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The Hogwarts Express compartment felt smaller than usual with all of Harry's excitement crackling through the air like static magic. He'd practically vibrated out of his seat three times already, and they hadn't even left London yet. Across from him, Nymphadora lounged with her legs stretched across the opposite bench, her hair cycling through an amused spectrum of colors that matched her knowing smirk.
"You're going to explode if you don't show me whatever's got you wound tighter than a Whomping Willow in a thunderstorm," she observed, popping a Chocolate Frog into her mouth. "Out with it, Potter."
Harry grinned, pulling his latest prototype from his expanded bag with the care of someone handling a newborn dragon. The silver disk caught the pale January sunlight streaming through the window, its surface etched with runes so intricate they seemed to shift and dance under scrutiny.
"Remember our conversation about your metamorphmagus abilities?" Harry asked, holding the talisman between them like a prized trophy. "How your magic always recognizes your core identity despite whatever shape you're wearing?"
"Yeah, the bit where you called me beautiful and then turned redder than a Weasley?" Nymphadora's hair flashed pink with mischief. "I remember."
Brilliant. Trust her to bring that up. Harry's cheeks warmed, but he pressed on with the dignity of someone who absolutely had not spent the last week thinking about that particular moment. "Right, well, I figured out how to replicate that principle in talisman enchantment."
He activated the device with a gentle pulse of magic, and immediately the runes began to shimmer, their patterns flowing like liquid mercury across the surface. "Watch this."
Harry drew his wand and cast a moderate Cutting Curse at the talisman. Instead of simply absorbing the spell like his previous models, this one seemed to shift somehow. The curse struck what appeared to be empty air, sliding harmlessly past as if the talisman had never been there at all.
"Bloody hell," Nymphadora breathed, sitting up straighter. "Did it just... dodge?"
"Better," Harry said, unable to keep the smugness from his voice. "It convinced the curse that it wasn't actually a talisman worth attacking. The metamorphic adaptation layer reads incoming spells and adjusts the talisman's magical signature to appear as something the curse can't or won't affect, and is not just the Talisman, the one who is wearing the Talisman will also not be affected as long as they are wearing the talisman and they are keeping it active with their magic"
To demonstrate, he cast a Flame-Freezing Charm. This time, the talisman absorbed the spell normally, glowing briefly blue before returning to its neutral state.
"So it's like magical camouflage?" Nymphadora leaned forward, fascination replacing her teasing. "It pretends to be something else?"
"Exactly like how your magic maintains continuity through transformation," Harry confirmed. "Your core self remains constant even when everything else changes. The talisman borrows that concept—it keeps its essential protective function while adapting its magical 'appearance' to confuse hostile spells."
Nymphadora's hair had settled into a thoughtful auburn as she processed this. "That's... actually brilliant. How much broader is the protection range?"
Harry's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "About sixty percent better than my previous models for moderate curses. It can handle hexes, quite a few dark curses, and even some of the nastier jinxes that used to slip through the cracks."
"But?" she prompted, clearly hearing the hesitation in his voice.
"But it still can't touch those ancient Etruscan burial curses," Harry admitted with a sigh. "They're too old, too deeply woven into primal magic. The metamorphic adaptation principle helps, but without something to stabilize the conflicting magical frameworks..." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm still stuck."
Nymphadora was quiet for a moment, absently transforming her nose into various shapes while she thought. Finally, she said, "You know you're giving me credit for this innovation, right?"
Harry blinked. "Of course I am. It was your magic that inspired the breakthrough. I'd be an absolute tosser not to acknowledge that."
Something soft and surprised flickered across Nymphadora's features. Her hair shifted to a warm gold that reminded Harry of summer afternoons. "You don't have to do that. It's your work, your genius that figured out how to apply the principle."
"Don't be ridiculous," Harry said, waving off her protests. "Half the magical innovations in history happened because someone was clever enough to look at existing magic from a new angle. You didn't just provide the inspiration—you trusted me enough to let me analyze your abilities. That matters."
"Harry..." she started, but he cut her off.
"Besides," he added with a grin, "wait until you see the patent application. 'Potter-Tonks Metamorphic Adaptation Principle' has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Nymphadora laughed, a sound somewhere between delight and disbelief. "You're actually serious about this."
"Dead serious. Though I reserve the right to mock your hair choices in the official documentation."
"Oi!" She threw a Bertie Bott's Bean at his head, which he dodged. "My hair choices are artistic expressions, thank you very much."
"Is that what we're calling that purple and orange striped phase from last month?"
Before Nymphadora could retaliate, she paused, her expression growing thoughtful. "You know, if you want to see the principle in action again..."
She closed her eyes in concentration, and Harry watched as her features began to shift. Her hair shortened and darkened to that natural black, her face settling into the aristocratic lines that echoed Andromeda so strongly. When she opened her eyes—deep brown now instead of their usual vibrant colors—she looked like a completely different person.
"Can you sense it?" she asked quietly. "The magical continuity underneath?"
Harry extended his magical senses, focusing on the subtle patterns of energy that surrounded every witch and wizard. There it was—beneath all the physical changes, Nymphadora's magical signature remained fundamentally the same.
"I can," he said softly. "It's like... like hearing someone's voice in a crowded room. No matter what else is happening, you'd recognize it anywhere."
Nymphadora smiled, shifting back to her preferred pink-haired appearance. "That's exactly what your talisman does, isn't it? It finds its own voice underneath whatever the curse expects to encounter."
