CHAPTER 34
Exactly Three Seconds Later…
THUMP.
Bracing himself against the sheer onslaught of the Dark Lord's brutal Legilimens probe, Harry managed to Dilate his perception. Though it amplified the excruciating pain running through his body, it allowed him to slow down his mental processes to ascertain just how much damage Dark-Ron was doing (or intended to do) to the sanctuary of his mind. Dilating also allowed him the chance to create an offensive counter strike to push the dark lord out, the sooner the better.
THUMP.
His slowed down thoughts allowed him to view the invading tendrils set upon his mind. They were ink-black in color but still oddly ephemeral, flashing through a series of images on a seeming loop. Harry realized they were memories, forcing their way through the forefront of You-Know-Who's mind and bleeding into Harry's own. So powerful was the maniac's hatred that he wasn't able to keep back his own secrets from spilling out of his own. 'Or, knowing my luck, it's all a bloody big trick meant to distract me.' Harry saw flashes of Rex Norvegicus' face, so similar to the form he'd revealed to them, but also…different. The face was softer, doughier, more…earnest than he would've thought the madman capable of. He also looked shorter, as though he were purposefully hunched in on himself. Flashes of three other boys appeared, their faces blurred and distorted as though they were being viewed through a murky looking glass. Harry swore he saw glimpses of red and gold, along with yellow and brown pop up 'Gryffindor and Hufflepuff colors, very interesting.'
Images of an older wizard burst to the surface, a man Harry realized resembled the Dark Lord, though his manic and tightly calculated expression - oddly enough - was crueler than any he'd seen on You-Know-Who's own. 'His father, how quaint.' What was so odd about that image was that unlike the others, which were full of color, this one was in black and white, like a faded photograph of times lost and better left buried. In spite of his trepidation and brutal physical and psychic pain, Harry tucked these tidbits away deep into his mind, an impenetrable lock-box that Dark-Ron would have to Cruciate him (again) to get open.
THUMP.
To his mounting horror, the young Slytherin saw the dark tendrils attempting to sink in, burrow themselves into his thoughtstreams like small yet determined parasites. 'Psychic hijacking, just bloody fantastic.' The young wizard couldn't allow that to happen; he would not allow himself to become an unwilling puppet of the Dark Lord. Never.
With a deep and centering breath Harry recalled the lesson of psychic shelling that Professor Snape had taught him. 'Envision your thoughtstreams as individually compact tunnels, flowing in one direction as a finite bifurcated entity within your mental sanctorium.' With surprisingly little effort Harry did just that, pushing his thoughtstreams to flow into one direction. His secondary thoughtstream preceded his primary one, providing an extra protective barrier. He could rebuild the second one if necessary; however, the primary would prove much more difficult to reform should it suffer the brunt of a Legilimens' attack. 'Once complete, envision the strongest material you can as a shield around your mind; pour into it your concepts of hardness, impenetrability, and protection. Hold them fast, for they cannot be breached.' With considerable effort Harry envisioned casts of mithril around each thoughtstream, forging them to be strong with his knowledge of impervious impermeability.
Unfortunately, The Dark Lord noticed his attempts, and with a psychic scream of rage that made Harry bite his tongue bloody in anguish, increased the ferociousness of his mental attack. The tendrils sharpened to talons that clawed viciously at the mithril shields, attempting to strike through and create fissures, just enough for Dark-Ron to breach and overtake his mind. Each strike was torturous, and it took every bit of Occlumency Harry knew to keep from screaming in agony and ruining his concentration.
He couldn't afford to succumb. Not now.
With a pained groan Amy's eyes fluttered open, groaning once more as her head started to throb. Looking straight ahead she saw Harry and Ron - the latter of whom wore a tight expression of manic fury - locked in a staring contest with each other, neither blinking. Amy could only assume there was Legilimency at play, with the possessed ginger invading Harry's mind.
With mounting panic, she realized she was bound in the ropes of an Incarcerous, arms tightly pressed to her sides with her legs locked firmly together. She was covered in all manner of bruises and bloody scratches, and with a pained wince, realized she may have broken a rib or two.
Of course, she was also wandless.
Ignoring her many injuries and pounding headache, the Gryffindor attempted to wiggle her way out of the ropes, hoping to get at least one of her hands free. If she could, she could easily access the charmed pocket knife Greg had gifted to her for her eighth birthday, for 'extra protection' in lieu of her having a wand. Though the older boy never left her alone with Vincent Crabbe during their play dates, he was adamant that she had the means to defend her person should she ever find herself...unattended with the sociopathic boy.
