Chapter Text
The basilisk emerged from the mouth of Salazar Slytherin's statue like a nightmare given form—sixty feet of ancient serpent, scales gleaming in the torchlight, fangs dripping venom that hissed and steamed where it struck stone.
Harry stumbled backward, eyes squeezed shut, arm raised uselessly as if it could ward off death itself. This was it. This was how he died—blind and helpless in a chamber a thousand years old, while Ginny Weasley's life drained away on the cold floor.
Then he heard it—a sound like music, like hope itself taking wing.
Phoenix song filled the Chamber of Secrets, pure and clear and impossibly brave. Harry dared to crack his eyes open just enough to see a flash of scarlet and gold, and something heavy dropped onto his head with enough force to make him stagger.
The Sorting Hat.
Of course, some distant part of his mind thought hysterically. Of course it's the bloody hat.
But his hands were already reaching up, pulling the hat off, feeling inside it with desperate urgency because there had to be something, anything—
His fingers closed around a hilt.
The sword that emerged from the Sorting Hat was beautiful in a way that made Harry's chest ache. The blade gleamed silver-bright, untarnished by a millennium of waiting. Rubies the size of eggs glittered in the pommel, catching the torchlight and throwing red sparks across the walls. The weight of it in his hand felt right in a way he couldn't explain—perfectly balanced, perfectly suited to his grip, as if it had been waiting for him specifically.
As the tip of the blade cleared the hat's brim, magic exploded through Harry like lightning.
It roared up from somewhere deep beneath the castle, ancient and vast and knowing. It crashed through him in waves—not painful, but overwhelming, like being caught in a riptide of pure power. Harry gasped, the sword trembling in his grip as the castle's magic recognized him, as something that had always been sleeping in his blood suddenly woke. And then—
A single deep gong resonated through the castle.
It wasn't a sound, exactly. Harry felt it more than heard it—a resonance that thrummed through the stone beneath his feet, through the walls, through the very air itself. The gong echoed once, twice, three times, each reverberation sending ripples of magic cascading through the ancient wards. Somewhere far above, Harry sensed the wards flaring to life like a beacon, ancient magic recognizing and celebrating and claiming.
Harry stood frozen, the sword trembling in his grip, trying to comprehend what had just happened to him. The magic still coursed through his veins, settling into something he could almost—but not quite—grasp. It felt like the castle had just looked at him and said mine.
The basilisk had frozen mid-strike.
Harry forced his eyes fully open, squinting through the glare of torchlight reflecting off the blade. The serpent's massive head swayed above him, easily twenty feet in the air, its yellow eyes—don't look directly, don't look—fixed on something just over his shoulder.
On Fawkes.
The phoenix had landed on the statue of Salazar Slytherin, wings spread wide, still singing that hauntingly beautiful song. But now his black eyes were fixed on the basilisk with an intensity that made even the ancient serpent pause.
"Hatchling of Gryffindor," the basilisk hissed, and Harry understood it—of course he did, he was a Parselmouth, though the basilisk's voice was different from any snake he'd heard before. Ancient. Resonant. Formal. "The castle celebrates thy ascension. I shall not strike thee, out of respect for what my master built alongside thine forebear."
"What?" Harry's response came out in the same sibilant hissing, his mind still reeling. "What ascension?"
"Thou bearest the Sword. The wards themselves proclaim thee. Thou art Lord of this castle, as thy forebear was before thee." The massive head dipped slightly—not quite a bow, but an acknowledgment. "I was deceived—told that my master's true heir had returned at last. But I see now the truth of it. The shade that commanded me wore my master's face and spoke with his voice, but had none of his honour."
There was ancient grief in those words, and shame, and something that might have been relief.
"My master departed these halls a millennium past, and I know not what became of him. He said his absence would be brief—a journey, a cooling of tempers. But he never returned." The basilisk's voice dropped to something almost too quiet to hear. "I have waited. I have kept his chamber. And in my loneliness, I allowed myself to be deceived by one who claimed his blood and his legacy. But I will not dishonour what he loved—what he spent his life building—by striking down the lord this castle has chosen."
Harry's mind struggled to keep up. The basilisk had been lonely? Deceived? It was talking about honour and legacy like—like it actually cared about Hogwarts. None of this matched the monster from the stories.
"NO!"
The scream came from behind Harry, and he spun to see Tom Riddle's memory—more solid now, more real as Ginny grew paler—striding toward them with his wand raised. "You're wrong! I am Lord Slytherin's heir! You serve ME!"