"Something like that," Harry agreed, carefully tucking the prototype back into his bag. "It's a major step forward, but..." He sighed, the weight of his promise to Minister Lombardi settling back onto his shoulders. "It's still not the complete solution I need. The Italians are counting on protection against those ancient curses specifically."
"You'll figure it out," Nymphadora said with quiet confidence. "You always do."
Harry wished he shared her certainty. The enhanced talisman was impressive, yes, but impressive wasn't the same as adequate. He had five months to deliver on his promises, and right now, that deadline felt like a sword hanging over his head.
Still, as the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station and the familiar silhouette of Hogwarts came into view, Harry allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The Potter-Tonks Metamorphic Adaptation Principle might not be the complete answer, but it was progress.
And sometimes, progress was enough to keep moving forward.
Two Days Later
Two days back at Hogwarts, and Harry had already managed to avoid three separate attempts by Lockhart to "discuss his brilliant talisman innovations over tea." As if I'd willingly subject myself to an hour of listening to him take credit for other people's work while his hair slowly turns purple from my Christmas prank.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grounds as Harry made his way toward Hagrid's hut, Itisa trotting beside him with her usual feline grace. He'd never actually met the groundskeeper face-to-face, though he'd seen the enormous man from a distance—tending to the pumpkin patch, hauling trees that looked like they weighed more than a small dragon, or disappearing into the Forbidden Forest on mysterious errands.
Time to see if the newspapers got it right fifty years ago, or if there's more to this story.
The hut itself looked like something a giant might build if he had delusions of domesticity—smoke curling from a chimney that seemed barely adequate for the structure's size, windows that appeared to have been installed by someone with a very loose understanding of symmetry, and a door that could have doubled as a portcullis.
Harry knocked, and the sound that emerged from within suggested someone had just dropped what might have been a cauldron, and possibly a small tree.
"Jus' a minute!" came a booming voice, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
The door swung open to reveal Rubeus Hagrid in all his considerable glory—easily thrice Harry's height, with a wild black beard that could have housed a family of nifflers and beetle-black eyes that immediately fixed on Harry with surprise.
"Well, blow me down," Hagrid said, his voice carrying the warmth of someone genuinely pleased by unexpected company. "Harry Potter! Never thought I'd see yeh down here. What brings yeh to—"
His words cut off abruptly as his gaze dropped to Itisa, who was sitting primly at Harry's feet with the sort of perfect posture that somehow managed to look both innocent and vaguely threatening.
"That's... that's quite a cat yeh got there," Hagrid said slowly, his eyes not leaving Itisa. "Very... unusual lookin'."
Unusual is one way to put it. Harry resisted the urge to glance down at Itisa, who was probably doing that thing where she stared unblinkingly at people until they became uncomfortable. "Her name's Itisa. I hope you don't mind me bringing her—she doesn't like being left alone."
"No, no, 'course not," Hagrid said, though his eyes kept flicking back to Itisa with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Come in, come in. Got tea on, I did. And rock cakes fresh from the oven."
Oh good. The legendary rock cakes. I've heard they're only slightly less lethal than a dragon.
The interior of Hagrid's hut was exactly what Harry had expected if someone had told a giant to decorate a space for normal-sized humans. Everything was oversized—the chairs, the table, even the teacup Hagrid handed him looked like it could double as a small cauldron. The walls were lined with an impressive collection of what appeared to be either extremely dangerous books or extremely well-disguised weapons.
"So," Harry said, settling into a chair that made him feel like a child, "I was hoping to ask you about something. Something that happened a long time ago."
Hagrid's jovial expression immediately shuttered, his hands stilling on the teapot. "What sort of somethin'?"
"About fifty years ago," Harry continued carefully, watching Hagrid's reaction. "I was reading some old newspapers during the holidays, and I came across an article about trouble at Hogwarts. About a student who died, and..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "About you being expelled for it."
The teapot slammed down on the table with enough force to rattle the windows. Hagrid's face had gone through several interesting color changes, settling somewhere between defensive red and guilty pale.
"Where'd yeh hear about that?" Hagrid demanded, his voice rough with old pain. "Nobody talks about that anymore. Ancient history, that is."
"Ancient history that might be repeating itself," Harry pointed out gently. "With the Chamber of Secrets opening again and students being petrified."
Hagrid flinched as if Harry had physically struck him. "I didn't... I never..." He trailed off, running a massive hand through his beard. "Yeh think I'm doin' it again, don't yeh? Everyone does. Soon as the Chamber opened, people started lookin' at me sideways."
"Actually, no," Harry said, and Hagrid's eyes snapped up to meet his in surprise. "If you were really behind the attacks fifty years ago, you'd have to be either incredibly stupid to repeat the exact same pattern, or so arrogant you thought you wouldn't get caught twice. You're neither."
Some of the tension left Hagrid's massive shoulders. "Well... that's... that's decent of yeh to say."
"Besides," Harry added with a slight smile, "if you were the Heir of Slytherin, you'd probably have better decorating sense."
That actually got a snort of surprised laughter from Hagrid. "Oi! There's nothing wrong with me decoratin'!"
Harry glanced pointedly at what appeared to be a dragon egg being used as a paperweight. "If you say so."
"Right, well," Hagrid said, his voice growing more serious. "Since yeh asked direct... I never hurt nobody fifty years ago. What I had weren't dangerous to students—wouldn't hurt a fly, she wouldn't."
