Harry trailed behind Snape, his mind replaying the professor's earlier words.
When facing the Basilisk, Harry hadn't felt fear.
As the creature's amber, slit-pupiled eyes locked onto him like twin cold lanterns, a strange, almost instinctive connection surged within him—not dread, but something akin to resonance.
Harry shook his head, pushing the confusion down.
At the entrance to the Headmaster's office, the stone gargoyle crouched in the shadows.
Blaise Zabini leaned against the wall, his back taut as a drawn bowstring, his face pale as faded parchment, looking every bit the victim.
Snape didn't pause. With a flick of his wand toward the staircase, his black robes swished across the floor, mingling with Blaise's hurried footsteps as they faded, leaving Harry alone before the heavy wooden door.
Harry took a deep breath and whispered the password to the gargoyle: "Cockroach Cluster."
The gargoyle slid aside, and the spiral staircase rose like a waking serpent.
Pushing open the door, Harry found Dumbledore seated behind his desk, his fingers gently tracing the scorched diary, as if soothing a burn.
Fawkes perched on Dumbledore's shoulder, its golden-red feathers occasionally shedding, drifting in slow spirals to the floor.
"Sit, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking up, his blue eyes tinged with gentle weariness. "It seems you and Professor Snape have dealt with the Basilisk?"
Harry settled into the armchair across from him, his gaze drawn to the diary.
Its charred cover looked like a poisoned scab, edges curled like brittle bones, no longer emanating any eerie aura—just lifeless silence.
"The Basilisk has retreated to the Chamber," Harry said, his voice calmer than he expected, though his fingers unconsciously picked at the chair's patterned fabric.
"Good," Dumbledore said with a relieved nod, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the desk.
Harry opened his mouth but swallowed his words.
Dumbledore noticed, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Speak, Harry. Tonight, let's be open—within reason."
He slid a cup of tea across the desk, a miniature Fawkes etched on the cup. "With honey. It might lighten your mood."
Harry took the cup, the warmth spreading from his fingers to his chest. He sipped, feeling himself relax.
"Parseltongue worked as you suspected—the Basilisk's eyes had no effect on me," Harry said, meeting Dumbledore's gaze. "But I think it obeyed me not because of Parseltongue, but because of Slytherin's blood."
"Why do you say that?" Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, a spark of curiosity in his blue eyes.
"Because the Basilisk said I carry Slytherin's blood," Harry replied, his fingers tightening, crumpling the coaster. "But it also said the magical contract was gone. If Voldemort's presence hadn't suddenly vanished, it wouldn't have listened to me."
Harry took another sip of tea.
Dumbledore traced a circle on the desk with his finger. "Then our earlier theory was correct (Chapter 24). Your ancestors did intermarry with the Gaunt family. As for the contract… perhaps because you're a Potter, and the Potters long ago renounced their claim to Slytherin's legacy."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, his fingers circling the teacup's rim. "So, the Basilisk serves those of Salazar Slytherin's line who are Sorted into Slytherin, not just anyone who speaks Parseltongue?"
Dumbledore shook his head, then nodded slightly. "The Basilisk's loyalty is to Salazar Slytherin's blood, not Parseltongue alone. Tom Marvolo Riddle's soul fragment has been destroyed, severing its tie to its former master. You are the only one it will obey now."
Harry caught a flaw in the words and looked up. "But Voldemort himself is still alive. Why say the connection is severed?"
"Harry, this brings us to Horcruxes," Dumbledore said, pausing, his gaze drifting to the window, lost in thought.
After a long silence, he continued, "I'm not ready to explain Horcruxes fully yet. Simply put, Tom split himself in two. The half that bound the Basilisk was the left half, but the Voldemort still alive is only the right."
Harry's eyes fell back to the diary, its charred cover glinting dully in the morning light. "So this… is his 'left half'?"
"Yes." Dumbledore slid the diary toward Harry, a faint tension in his voice. "When you faced it, did you feel anything… unusual?"
"There was something," Harry admitted hesitantly, choosing honesty. "Like… something scratching at my throat, urging me to consume it."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, his fingers brushing his silver beard, the light in his eyes deep as a well.
Since he'd started, Harry pressed on. "When I look at it, it's like fragments appear in my mind—wand movements, vague magical formulas, as if someone's whispering spells in my ear…"
"When did this start?" Dumbledore interrupted, his tone suddenly grave. "Just now, or long ago?"
"Before I came to Hogwarts," Harry said, touching the scar on his forehead. "But it's stronger when I practice complex spells, especially intricate wand gestures. It feels… like I've practiced them before."
Dumbledore stood, prompting an indignant squawk from Fawkes, who flapped its golden-red wings back to its perch by the window.
Dumbledore retrieved a velvet box from the top shelf, opening it to reveal the Philosopher's Stone, gleaming like a frozen star.
"Harry, place it against your forehead," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but commanding.