The basilisk's head swiveled toward Riddle, and even through his terror, Harry felt a flash of something almost like pity from the great serpent.
"No, shade. I see thee clearly now. Thou art but a fragment, an echo. Thou hast stolen my master's gift of speech and used it to deceive me, but thou art not he. Thou hast none of his wisdom, none of his love for this place. Thou art a thief wearing his legacy like a stolen cloak."
Tom Riddle's face contorted with rage. His form flickered, becoming more translucent—the diary lying near Ginny was fluttering weakly, its pages barely moving. Whatever magic had been sustaining the memory was failing.
"Then you're useless to me!" Riddle snarled, and his wand snapped toward Ginny. Dark magic gathered around her prone form, sickly green and pulsing with malice. Harry understood in one horrible instant what Riddle was trying to do—force the connection, drain her completely, make himself solid enough to survive before the diary's power failed entirely.
"NO!" Harry lunged forward, raising the Sword of Gryffindor. He brought it down toward the diary with all his strength—
The blade skittered off the black cover, barely leaving a scratch. The diary's dark magic repelled the sword like oil repelling water.
Harry's heart sank. The sword couldn't destroy it—the diary's protections were too strong, or he didn't know how to use the blade properly, or—
"The diary," Harry gasped in Parseltongue, looking up at the massive serpent. "Can you destroy it? With your venom?"
The basilisk's head tilted, considering. Then, with a movement almost too fast to follow, it struck.
One massive fang punched through the diary with a sound like tearing fabric and breaking bone. Tom Riddle's scream echoed through the Chamber, inhuman and agonized, as black ink sprayed from the book like arterial blood. The memory convulsed, his solid form dissolving into smoke and shadow, his face contorted in rage and disbelief.
"Impossible! I am Lord Slytherin's heir! I am immortal! I am—I am—"
The diary gave one final, pathetic flutter. Tom Riddle's mouth opened in a soundless scream, and then he was simply gone, dissipating like mist in morning sun.
The basilisk withdrew its fang with a satisfied hiss, flicking away drops of venom that sizzled where they hit stone. "It is done, young lord."
Harry's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the cold stone floor, and the Sorting Hat tumbled off his head. The Sword of Gryffindor was still clutched in his shaking hand, the magic that had flooded through him when he drew it still humming under his skin, but he couldn't think about that now. Couldn't think about what the basilisk had called him, or what the castle had done, or—
Fawkes trilled, and Harry looked up to see the phoenix swooping down from the statue. The bird landed on Harry's shoulder with barely any weight at all, and the warmth that spread from where Fawkes' talons gripped his robes was like being wrapped in sunlight. The phoenix nuzzled against Harry's cheek, crooning softly, and something in Harry's chest shifted—a connection forming, a bond clicking into place that felt as natural as breathing.
"What—" Harry started to say, but Fawkes just trilled again, more insistently, and the message was somehow clear: Mine. You're mine now, as I am yours.
"Well," said a dry voice from where the Sorting Hat lay on the floor nearby, "that was quite the performance."
Harry looked at the Hat, still trying to understand everything that had just happened. The basilisk was watching him with those enormous yellow eyes—Harry was careful to keep his gaze slightly averted. Ginny was still unconscious nearby, pale but breathing. Ron was trapped somewhere beyond the cave-in with Lockhart. And Harry had somehow become—
"What just happened to me?" Harry asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"You claimed your birthright," the Hat said matter-of-factly. "Drew the Sword of Gryffindor, became Lord Gryffindor, claimed the castle. Fairly standard succession, all things considered. Though the phoenix familiar is a nice touch. Godric would have been pleased."
Harry's mind felt like it was moving through treacle. "Lord Gryffindor. Me. That's—that's impossible."
"The castle seems to disagree. Did you not feel the wards acknowledge their new master? Hear them celebrate your claim? Rather hard to miss, I thought."
"But I'm—I'm just Harry. I'm nobody. I'm—"
"You are the one who drew the Sword," the Hat interrupted, and for the first time its tone lost some of its dryness. "That is not something that happens by accident, Mr. Potter. The Sword of Gryffindor can only be drawn from me by Godric's true heir—and there can be only one at a time. You have his blood in your veins, however distant the connection. You are Lord Gryffindor, whether you knew it or not. The Sword came to you because you are the heir. Everything else follows from that."