"She?" Harry prompted.
"Aragog," Hagrid said, a note of fondness creeping into his voice. "Beautiful creature, she was. Acromantula—"
Oh, brilliant. Just brilliant. Harry managed to keep his expression neutral, though internally he was recalculating Hagrid's definition of "harmless." Acromantulas were about as harmless as a pack of hungry wolves with a taste for human flesh and the intelligence to set traps.
"—never harmed a soul," Hagrid continued, oblivious to Harry's internal commentary. "But that Tom Riddle boy, he was convinced she was the monster from the Chamber. Kept followin' me around, askin' questions, pretendin' to be helpful."
"Tom Riddle," Harry repeated, filing the name away. "What was he like?"
Hagrid's expression grew troubled. "Handsome lad. Charming, yeh know? Everyone loved him—teachers, students, even the ghosts used to light up when he walked by. Head Boy, he was, and destined for great things, everyone said."
Everyone loved him, but he was willing to let you take the fall for something you didn't do. Harry kept that observation to himself. "But you're saying he lied about Aragog?"
"'Course he lied!" Hagrid's voice rose indignantly. "Aragog never petrified nobody! Spiders don't do that—they bite, they wrap yeh up in webs, they..." He trailed off, seeming to realize he wasn't making the strongest case for his pet's harmlessness.
"They don't petrify people," Harry agreed mildly, which was absolutely true. They just drain your blood after paralyzing you with venom, but petrification? Definitely not their style.
"Exactly!" Hagrid looked relieved that Harry understood. "'Sides, Aragog was just a baby then. Barely bigger than a dog."
A dog with fangs and enough venom to kill a hippogriff, but sure.
"Where is Aragog now?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well... she's still around. In the Forest. Got herself a family now, she has. Lovely grandchildren."
Oh good. A colony of human-eating spiders living in our backyard. That's not concerning at all.
Throughout this entire conversation, Harry had been peripherally aware of Itisa's unusual stillness. She sat at his feet like a statue, her golden eyes fixed unblinkingly on Hagrid with an intensity that was making the half-giant increasingly nervous.
"Yeh sure that cat of yours is alright?" Hagrid asked, glancing down at her warily. "She's been starin' at me this whole time. Almost like she's... sizing me up."
She probably is. Itisa's got excellent judgment when it comes to people. "She's fine," Harry said. "Just curious about new people. So, getting back to Tom Riddle—do you know what happened to him after you were expelled?"
"Went on to become a model student, didn't he?" Hagrid said bitterly. "Won awards, got perfect marks, probably went on to some important job at the Ministry. Meanwhile, I got to spend the rest of me school years as the groundskeeper's apprentice."
"But Dumbledore kept you on," Harry observed. "Even after you were expelled. That suggests he didn't believe you were guilty either."
Hagrid's expression softened. "Professor Dumbledore... he's a good man. Gave me a second chance when nobody else would. But he don't talk about what happened back then. Says the past is best left buried."
Convenient philosophy when you're the one doing the burying.
"If you really want to know more about Tom Riddle," Hagrid said reluctantly, "yeh'd have to ask Professor Dumbledore. He knew the boy better than anyone. Was his Transfiguration teacher, if I remember right."
Harry nodded, filing that information away. "Thank you for telling me this, Hagrid. I know it can't be easy to talk about."
"Just..." Hagrid's voice grew uncertain. "Just promise me yeh won't go thinkin' less of Aragog. She's a good sort, really. It's just that people don't understand spiders."
Oh, I understand spiders perfectly well. That's exactly the problem. "I won't judge her without meeting her myself," Harry said diplomatically, which was technically true while being completely misleading.
As Harry stood to leave, Itisa finally moved, stretching languidly before padding over to the door. Hagrid watched her go with obvious relief.
"Interestin' cat, that one," Hagrid commented. "Got very... intense eyes."
"She's one of a kind," Harry agreed, which was probably the most accurate thing he'd said all afternoon.
Walking back toward the castle with Itisa trotting beside him, Harry's mind raced with new information. Tom Riddle—charming, popular, destined for greatness, and apparently willing to let an innocent person take the blame for his crimes. The pieces were starting to form a picture, though it was still frustratingly incomplete.
So fifty years ago, someone opened the Chamber of Secrets, killed a student, and let Hagrid get expelled for it. Now the Chamber's open again, students are being petrified instead of killed. This Tom Riddle must have known that spiders do not petrify, but why would he put the blame on Hagrid? Unless he himself had something to do with the Chamber of Secrets.
Night
Harry flopped onto his four-poster bed in the Slytherin dormitory, staring up at the green silk hangings while his mind churned through everything Hagrid had told him. The common room beyond was unusually quiet for an evening—most students seemed to be avoiding public spaces since the attacks had started up again.
Moaning Myrtle, he thought, absently scratching Itisa behind the ears as she settled beside him. If she was killed the last time the Chamber was opened, she might actually remember what happened. Ghosts have perfect recall of their deaths, after all.
The problem was getting her to talk coherently instead of wailing about blocked pipes and terrible haircuts. Still, it was worth a try.
Sebastian's bed was empty, which wasn't particularly surprising. Harry was fairly certain his friend was down in those mysterious chambers again, probably trying to find something that might help Anna. Speaking of which, Anna Sallow was curled up in one of the common room's wingback chairs, the Aqualis crystal Harry had given her glowing softly in her cupped hands. The pale blue light seemed to give her wan face a bit more color, though she still looked fragile as spun glass.
