breath and sat beside her son, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Bellatrix watched silently, her protective instincts flaring but tempered by Narcissa's gentle care.
Harry stirred slightly, his brow furrowing in his sleep. Both women leaned closer, exchanging a brief glance of shared understanding.
"He's stronger than we give him credit for," Bellatrix murmured.
"And more fragile than he lets on," Narcissa replied softly.
Between them, Harry slept, unaware of the two powerful women who watched over him with an unspoken promise: he would never again face his battles alone.