"If…I…can just…get this arm free…I can maybe get…out of…this." Amy wiggled furiously for a few moments, feeling a hysterical bit of relief as she slowly but surely managed to get her right hand free. Prying a bit of the ropes away from her robes, she was able to finagle her hand into her pocket, and with a cry of triumph, retrieved the pocket knife. Without hesitation she began cutting through the robes, nearly crying in relief when she felt the ropes fall away from her person. She continued her task until all of the ropes fell apart. With as much care as she could muster Amy pulled herself into a low crouch, wondering how quickly (and quietly) she could approach Dark-Ron while he was distracted to retrieve her wand and free Harry and his brother. Doubt raced through her thoughts, and in any other instance, Amy would've allowed it to cripple her, stayed her hand and her intent to help.
Suddenly from above there was a triumphant cry, and Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix familiar, flew in carrying something in his talons. The phoenix circled a flabbergasted Amy and then dropped its cargo which landed about a foot away from the girl. It was the Sorting Hat. She gawked for a few moments, wondering if the phoenix was playing some sort of Weasley Twin-inspired prank. It would make considerable more sense than what was currently going on.
"Hello there Amy Wilkes!" The Hat sounded entirely too genial in the given context, a fact the witch made quite clear in her response. "Oh please don't be so dramatic, I've been brought here to help you!"
"HELP?! We're trapped here with a Dark Lord-possessed Weasley who's kidnapped his best friend and is Legilimizing said best-friend's brother! Unless you're telling me you double as an emergency Portkey, what help can you possibly provide?!"
The Hat harrumphed rather snootily. "Well Amy, perhaps putting me on would provide the answer that you seek." The young WIlkes wasted three whole seconds glaring at the frowning Hat, before sighing in defeat as she placed the object over head.
"So…what's that help that you mentioned you were able to give?"
"Try not to be so facetious Amy. As I said, I can't give direct aid. You can blame Godric for that, actually. When the four Founders had their little argument over the Basilisk's design, Godric could have insisted on having the same influence over it that Rowena Ravenclaw received."
"What sort of influence?" asked Amy curiously.
"Well… let's just say that if you had a different item of headgear right now, you could simply order the Basilisk away. But you don't, so here we are." The Hat paused.
Amy hummed curiously. "So…Godric could have asked for influence over the Basilisk, but he didn't. So what did he ask for?"
"Ah, now you're finally thinking. From the start, Godric believed that the Basilisk was too dangerous to be allowed in the school no matter how many constraints were placed upon it. While he believed in Salazar's intellectual prowess when it came to these sort of matters, he still was afraid that a student might get hurt in the ensuing…fracas…so to speak."
"You mentioned something about constraints…am I to assume that involves the whole Heir of Slytherin bit? From what I know, Tom Riddle was able to control the Basilisk during tenure…then…somehow…my father was able to do it as well." The Hat didn't miss the lingering bitterness at the mention of Erasmus Wilkes.
"That's correct. One of the primary constraints placed upon the Basilisk was that only a descendant…or a Champion… of the Founder could control the Basilisk. The descendant could take on the sobriquet of 'Heir of Slytherin' to aid in his or her command of the serpent. However, the mantle of Heir could be claimed by any speaker who is descended from Salazar. Anywho, the main purpose of the Basilisk was to be used as a tool of protection for all the students within the castle, regardless of blood status. Salazar created Nagini after the first attempted siege of Hogwarts by invading Norman armies, and she's the main reason the second attempted siege failed spectacularly and the Norman armies knew to never attempt to breach Hogwarts again." The witchling's eyebrows rose sky high at that bit, wondering if anyone else in recent history knew that little factoid.
"What…what do you mean by a Champion of the Founder? Is that, what, some sort of official title?"
"...The Founder's Champion is an individual who possesses the power, intellect, cunning, resourcefulness, and guile that exemplified the true meaning of what it is to be a Slytherin, for the greater good of the House and, in many ways, Hogwarts as well." Amy felt that there was a lot more the Hat could tell her about being Slytherin's Champion, but she decided not to press the issue.
"And what were the other constraints?"
"Well, the secondary constraint is that either a descendant Parselmouth or the Founder's Champion who also possessed the Ravenclaw Diadem could overcome the Basilisk's conditioning and use it against the Headmaster and the rest of the faculty, to say nothing of using against other Parselmouths and even less so against non-speakers. The serpent was always particularly susceptible to Parseltongue; but for the prevailing influence of the Diadem, anyone - even a non-speaker - would be able to control it just as well as just as well as ...well, as well as any other Parselmouth.