Nearby, Daphne Greengrass was speaking in low, urgent tones with her younger sister Astoria, whose hands were trembling slightly as she clutched a vial of what looked like Dreamless Sleep Potion.
Everyone's fighting their own battles, Harry mused. At least my problems are just international political pressure and ancient magical engineering challenges. It could be worse.
A sharp tapping at the dormitory window interrupted his thoughts. Harry looked up to see a sleek barn owl perched outside, an official-looking letter tied to its leg. The parchment bore the elegant seal of the Italian Ministry of Magic.
Harry felt his heart sink a little.
Harry opened the window and accepted the letter, offering the owl a treat from the stash he kept for such occasions. As the bird flew off into the night, Harry broke the wax seal with a growing sense of dread.
Caro Mr. Potter, the letter began in Minister Lombardi's elegant script, I hope this letter finds you well and that your studies at Hogwarts continue to flourish.
Straight to the point as always, Harry thought approvingly. No wonder the Italian Ministry actually gets things done.
I am writing to inquire about the progress of our commissioned talismans. I understand that such complex magical engineering requires time and patience, but I am afraid that recent developments have made our situation rather more urgent than initially anticipated.
Harry's stomach began to sink deeper.
In the past month, our Auror teams have encountered three additional Etruscan burial sites that have become active. The curses protecting these sites are more sophisticated and deadly than anything we have previously documented. Two of our best curse-breakers are currently in St. Heelpeer here in Rome, and we have had to seal off an entire district of magical Florence until we can safely neutralize the threats.
Bloody hell, Harry thought, his mouth going dry. People are actually getting hurt while I'm sitting here playing with prototype enchantments.
I do not wish to pressure you unduly, but the lives of Italian Aurors are quite literally depending on the protection your talismans can provide. We have tried every conventional approach available to us, and none have proven adequate against these particular ancient curses.
The letter continued with typical Italian diplomatic courtesy, but the message underneath was crystal clear: Deliver what you promised, or people will die.
Therefore, I must ask for a firm timeline regarding completion of our order. Our curse-breaking teams cannot remain inactive indefinitely, and the magical sites in question pose an increasing threat to civilian populations. Would it be possible to have the enhanced talismans ready within four months? I understand this may seem like an aggressive timeline, but I am afraid we have little choice in the matter.
Four months. Harry's hands were actually trembling as he read the final paragraphs.
Please understand that this deadline is not arbitrary pressure, but a reflection of genuine necessity. The Italian magical community has enormous faith in your abilities, as demonstrated by the remarkable success of your standard talismans with our Auror forces. We are counting on you, Mr. Potter.
With sincere regards and highest expectations,Minister Vittoria Lombardi, Ministry of Magic, Italy
Harry let the letter fall to his chest, staring up at the dormitory ceiling as the full weight of international expectations settled on his shoulders like a lead cloak.
Four months. Four months to solve a problem that had been stumping him for weeks. Four months to deliver protection against ancient curses that could kill experienced curse-breakers. Four months to prove that the faith everyone had placed in a twelve-year-old wasn't catastrophically misplaced.
No pressure at all, he thought sarcastically. Just the safety of Italian Aurors, the reputation of the British magical community, and my own credibility hanging in the balance.
He rolled over to look at Itisa, who was watching him with those unblinking golden eyes that always seemed to see straight through to his soul.
"What do you think, girl? Reckon I can pull off a miracle in four months?"
Itisa made a soft sound that could have been encouragement or could have been skepticism. With cats—even magically disguised apex predators—it was often hard to tell the difference.
Harry sat up, folding the letter carefully and placing it on his nightstand where he'd see it first thing every morning. A constant reminder of what was at stake.
His metamorphic adaptation breakthrough was impressive, certainly. It would help protect against a broader range of curses than his previous models. But "broader range" wasn't the same as "ancient Etruscan burial curses specifically," and Harry was honest enough to admit that his current progress, while significant, still fell well short of what he'd promised Minister Lombardi.
Time to stop celebrating incremental improvements and start looking for revolutionary solutions.
Harry pulled out his talisman-crafting tools and the notes he'd been working on. Four months suddenly felt like no time at all.
But Italian Aurors were counting on him, and Harry Potter had never been one to back down from impossible odds.
Right then, he thought grimly, let's see about performing a miracle.
❾¾
❾¾
Harry's abandoned classroom workshop looked like a tornado had swept through it, leaving behind the detritus of a month's worth of failed experiments. Silver shavings glittered on every surface, half-melted components sat in cooling crucibles, and the acrid smell of magical burnout hung in the air like a persistent fog. Harry himself looked about as good as his workspace—which was to say, terrible.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually messy hair had achieved new levels of chaos, and his hands were decorated with an impressive collection of small cuts and burns from his increasingly desperate attempts to solve the Liquid Diamond problem. The latest prototype sat before him, mocking him with its ordinary appearance despite the hours of work it represented.
Three months left, he thought grimly, prodding the talisman with his wand. Three months to deliver a miracle to Italy, and I'm no closer to a solution than I was when I started.
He'd tried everything he could think of—powdered phoenix feather, essence of unicorn mane, even a fragment of actual diamond treated with liquid moonlight. Nothing provided the stability needed to merge Norse protective magic with Etruscan counter-curse frameworks. The combinations either collapsed within minutes or created such violent magical resonances that he'd nearly blown up the classroom three times.