"But what does that mean?" Harry asked desperately. "What am I supposed to—"
"When the four Founders built this castle," the Hat said, "they were not equals in authority. Godric Gryffindor held primacy among them. The other three looked to him for leadership, followed his vision for what Hogwarts should be. As his heir, you inherit not just his legacy, but his position. This castle is yours, in a way it belongs to no one else."
Harry wanted to argue, wanted to insist that there had been some mistake, but the magic still thrumming through his veins made that impossible. Something fundamental had shifted in him when he drew that blade—not changed, but awakened. Something that had always been there, sleeping in his blood, waiting.
"Young lord," the basilisk said, its sibilant voice filling the chamber.
Harry responded without thinking, the Parseltongue flowing as naturally as breathing. "Yes?"
There was a pause. Then the Hat's voice cut in, speaking in English with a peculiar translating quality: "The serpent says—"
"I can understand him," Harry said in Parseltongue, then switched to English, confused. "I mean—I already understood what he said. I've always been able to talk to snakes."
The Hat went very still on the floor where it lay.
"You're a Parselmouth?" the Hat said slowly. "And you understood directly? But I thought—when you were wearing me, I assumed you were using my translations. You mean you've been speaking Parseltongue all along without my help?"
"Yes," Harry said, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I thought—when I was wearing you, I thought maybe you were helping, but I understand Parseltongue. I have since I was little. Is that—is that a problem?"
"Most unusual indeed," the Hat murmured. "Parseltongue is the gift of Salazar Slytherin, passed through his bloodline. For Gryffindor's heir to possess it as well... either the bloodlines crossed at some point in the centuries since the Founders' time, or something else is at work here. Most curious. Most curious indeed."
"Young lord," the basilisk said, drawing Harry's attention back. "Thy companion. The female hatchling. She requires aid."
"Ginny!" Harry scrambled to his feet, nearly dropping the sword in his panic. How could he have forgotten? Ginny was still lying there, pale as death, the diary's ink staining her robes—
He ran to her, falling to his knees beside her still form. She was breathing, but barely, and her skin was cold to the touch.
"We need to get her out of here," Harry said desperately. He looked at the ruined diary, its pages blackened and curling from the basilisk venom. He should bring it—Dumbledore would need to see it, to understand what had happened. Harry picked it up carefully by one corner; the venom had done its work, but he didn't want to take chances. "And Ron—he's trapped on the other side of the cave-in with Lockhart—"
"There is much here beyond what that shade revealed," the basilisk said softly. "When thou art ready to learn what this chamber truly holds, return. There is a true Founders' Chamber beyond Slytherin's chamber—much that belongs to all their legacies. But only thou, as Lord Gryffindor, may access it all."
Harry looked up at the massive serpent, at this ancient creature that had waited a thousand years for a master who never returned, that had been deceived and used by Tom Riddle's memory. "Thank you," he said in Parseltongue. "For seeing the truth. For helping me stop him. For helping me save her."
The basilisk's head dipped in acknowledgment. "It is I who should thank thee, young lord. Thou hast freed me from the shade's deception. Go now—tend to thy people. I shall be here when thou art ready to learn thy inheritance."
Fawkes trilled from Harry's shoulder and took wing, circling overhead once. The phoenix looked at Harry with those intelligent black eyes, and Harry understood.
"Can you carry us?" Harry asked. "Ginny and I first, up to where Ron and Lockhart are trapped, then all of us to the castle?"
Fawkes trilled an affirmative, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude so intense it made his throat tight. His phoenix. Fawkes was his now.
But first—Harry looked down at the Sword of Gryffindor in his hand, its rubies gleaming in the torchlight. Carefully, feeling oddly reluctant, he picked up the Sorting Hat and placed the sword back into its depths.
The moment the sword touched the hat's interior, it simply—disappeared. Not fading away, but there one instant and gone the next, as if it had been absorbed into whatever magical space existed inside an enchanted sorting hat.
"It will come when you call it," the Hat said quietly. "You are its master now, Harry Potter. As you are master of much else besides, whether you wanted it or not."
Harry placed the Hat on his head—it seemed the safest place to keep it—and gathered Ginny carefully in his arms. She was so light, so cold. He tucked the ruined diary into his robes.
"Farewell for now, young lord," the basilisk said. "May the castle keep thee."
Fawkes gave one powerful trill, and Harry gripped his tail feathers tightly with one hand while cradling Ginny with the other. There was a flash of fire and heat and impossible movement, and then—
They appeared in a burst of flame on the other side of the cave-in, where Ron was sitting with his back against the tunnel wall, his broken wand in pieces beside him. Professor Lockhart was nearby, humming to himself and arranging pebbles in patterns, his eyes vacant and lost.