"Hm… well, considering the fact that I neither have the Diadem in my possession nor do you have it hidden in your depths, what concession did Gryffindor demand in exchange for letting Slytherin grow his Basilisk?"
"He did; his fabled sword. However, I cannot tell you where to find that just yet."
"Seriously?! Lives are in danger!" The Hat just sighed in seeming irritation.
"Yes Amy, I am very well aware of that. However, I am constrained by the limitations placed on me by my creator just as the Basilisk is by its. I can't give you the aid you need until you prove yourself worthy."
"Worthy? How?"
The Hat hesitated before finally speaking. "Let's start by talking about your family. Specifically, your birth parents." Amy stiffened, expression smoothing to stone.
"I should think not." Her tone was firm and unyielding, causing the Hat to sigh tiredly.
"Yes Amy, I should think so." He felt the witchling's mind close off to him, unconsciously drawing a barrier between herself and him in response to his admittedly intrusive question. From what he knew of the girl's Sorting, she absolutely abhorred her birth parents, her father especially. The legacy of Erasmus Wilkes was an unwanted millstone that hung around his daughter's neck, a figurative yoke others didn't hesitate to pull upon as they cast cruel judgment against her.
"Amy, it is imperative-"
"I. Said. No."
A few beats passed in tense silence as the Hat silently cursed the current state of affairs so insane that he'd have to wrangle with a stubborn little Firstie to defeat a centuries-old Basilisk controlled by a specter of the Dark Lord. Who was currently possessing a Weasley!
As impossible as it seemed, Harry had finally succeeded in psychically shielding his thoughtstreams from being hijacked by the Dark Lord. His memory palace, as far as he could tell, was safely shielded from You-Know-Who's invading wrath. Unfortunately, the madman wasn't satisfied. His rage at being unable to penetrate Harry's thoughtstreams and infect him like a virus was causing him to lash out, scratching and clawing at the mithril shields like, ironically enough, an enraged cat. Though he was in a great deal of very wretched pain, Harry was somewhat grateful that the crazed shade was just that, a shade. If this was the strength of his Legilimency in his weakest form…Harry shuddered to think what it would be like if he were fighting full form.
A particularly vicious slash caused Harry to jerk in agony, feeling as though his brain was bleeding. 'With my luck, there's probably a big gash across my temporal lobe.' He forced his eyes to remain open at the sound of the Dark Lord's irate screams, the sound like a hundred maddened voices warping into one. If he didn't possess any Occlumency training, Harry imagined his brain would've turned to mush at the diabolical sound. He needed to find a way to escape this probe, needed to detangle his mind from Dark-Ron's own.
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck him as a particular chapter in Pathways of the Mind flitted through his head.
With a deep centering breath, Harry began the slow process of altering his psychic mithril shells. Mainly, by envisioning small needle-like spikes that resembled hospital needles. Sharp enough to prick skin. Then, with as much subtlety as he was able, Harry brought forth the memories of his near-drowning caused by the grindylow attack. He pulled all of the memories of that awful experience; the pain of having his flesh ripped apart, the horrific sensation of choking on pond water, the feeling of losing air…he imagined all of those sensations at the tips of the needles, allowing them to gather like poison.
When the Dark Lord attacked them again…he would strike.
"Amy." The girl paused at the gentle turn of the Hat's tone. "I cannot pretend to understand what it's like to live with the legacy of a Death Eater father hanging over your head. Though I have sorted many students whose parents have been acolytes - true believers - of some dark nutter throughout the centuries, I still cannot pretend to know the depth of what it's like to have such a legacy hanging over my head. However, I know for a fact, that there were those who did not allow their expectations of their families to rule their actions and their choices. In spite of what was expected of them - both my family and their peers - they did not succumb to those expectations. Proving those who believed these individuals should abide by those aforementioned notions completely wrong." Amy didn't respond for a few beats.
"Praeteritum est praesens futurum. 'The past is the present future'. That is the motto of House Wilkes. That motto whirled through my mind the first few weeks after my Sorting." Her voice was quiet, too quiet, and the Hat felt himself growing worried. "Those same words ran through my head those nights I cried myself to sleep in my dorm. With the exception of Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom, everyone else avoided me like the plague. Especially my own dormmates. I heard all of the horrible things they would whisper about me behind my back…about how I'm just like my father and would end up wrecking awful havoc just like he did. Cormac McClaggen certainly didn't hold back." A small sniffle escaped, causing her to rub furiously at her eyes. "I thought…perhaps…that they're right. That in spite of my Sorting, in spite of how hard I tried…it wouldn't make a difference. That I would never…will never be seen as anything more than Erasmus Wilkes' spawn."