I could buy the Liquid Diamond, he mused, not for the first time. I've got the gold. Barely, but I could probably scrape together 125,000 Galleons if I emptied both vaults and sold a few investments.
But the thought of giving Fudge and his pet toad exactly what they wanted made Harry's stomach turn. He could practically see Umbridge's smug smile as she counted out his gold, knowing they'd forced him to bend the knee.
Absolutely not, he decided firmly. I'd rather fail spectacularly than give those manipulative idiots the satisfaction. Fudge wants to control me, and Umbridge wants to put me in my place. I'll find another way before I let them win.
The workshop door creaked open, and Nymphadora poked her head in, her hair a concerned shade of blue that matched her expression.
"Merlin's beard, Harry," she said, taking in the state of both him and the room. "You look like you've been wrestling with a chimera. And losing."
"Charming as always, Dora," Harry replied without looking up from his notes. "Did you come here just to insult my appearance, or was there an actual purpose to this visit?"
"Both, actually." She stepped fully into the room, carefully picking her way around the scattered debris. "When's the last time you ate a proper meal? Or slept more than four hours? Or spent time with your friends without muttering about magical resonance frequencies?"
Harry finally looked up, and judging by Nymphadora's expression, he looked even worse than he felt. "I've been busy."
"You've been obsessed," she corrected gently. "There's a difference. Sebastian's been asking where you've disappeared to, and Anna looks worried every time someone mentions your name."
Guilt. Harry had been so focused on his talisman problem that he'd barely spoken to his friends in weeks. "I'll catch up with them once I solve this."
"Harry..." Nymphadora sat down across from him, her voice taking on that careful tone people used when they were about to suggest something they knew you wouldn't like. "What if you used something from Itisa? Just a small sample—scales, maybe, or—"
"No." The word came out sharper than Harry intended. "Absolutely not."
"But if it could work—"
"I said no, Dora." Harry's voice was flat with finality. "Even setting aside the ethical implications of using my friend as a magical component source, it would be completely impractical."
Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
Harry set down his quill and gave her his full attention, his analytical mind shifting into explanation mode despite his exhaustion.
"First, even if Nundu scales worked—which is admittedly possible, given their magical conductivity—I'd need to keep harvesting them for every single talisman order. The Italian Ministry wants a hundred units initially, with probable reorders. That's not a one-time favor like with Anna that happens every six months; that's turning Itisa into a perpetual resource to be tapped."
"But—"
"Second," Harry continued, holding up a hand, "the moment the Italian Ministry gets their hands on these talismans, they're going to study them. It's what any competent government would do with unknown magical technology. And when they analyze the components, they're going to realize that one of the materials came from a Nundu."
Nymphadora's eyes widened as she followed his logic.
"Nundu scales go for about fifty thousand Galleons per ounce on the black market," Harry explained. "They're rarer than phoenix feathers and more dangerous to obtain than dragon heartstring. The Italian Ministry is going to want to know how a twelve-year-old boy got his hands on materials that cost more than most people's houses."
"You could say Newt gave them to you," Nymphadora suggested. "You spent a month with him in France. It wouldn't be surprising if someone like Newt had rare materials just lying around his laboratory."
Harry shook his head. "Newt's too ethical to harvest Nundu scales, and too smart not to realize what I'd done if I claimed he gave them to me. Besides, even if he covered for me, it would still mean turning Itisa into a secret magical component factory."
He gestured to where Itisa lay curled up on a pile of his notes, apparently asleep but probably listening to every word with those preternaturally sharp ears of hers.
"She's not a resource, Dora. She's my friend. My partner. Using her scales might solve my immediate problem, but it would fundamentally change our relationship. Every time I needed rare magical materials, there would be the temptation to ask her for another 'small favor.' And eventually, I'd stop seeing her as Itisa and start seeing her as..." He struggled to find the right words.
"As a very valuable asset," Nymphadora finished quietly.
"Exactly." Harry slumped back in his chair, suddenly feeling every hour of lost sleep. "I won't do that to her. I won't do that to us."
Nymphadora was quiet for a long moment, her hair cycling through several colors as she processed his reasoning. Finally, she nodded.
"I understand. I don't like it—I hate seeing you tear yourself apart over this—but I understand." She leaned forward, her expression serious. "So what's your alternative? Because from where I'm sitting, you're running out of both time and options."
Harry laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the million-Galleon question, isn't it? I've got three months to deliver protection against ancient curses that have been killing professional curse-breakers, and my best solution still can't handle anything older than the Roman Republic."
"There has to be something," Nymphadora insisted. "Some material or technique you haven't tried yet."
"If there is, I haven't found it unless Hogwarts has some kind of dangerous magical animal just lying around, well, except for Itisa." Harry gestured helplessly at his notes, which covered every magical conductor, stabilizer, and amplifier he could think of. "I've been through every reference book in the Hogwarts library, consulted texts from Sebastian's uncle's collection, and even written to three different European alchemists. Nothing."
Nymphadora studied his face for a moment, then reached across the table to cover his hand with hers. "You know what I think?"
"That I should give up and become a professional Quidditch player?"
"I think," she said firmly, "that you're going to figure this out. Because you always do. And when you do, it's going to be because you found a solution that doesn't compromise your principles."
Harry wanted to believe her, he really did. But looking around at the wreckage of his failed experiments, with Minister Lombardi's deadline looming ever closer, he couldn't quite manage optimism.
