Harry took a minute to calm the raging effect the demonic flames had on his mind and opened the door for his companions.
Fleur immediately ran up to him and engulfed him in a tight hug.
"You are never doing this again," she whispered furiously and kissed him.
Sirious let out a low whistle and then turned around to look for the basilisk. Due to its size, he found the steaming corpse straight away, and he gave an impressed whistle, again. "Holy shit. This thing was huge. You did really fucking well, Harry."
Harry, who was still being kissed fiercely, didn't bother replying.
Sirius made a retching sound at the couple and, after not getting the desired attention, moved to explore the room, murmuring under his breath about shameless and immature couples.
Only the grandiosity from the previous days stopped him from gasping at the display.
The chamber—like most of the place—was vast, yet it felt suffocating.
Its ceiling arched so high that Sirius couldn't sense where it ended, swallowed by ancient shadows. Of course, the pillars scattered in the room were as unfathomably high as the ceiling, and were carved with serpentine figures.
The floor was smooth obsidian, except a particular part which showed the damange of the recent battle.
At the far end of the hall lay another damn sarcophagus of black stone, carved in the likeness of a man whose features had tingled something in Sirius' memory.
It was Herpo the Foul.
"Huh, who knew all those useless lessons about the history of the Dark Arts would pay off one day," he murmured aloud, reminiscing about long hours of insufferable studying sessions under his mother's eyes.
Sirius didn't linger on the sarcophagus, though—"it's just a dead man after all"—and he moved behind it, stumbling upon something much more interesting.
A library!
Sirius stared with glee. That was just what they were looking for!
Rows upon rows of shelves extended into the gloom, each crammed with books, scrolls, and crumbling manuscripts. The shelves themselves were carved from the same black stone as the sarcophagus, their edges inlaid with runes that Sirius guessed were used to sustain the knowledge.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, running a hand over a nearby tome. It was dry and cracked, but somehow unspoiled by time. "It must be the runes indeed."
The letters on its spine writhed faintly before settling into shapes he couldn't read. "Figures. The bastard keeps his shit in Parseltongue."
By the time Harry and Fleur entered, Sirius had already stacked a small pile of books on a nearby slab, looking like a child caught red-handed in a sweet shop.
"Look what I found," he said with a grin. "A bloody library. Am I, or am I not, the best?"
"Yes, Sirius. I'll give you a cookie later," Harry said easily and moved closer to the nearest shelf, letting his magic brush against the old books. He couldn't quite hide his excitement, though.
Fleur's eyes widened. "Mon dieu," she breathed. "This is… this is probably it!"
Harry nodded. He could feel the serpentine essence woven into the tomes.
"All of it's in Parseltongue," he said quietly.
Sirius blinked. "Isn't this great!? Why wouldn't the creepy snake language be useful now of all times?"
Fleur shot him a warning look before turning back to Harry. "Be careful. If these books belonged to Herpo, they could be cursed."
"Actually, all of them are cursed," Harry muttered and watched in amusement as Sirius dropped the book he was holding. "Every single one of them. But the curses are not active. They are just a defensive measure against thieves. They'll only trigger if we take them out of this room."
He looked around, looking for a place to sit.
"I suppose I should get comfortable," Harry said and snapped his fingers to create three rocking chairs in green bouclé with a dark green steel structure and beech wood. He hoped Herpo would appreciate the style.
He began to read.
Hours slipped by as they combed through the collection. There were treatises on the nature of death, essays on soul division, and rambling notes that bordered on madness.
Fleur took notes when Harry mentioned anything of importance, while Sirius kept an eye on the room, occasionally muttering that they should be anywhere but here.
Then Harry found it.
A small, thin book wedged behind a cracked bust of a serpent-headed man. It wasn't bound like the others. The cover was plain, almost humble, its edges darkened with age and handling. When he opened it, the pages almost whispered against his fingers.
"I think this is his personal record," Harry said, his voice low. "His diary."
The handwriting was sharp and precise, unlike the rest of the records, which were almost in a steady and mechanical penmanship.
Harry began to read.
Herpo had written of his triumphs, his experiments, and his transcendence—the creation of the first vessel for the soul. But as Harry read further, the triumph gave way to desperation.
'WHAT?!'
I have made an error beyond measure. I consumed what was not mine—a fragment, small, unformed, piece of someone else's soul. It was more than enough, though… At first, I felt stronger. My mind sharper. My magic colder. But then the whispers began… and the cold... it got so cold. The soul I devoured is not silent. It thrashes within me still. Our essences repel each other. My magic fractures. My dreams rot. If only I had taken a seventh… a perfect division… or less, the soul may have endured. But the balance is lost. I have taken almost half of his soul. It is very funny that he is dead now, and I am dying, for the only hope I have of stopping madness from encompassing my whole being, is to consume the rest of his soul. Alas, he is now with Hades, and in a few fortnights, I shall be too. The hunger never fades.
Harry's fingers tightened on the page. "He consumed a piece of another person's soul… and it made his own unstable."
Fleur frowned. "He… someone's soul?"
"Not all of it. Just a fragment." Harry's gaze darkened as he read the last few lines aloud.
If one takes but a fraction too much, both are doomed. Especially, the one who was stolen from, since their soul's functions will slowly erode because there is a piece of them residing and becoming someone else. In the end, either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.
He closed the book slowly.
"Voldemort," he whispered. "Ah, fuck me."
Fleur looked at him, ready to burst into tears. "Wh-What is it?"
"I have to consume Voldemort's soul, or he has to consume the pieces of himself residing in mine. Otherwise, we'll both die."
Sirius swore under his breath. "You mean to tell me snake-face has to get his soul back from you?"
Harry didn't answer. He wasn't even staring at the pages anymore.
He knew what he had to do, and did not want to do it at all.
Who knew if, after consuming Voldemort's whole soul, he'd still be himself? Hell, he didn't even know if Herpo was right in his theories.
For the first time, the idea of what connected him to Voldemort felt like it was fate alright, and Harry hated it.
.
.
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Chapter 131: It's Finally Over