Tense silence reigned for a few moments before the Hat spoke once more: "Do you know how Godric Gryffindor died, Amy?"
The girl frowned, confused at the non-sequitur. "Um…no? Am I to assume heroically?"
The Hat laughed softly. "Godric died in his bed and in great pain of an illness that could have been cured had it been caught early. If it had been properly diagnosed, he might have lived another twenty or thirty years. But he was afraid of appearing weak before the other Founders. Afraid that what he mistakenly thought were merely the signs of advancing age meant that he would cease to be the legend that he had become in the eyes of the witches and wizards who thought him an invincible hero. And so he concealed his growing weakness from the other Founders until it was too late. Do you see Amy? He believed that what others thought of him was of much greater import than the real truth of the matter. The weight of his reputation meant more than the certainty of the state of his declining health. Alas…he died."
Amy was surprised to hear the profound sadness in the Hat's voice. Then, she remembered a small tidbit from Hogwarts, A History - that the Sorting Hat had actually been Godric Gryffindor's own personal hat until he'd enchanted it to sort the students.
"You're quite right," the Hat said softly, surprising the girl by reading his thoughts. "While I was not given the task of Sorting until Hogwarts first opened, Godric's magic made me self-aware long before then. I was his companion and advisor for many, many years even as I tirelessly kept the rain and sun off of his brow." He sighed once more, before shaking off his mauldin thoughts. "You see Amy, we cannot allow what others think of us to dictate the truth of who we truly are. While the past may give rise to the present, they are not the same. The only way the past repeats itself is if those of the present and the future allow it to. Remember the question I asked you during your Sorting?"
Amy bit her lip before repeating the very question that had inspired her to follow the Hat's advice in pursuing Gryffindor: "Are you truly brave Amy? Or do you want everyone else to think that you're brave?" The whispered question rattled in her mind, echoing through every corner of every facet of her thoughts.
And just like before, Amy weighed both her options; either allow herself to wallow in the expectations of others, expectations born of her father's disgraceful actions. Or, follow the path forged for her and her alone, paved of her own desires and expectations, not burdened by the yoke of others' beliefs and Erasmus Wilkes' wretched legacy. A few beats passed before her mind was made up.
Humming in satisfaction, the Hat instructed her to reach inside him. The witch removed the hat and stuck her hand inside, expression twisting in confusion when she discovered she could reach in all the way up to her armpit. Then, her hand found and closed around something hard and unyielding. She withdrew her hand and was amazed (shocked really) to see that it now held a gleaming silver sword inlaid with rubies. On the hilt was inscribed the name Godric Gryffindor in a medieval script, and in faint etching along the blade was a Latin inscription that Amy recognized from the Gryffindor chapters in Hogwarts, a History:
"Sedit qui timuit ne non succederet."
"He who feared he would not succeed sat still."
Amy quickly stuck the hat back on her head. "Did…did I just pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of your belly?!" The Hat chortled in deep amusement, before confirming that she had, in fact, just pulled out the legendary sword out of his enchanted Wizardspace belly. "No more Gryffindor than that my dear!"
"Well…what do I now?!"
"You're a true Gryffindor young one! As the House says: CHARGE ON!"
And with that exclamation, young Amy Wilkes (with the Sorting Hat still mounted on her head) screamed a fierce battle cry and charged full speed at Jim Potter, succeeding in cutting him down with a mighty swing of the sword. Thinking fast, she darted around Dark-Ron and carefully pulled out Jim's wand from his pocket, before grabbing both hers and Harry's wands and stuffing them in her robes' pocket. Pulling Jim away to relative safety, Amy carefully began cutting through the boy's bindings with the sword. Once complete, she retrieved her wand and cried "RENNERVATE!", sighing in relief when the Potter boy came to.
"Amy?!" exclaimed Jim incredulously. "What the hell are you doing here?!" Passing the boy his wand, Amy gave Jim a highly edited explanation of events, including how she'd been able to retrieve the Sword from the Hat. Jim oscillated between shocked, amazed, and horrified, caught staring between Amy's face and that of the Sorting Hat mounted on top of her head! He was half expecting to wake up in his bed and realize it was all a twisted and delirious dream. But then he remembered Ron tricking and kidnapping him.
It was all too real.
No sooner than Amy finished her abridged explanation did Dark-Ron and Harry scream simultaneously, before the two dropped like sacks of rocks. Ron made terrible gulping noises, as though he were gasping for air as he alternated between clawing at his neck and scratching at his skin.