"I hope you're right," he said quietly. "Because right now, I'm fresh out of brilliant ideas."
One Week Later - Mid-February
Harry was in the middle of testing his latest failed attempt at magical framework stabilization when the commotion erupted from the corridors outside his workshop. Raised voices, running footsteps, and that particular kind of shocked murmuring that meant something terrible had happened.
Please not Hermione, was his first, instinctive thought. Please not Sebastian or Anna or Luna or Daphne or any of my friends.
He abandoned his workspace without a second thought, Itisa leaping gracefully from her perch on his notes to follow him into the corridor. The scene that greeted them was becoming depressingly familiar—a crowd of students pressed against the walls, teachers pushing through with grim expressions, and that electric tension that came with fear and uncertainty.
"What happened?" Harry asked a pale-faced Ravenclaw third-year who was clutching her books like a shield.
"Another attack," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff. They found him near the library, petrified."
Justin. Harry knew him by sight—a cheerful boy with an unfortunate tendency to loudly discuss his acceptance to Eton whenever anyone would listen. Annoying, perhaps, but hardly deserving of being turned to stone by whatever was lurking in the Chamber.
Harry pushed through the crowd until he could see the scene properly. Justin lay frozen in the corridor, his face locked in an expression of absolute terror, one hand raised as if trying to ward off something horrible. Professor McGonagall was directing students away from the area while Professor Flitwick examined the petrified boy with obvious distress.
"Third attack in two months," someone behind Harry muttered. "The school's not safe anymore."
"They should close Hogwarts," another voice added. "Send us all home before more students get hurt."
Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the castle's drafty corridors. If Hogwarts closed, he'd lose access to his workshop, his research materials, and any chance of solving either the Chamber mystery or his talisman problem before Minister Lombardi's deadline.
More importantly, he told himself firmly, students are getting hurt, and whatever's doing this is still out there.
He watched as McGonagall coordinated with the other teachers, her usually stern expression tight with worry. Dumbledore was notably absent, which Harry found both curious and frustrating.
"Potter!" Professor Snape's voice cut through the crowd like a blade. "What are you doing here? Return to your dormitory immediately."
"I was just—"
"Now, Potter."
There was no arguing with that tone, so Harry retreated with the rest of the students, his mind racing. Three attacks now, and he was no closer to identifying the creature responsible.
I'm making no progress with the talismans, he thought as he walked slowly back toward the Slytherin common room. Maybe it's time to focus on something I might actually be able to solve.
The Chamber of Secrets had been opened twice now—fifty years ago when Myrtle died, and now with these petrification attacks. Tom Riddle had been involved somehow in the first incident, framing Hagrid for something the half-giant clearly hadn't done. But what was the connection? What had changed to make the attacks different this time?
Harry paused in the corridor, a decision in his mind. He'd been approaching this all wrong, trying to solve everything at once. Maybe it was time to get some direct answers from the one person who should know the most about Hogwarts' darkest secrets.
Time for a chat with the Headmaster, Harry decided.
Behind him, he could still hear the nervous whispers of students discussing whether their parents would pull them out of school, whether the attacks would continue, whether anyone was really safe at Hogwarts anymore.
The fear was spreading, and with it, the very real possibility that the school would close before Harry could solve either of his pressing problems.
Well, he thought grimly, at least now I know which crisis to tackle first.
Tomorrow
The stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office had clearly been designed by someone with a twisted sense of humor. Harry stood before it, trying to guess the password, while Itisa sat at his feet looking supremely unimpressed by the whole process.
"Cockroach Clusters?" Nothing. "Fizzing Whizzbees?" Still nothing. "Lemon Drops?" The gargoyle remained stubbornly immobile.
Of course it's not going to be something sensible, Harry thought irritably. This is Dumbledore we're talking about. The man who thinks lime-green robes are appropriate formal wear.
"Sherbet Lemons?" he tried, and finally the gargoyle sprang aside with a satisfied rumble.
Naturally. Because why make things simple when you can make them needlessly complicated?
The spiral staircase carried Harry upward with the sort of stately dignity that probably impressed first-years but mostly just gave him time to rehearse what he was going to say. By the time he reached the office door, he'd settled on a direct approach. Subtlety clearly wasn't getting him anywhere with the adults in this castle.
"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore's voice called before Harry could even knock.
Show-off, Harry thought, though he had to admit the wandless detection charm was impressive.
Dumbledore's office was exactly as eccentric as Harry had expected—a fascinating mixture of magical instruments, sleeping portraits, and what appeared to be a small telescope pointed at nothing in particular. The man himself sat behind his desk, his half-moon spectacles catching the light as he looked up from a stack of parchments.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes twinkling with that particular brand of benevolent curiosity that Harry was beginning to find deeply suspicious.
"I want to talk about Tom Riddle," Harry said without preamble.
Dumbledore's quill stilled in his hand, the twinkling in his eyes dimmed considerably, and for just a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of something much sharper and more dangerous than the kindly grandfather act suggested.
"That," Dumbledore said carefully, "is a name I have not heard spoken aloud in quite some time. Might I ask how you came to know it?"
"I read about him in old newspapers during Christmas," Harry replied, settling into the chair across from Dumbledore's desk. Itisa leaped gracefully onto his lap, her golden eyes fixed on the headmaster. "Specifically, newspapers from fifty years ago, when a student named Myrtle Warren was killed and Rubeus Hagrid was expelled for allegedly causing her death."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled before him in thought. "And what conclusions did you draw from these... historical accounts?"