Ron scrambled to his feet with a yelp. "Harry! Ginny! What—how did you—is she—"
"She's alive," Harry said quickly. "But we need to get her to the hospital wing. Come on—Fawkes can carry all of us."
Ron stared at the phoenix on Harry's shoulder, then at the Sorting Hat on Harry's head, then at his sister's pale face. "What happened in there, mate?"
"I'll explain later," Harry said, which was a lie because he wasn't sure he could explain any of it. "Just—grab Lockhart and hold onto Fawkes' tail feathers. We're getting out of here."
Ron helped Lockhart to his feet—the professor went docilely, still humming—and they all gripped Fawkes' tail. The phoenix trilled once more, and then the world dissolved into fire and heat and impossible movement.
They materialized in a swirl of flame in Professor McGonagall's office.
McGonagall shot to her feet with a startled cry. Dumbledore, who had apparently been meeting with her, rose more slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. But it was the couple standing near the fireplace who reacted most dramatically.
"GINNY!" Molly Weasley's scream was raw with terror as she lunged forward. Arthur was right behind her, his face chalk-white.
"Great Merlin," McGonagall breathed, taking in the scene—Harry holding Ginny's unconscious form, all of them covered in dirt and grime, Fawkes perched proudly on Harry's shoulder, and the Sorting Hat sitting on Harry's head. Ron looked shell-shocked, and Lockhart was still humming vacantly. "What happened?"
"My baby—" Molly was reaching for Ginny, her hands shaking. "Is she—please tell me she's—"
"She's alive," Harry said quickly, carefully transferring Ginny into her mother's arms. "But she needs help. The diary—Tom Riddle—he was draining her life to bring himself back—"
He pulled the ruined diary from his robes and held it out. The pages were blackened and curling, holes punched through by basilisk fangs, ink staining the cover like dried blood.
McGonagall was already moving, conjuring a stretcher with a wave of her wand. "Molly, Arthur, we need to get her to the hospital wing immediately. Poppy will know what to do—"
"I'll come with you," Arthur said, his voice hoarse, one hand on Molly's shoulder as she clutched Ginny to her chest.
"Of course," McGonagall said. She looked at Ron. "Mr. Weasley, you should come as well. And Professor Lockhart—" She frowned at the Defense professor, who was now trying to organize the items on her desk. "What's wrong with him?"
"Memory Charm backfired," Ron said quietly. "He tried to use my broken wand to Obliviate us and it... didn't go well."
McGonagall's lips thinned. "I see. Yes, he'll need attention as well. Come along, all of you."
With another wave of her wand, she had Ginny floating on the stretcher, Molly and Arthur hurrying after her toward the door. Ron cast one last bewildered look at Harry before following his parents. McGonagall paused at the threshold, looking back at Harry.
"Mr. Potter—you should come to the hospital wing as well. You need to be checked over."
"In a moment, Minerva," Dumbledore said quietly, his gaze fixed on Harry—or more specifically, on Fawkes. "I believe Harry and I should speak first."
McGonagall hesitated, then nodded and swept from the room, herding Lockhart ahead of her. The door swung shut behind them.
Harry was left standing in the suddenly quiet office, abruptly aware of how he must look—battered and exhausted, a phoenix on his shoulder, wearing the Sorting Hat like some kind of crown, holding a ruined diary that had nearly killed a girl.
Dumbledore was watching him with those sharp blue eyes. Fawkes trilled softly but didn't move from Harry's shoulder. If anything, he pressed closer, his warm weight reassuring.
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "I see," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice—surprise, yes, but also a touch of what might have been sadness or perhaps resignation. "Something momentous happened tonight. Something that affected the whole castle." His eyes lingered on Fawkes with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Even Fawkes."
Harry swallowed hard, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. The magic was still humming under his skin, the castle's recognition still warm in his chest, but he couldn't find words to explain any of it.
"You should rest, Harry," Dumbledore said gently, though his eyes lingered on the phoenix with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Tomorrow will be soon enough for explanations. Go to the hospital wing. Let Madam Pomfrey look after you."
Harry nodded mutely, setting the ruined diary on Dumbledore's desk. Then he turned and walked to the door on unsteady legs, Fawkes warm and solid on his shoulder, the Sorting Hat still perched on his head.
Outside the office, he could sense the castle around him—aware of him in a way it had never been before, welcoming him, knowing him.
He was Lord Gryffindor now.
Whatever that meant.