Harry, on the other hand, began to cough violently, before slowly struggling to crawl away from a still-choking Ron. Amy and Jim ran towards him and as one, dragged him towards the safety of one of the columns. Finally getting him situated, the two Gryffindors exchanged horrified glances at the sight; Harry's eyes were bloodshot, with small rivulets of blood running down the corners of his eyes. Blood poured from his nose, and some dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. His body occasionally spasmed, remnants of the Parsel-enhanced Cruciatus he'd endured.
"Blimey! Harry, you look terrible!" His twin choked out a laugh, before coughing and groaning as his body convulsed in pain. With a shaking hand he attempted to reach into his robes pocket, before a pale and horrified Amy took pity on the boy and dug through his pockets, removing several phials containing healing potions. One by one she poured a few into his mouth, pleased to see his injuries heal and his body stop spasming. Gesturing, Harry handed some of the phials over to the two, pleased to see them drink their contents. They would need all their strength to get through this.
"What happened between you and Ron?!"
Harry winced in spite of himself. "Legilimens probe, bloody brutal. I…returned the favor, the only way I could get out and break the connection." He sighed, shaking his head to clear out the memories. Now was not the time. He nodded gratefully when Amy passed him his wand. He ignored Jim's inquiring looks as he peeked past the column to ascertain their current position. Dark-Ron was slouched over, still gasping for air. If they timed it just right, they could clear out the Chamber Hall while the possessed boy was still distracted without drawing any unwanted attention. Harry quickly explained his plan to the two Gryffindors, before frowning in irritation as Jim turned indignant.
"We can't just leave Ron here! He's been possessed, he needs help! We have to help him!"
Harry huffed in annoyance. "I understand that he's possessed Jim, but this isn't a run-of-the-mill ghost we're talking about; This. Is. The. Dark. Lord. He is dangerous, and he won't hesitate to use Ron to kill us before he takes Ron out. If we're to have any hope of making it out of here alive, and if we're to make sure Ron survives his possession, we're going to need help. Real professional help form Aurors, who are infinitely more qualified to deal with this sort of madness than we are." Amy was inordinately pleased to see Harry repeat her earlier sentiments.
A myriad of emotions flickered across Jim's face. Until defeat. Then, begrudging acceptance.
Nodding, Harry quickly coordinated a plan with the two Gryffindors. The two would lead and provide whatever limited defense they could mount against the Basilisk. If need be, Amy was prepared to stab the Basilisk with the fabled Sword of Gryffindor. "The blade's goblin steel," the witch explained. "It can absorb all sorts of poisons and corrosive materials, making it more deadly. With any luck, the sword will puncture its venom sacs and kill the serpent that much faster."
For his part, Harry would guard their six until they reached the end of the Chamber corridor, casting defensive…or offensive magic if need be. Deep down, he knew that Jim wouldn't be able to cast against his best friend even if his life was under threat. Gryffindor sentimentality.
As one, the three students quickly made their way from behind the column and ran as quickly as they could to the exit. They were halfway there when Ron's eyes finally flashed open. Without hesitation Harry cried "FLIPENDO MAXIMA!", hoping it would buy them more time.
It did not.
With speed and precision that Ron should not have possessed he nonverbally blocked the spell, before a bellow of "CONCUSsSSUS MaxXxIMA!" slammed into the three. Harry and Jim were able to cast simultaneous Protegos, but it wasn't enough against the onslaught of powerful and lethal magic. The two buckled to their knees grunting in pain as Amy clutched at her head and tried not to scream in anguish.
"ENOUGH! I've entertained you three brats for too long! Now…YOU ALL DIE!"
Then, he whirled around and exclaimed: "Ssspeak to me, Ssslytherin! Greatessst of the Hogwartsss Four!" With a terrible grinding sound, the mouth of the Founder's face slowly started to lower, and from inside, the three students could hear a terrible hissing sound drawing nearer, one that spoke of a mighty creature's hunger and desire to rip and shred her master's enemies.
Ron whirled back around, eyes burning black in wrathful rat anger. "Parseltongue won't save you now Potters, she only listens to ME!. Now, let's see how Slytherin's Monster fares against the Great Boy-Who-Lived and his meddlesome brother! Nagini…FINISssSH THEM!"
AN 1: Amy wielding the Sword of Gryffindor, she's a Lion through and through. Hopefully this assuages any doubts she has about belonging in the House.
AN 2: Another cliffhanger...but trust me it's well worth it!