Here we go, Harry thought. Time for the Dumbledore Special: answer a question with a question and reveal absolutely nothing useful.
"I concluded that Tom Riddle was the student who accused Hagrid of opening the Chamber of Secrets the first time," Harry said bluntly. "I also concluded that Hagrid was probably innocent, since I've met the man and he doesn't strike me as the type to harbor murderous monsters. Plus, his supposedly 'harmless' pet was an Acromantula, which might be terrifying to face but definitely doesn't petrify its victims."
"I see you have given this considerable thought," Dumbledore observed. "Might I ask what prompted this particular line of inquiry?"
"The fact that the Chamber has been opened again and students are being petrified," Harry replied with barely concealed exasperation. "Call me crazy, but I thought there might be a connection between past and present events."
And call me even crazier for thinking the headmaster might actually help solve the mystery instead of speaking in riddles.
Dumbledore sighed, suddenly looking every one of his considerable years. "Tom Riddle was... a troubled student."
Harry waited for more details, but apparently that was all the elaboration he was going to get. "Troubled how, exactly?"
"Brilliant, certainly. Perhaps the most gifted student I have ever taught." Dumbledore's voice took on a careful, measured quality. "But brilliance without wisdom, power without compassion... these can be dangerous combinations."
Still not actually telling me anything useful, Harry noted. "And his connection to the Chamber of Secrets?"
"Tom had particular interests in the darker aspects of magic," Dumbledore said, choosing his words with obvious care. "He was fascinated by Hogwarts' history, especially its more... secretive elements."
"So he knew about the Chamber?" Harry pressed.
"Many students know the legends," Dumbledore replied evasively. "Few, however, possessed Tom's particular combination of ambition and resourcefulness."
Harry felt his patience wearing thin. Getting straight answers from Dumbledore was like trying to nail pudding to a wall—theoretically possible, but likely to result in nothing but mess and frustration.
"Professor," Harry said, leaning forward in his chair, "with all due respect, three students have been petrified this year. The school is in a panic, parents are talking about pulling their children out, and you're speaking in riddles about a student from fifty years ago. If Tom Riddle was connected to the first opening of the Chamber, don't you think that information might be relevant to stopping whoever's doing it now?"
Something flickered across Dumbledore's face—approval, perhaps, or maybe just surprise at Harry's directness.
"You make a compelling argument," the headmaster conceded. "However, the past is not always a reliable guide to the present. The circumstances of the current attacks are... different from those fifty years ago."
"Different how?"
"Then, a student died," Dumbledore said simply. "Now, students are being petrified. The intent, it would seem, is different."
Finally, something concrete. Harry filed that information away for later analysis. "But you think it's the same... what? Creature? Person? Magical phenomenon?"
"I think," Dumbledore said with maddening vagueness, "that some secrets are best left buried until the proper time comes to unearth them."
Harry stared at him in disbelief. "Are you seriously suggesting that we just wait and see if more students get petrified while you sit on information that might help solve the problem?"
"I am suggesting," Dumbledore replied with unshakeable calm, "that rushing headlong into dangers you do not fully understand is rarely wise, no matter how noble the intent."
Noble intent? He thinks I'm here out of noble intent? Harry almost laughed. Sure, he wanted to stop the attacks, but his primary motivation was preventing the school from closing before he could finish his talisman project.
"So you're not going to tell me anything useful about Tom Riddle," Harry said flatly.
"I have told you that he was brilliant, troubled, and fascinated by dark magic," Dumbledore pointed out. "What more would you have me say?"
How about his full name, his current whereabouts, his connection to the current attacks, and maybe a useful hint about how to stop him? "Something that might actually help," Harry said instead.
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, studying Harry with those piercing blue eyes. "Very well. Tom Riddle was Head Boy during his seventh year. He was charming, popular, and trusted by both staff and students. He was also, I came to believe, capable of great cruelty when it served his purposes."
"And you think he framed Hagrid?"
"I think," Dumbledore said carefully, "that Hagrid was not responsible for Myrtle Warren's death."
Not quite the same thing as saying Tom Riddle was responsible, but close enough.
Harry stood, recognizing that he'd gotten as much information as he was likely to extract from this conversation. "Thank you for your time, Professor."
"Harry," Dumbledore called as he reached the door. "Please be careful. The Chamber of Secrets was sealed fifty years ago for very good reasons. Some doors are meant to remain closed."
Harry paused, his hand on the door handle. "And what if keeping them closed means more students get hurt?"
Dumbledore had no answer for that, or at least none he was willing to share.
As Harry made his way back down the spiral staircase, Itisa purring softly in his arms, he reflected on the conversation. He'd learned a few useful things—Tom Riddle was brilliant, manipulative, and probably responsible for framing Hagrid fifty years ago. The current attacks were different in intent from the original ones, suggesting a different perpetrator or at least different circumstances.
Harry left Dumbledore's office with the distinct impression that he'd just been politely told to mind his own business by someone who probably knew exactly what was lurking in the Chamber of Secrets. Fantastic. Nothing quite like being patronized by someone who thinks cryptic warnings count as helpful advice.
Walking through the corridors with Itisa padding silently beside him, Harry's mind turned to his next move. Luna had mentioned being able to see the "cords" that connected ghosts to specific locations in the castle. If Moaning Myrtle was killed by whatever came from the Chamber fifty years ago, maybe Luna could trace her connection to the actual site of her death.
Worth a try, Harry decided. Luna's got that uncanny ability to see things others miss, and Myrtle might be more cooperative if there's another girl present. Ghosts can be oddly particular about social dynamics.
He was mentally mapping the most efficient route to find Luna when he spotted a familiar massive silhouette coming down the corridor toward him. Hagrid was struggling with what appeared to be a small tree—though given the half-giant's size, it was probably more of a sapling—tucked under one arm, while his other hand carried a canvas sack that seemed to be leaking something unpleasant.
"Oh, hello there, Harry," Hagrid called out cheerfully, apparently unaware that he was dripping whatever was in the sack onto the stone floor. "Fancy meetin' yeh here."
"Afternoon, Hagrid," Harry replied, eyeing the mysterious cargo with curiosity. "Busy day?"
"Aye, always somethin' that needs doin' around the castle," Hagrid said with the resigned satisfaction of someone who genuinely enjoyed manual labor. "Just deliverin' this little beauty to Professor Garlick for her greenhouse. She's been askin' for a proper Flutterby bush for weeks now."
Professor Garlick. The Herbology teacher. Harry had heard good things about her from the students who actually paid attention in that class. "And the sack?"
Hagrid's expression darkened considerably. "Dead roosters, I'm afraid. Third lot this term, and I'm gettin' mighty tired of it."
Harry blinked. "Third lot?"
"Aye, keeps happenin'," Hagrid grumbled, setting down his burdens for a moment to wipe his forehead with the back of his massive hand. "Started back in late September. Woke up one mornin' to find all me roosters stone dead, no obvious cause. Thought maybe it was a fox got into the coop, but there were no signs of struggle, no missing birds, just... dead."
Something cold began to unfurl in Harry's stomach. "When did you say this started?"
"Late September," Hagrid repeated. "Right around the time of the Harvest Festival, if I remember right. Had to buy new roosters, didn't I? Cost me a pretty penny, too. But then, three weeks later, same thing happened again. Every last one of 'em, dead as doornails."
Late September. Harry's mind raced through the timeline. Mrs. Norris had been petrified in early October, just weeks after Hagrid's first batch of roosters died. Colin Creevey had been attacked in November, and now in February.
"And this is the third time?" Harry asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the growing certainty building in his chest.
"Two days ago'," Hagrid confirmed sadly. "Poor things didn't stand a chance. It's like somethin's huntin' them specifically, but I can't figure out what. No other animals on the grounds are havin' problems—just me roosters."
Of course it's just the roosters, Harry thought, his pulse quickening. Because roosters are the one thing that can kill a basilisk. Their crow is lethal to them. Any basilisk operating near Hogwarts would instinctively eliminate that threat first.
The voice he'd been hearing in the walls, speaking in Parseltongue about hunger and killing—it all suddenly made perfect, horrible sense.
"Harry?" Hagrid was looking at him with concern. "Yeh alright there? Yeh've gone a bit pale."
"Fine," Harry managed, though his mind was spinning. "Just... tired from all the studying."
A basilisk. Moving through the castle walls, probably using the old plumbing system if the legends about Slytherin's Chamber are accurate. That's why I've been hearing it in the walls—it's literally traveling through them. And the petrifications instead of deaths... people must be seeing its reflection or getting an indirect look somehow.
"Well, don't work yerself too hard," Hagrid advised kindly. "Young lad like yeh needs proper rest. Growing and all that."
"Right," Harry said absently, his analytical mind already working through the details. Basilisks kill with direct eye contact. The victims must have seen it through something—mirrors, reflections, ghosts acting as intermediaries. That's why no one's died this time around.
"I should let yeh get back to yer studies then," Hagrid continued, hefting his burdens again. "These roosters won't bury themselves, and Professor Garlick's expectin' her bush before dinner."
"Of course," Harry replied automatically. "Thanks for... explaining about the roosters."
"No trouble at all," Hagrid said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the significance of what he'd just revealed. "Take care of yerself, Harry. And keep that cat of yours close—wouldn't want anythin' happenin' to her with all this Chamber business goin' on."
As Hagrid disappeared down the corridor, Harry stood frozen in place.
It's a basilisk, he thought with absolute certainty. The monster in the Chamber of Secrets is a basilisk. That's why Salazar Slytherin could control it—he was a Parselmouth, and basilisks respond to Parseltongue commands. That's why the attacks have been petrifications instead of deaths—the victims aren't getting direct eye contact.
Itisa wound around his legs, purring softly as if sensing his distress. Harry looked down at her, his mind racing with new concerns.
A basilisk's venom is one of the most potent magical toxins known to wizard-kind. Its gaze kills instantly, its bite is fatal within minutes, and even its breath can be poisonous in enclosed spaces.
But more importantly, he now understood why he'd been hearing the voice when others couldn't. The basilisk was speaking in Parseltongue, and Harry was one of the few people in the castle who could understand it.
Which means, he realized with growing dread, I might be the only person who can actually communicate with the thing. The only one who could potentially stop it.
But who is speaking to this Basilisk? Who else in this castle can speak Parseltongue? Tom Riddle, maybe, but that was 50 years ago, and I doubt he still comes around here just to wake the Basilisk, and then go back to his home without anyone noticing. Harry didn't know who it was, but now he knew what he had to do.
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