Harry obeyed. The moment the cold stone touched his scar, a blinding white light erupted.
A shadowy figure emerged from the light, slowly coalescing in the air, hunched and wreathed in black mist, its form indistinct.
Harry's scar burned as if seared by a red-hot iron, the pain stealing his breath.
As the shadow grew clearer, the agony intensified, like a dull knife twisting in his brain.
Harry bit his lip hard to stifle a cry.
Dumbledore gripped his Elder Wand, its tip glowing faintly silver, but he didn't act, his blue eyes fixed on the shadow, waiting.
Just as the shadow's face began to form—melted features and crimson eyes—a soft golden light burst from Harry, enveloping him like a warm cocoon.
The shadow melted like ice in fire, leaving no trace.
"Harry…"
A red-haired figure emerged from the golden light, her gentle eyes like warm water, gazing down at Harry. "My darling…"
Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Lily?!" he gasped.
The figure didn't seem to hear, only looked at Harry, her fingers reaching as if to touch his cheek before dissolving into a wisp of light, settling on his forehead.
The searing pain vanished with it.
Harry clutched his forehead, panting, and looked at Dumbledore, his voice trembling. "Was that… my mum?"
Dumbledore didn't answer directly, his gaze complex. "Do you still… feel the urge to consume it?"
Harry blinked, glancing at the diary. The itch in his throat returned, and he nodded.
Dumbledore sighed knowingly, his eyes flickering to a desk drawer. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled out a crystal vial, silver-white mist swirling inside like trapped time.
Harry recognized it—a memory vial.
"Harry, do you remember what I told you?" Dumbledore's voice grew solemn. "Legilimency has many uses… I may be this century's greatest Legilimens."
He paused, sliding the vial toward Harry. "This contains memories extracted from Lily—your mother—after her death. Would you like to see them?"
As dawn broke, morning light spilled through the high windows, catching the vial and scattering flecks of light like stars.
Harry nodded silently.
Dumbledore retrieved the Pensieve, pouring the memory into it.
"Harry, love is the greatest magic in the world," he said, then dipped his head into the Pensieve. Harry followed.
On a grassy field, a red-haired girl sat beside a greasy-haired boy, her eyes full of unmasked admiration…
Harry instantly recognized Lily and Snape.
The scene shifted. An older Lily clutched a potion vial excitedly. "Sev, look…"
Snape cut her off coldly. "How many times have I told you not to approach me openly at Hogwarts? It'll…"
Another shift. A more beautiful Lily frowned, rejecting a messy-haired boy's confession—Harry knew it was James.
Next, Snape hung upside down, his robes torn off roughly…
Then, Lily discovered a strange space where a portrait's witch handed her something…
Later, Lily and James exchanged rings, married.
The scenes progressed. Lily lay in pain in a room (clearly not a hospital), and with a sharp cry, James brought a tiny baby to her.
In the seventh scene, a Christmas tree stood in the room. Voldemort appeared suddenly. James fell first. He didn't kill Lily immediately, only knocking her down before heading to Harry's room.
Resolve flashed across Lily's face. A faint incantation sounded (Harry couldn't make out the words), and a golden light enveloped her—the same light Harry had just emitted.
The memory froze.
Harry pulled out of the Pensieve, gasping, the final scene replaying: Lily, bathed in golden light, charging at Voldemort, her sister's face flickering in her mind.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice came softly. "I'm sorry. By the time I arrived, Lily had been gone for hours. These are all the memories I could extract—perhaps they meant so much to her that they lingered after death."
"Is there more?" Harry asked urgently.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Those killed by the Killing Curse typically leave no memories. You saw the golden light—Nicolas Flamel called it ancient magic. It's likely why these didn't fade…"
He sighed, watching Harry, who sat motionless, head bowed.
This was why Dumbledore hadn't wanted to share—Harry was still a child.
But reality defied his expectations.
Harry's heart ached for his mother, her selfless love so vivid in the memories. As for James, in Lily's recollection, he seemed little more than a schoolyard bully.
Harry looked up, his voice eerily calm. "Professor, you said the Killing Curse leaves no memories, yet Lily's did. Does that mean… she didn't fully die?"
Dumbledore stared, stunned. He'd expected anger or a plea to learn stronger magic, not this.
Harry continued, "That golden figure—was it Lily's soul? If so, is there a way to bring her back—"
Bang! Dumbledore slammed the desk, his expression stern. "Harry, resurrection is a forbidden realm. I don't want you—"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Harry interrupted, still calm. "Isn't that forbidden too?"
Dumbledore fell silent.
After a long pause, he sank back into his chair, exhaustion in his voice. "Harry, Lily wanted to protect you from Tom, not for you to—"
"You're wrong, Professor," Harry said evenly. "My strength at this age is likely because of her. She turned Voldemort's fragment into something that nourished me."
His gaze settled on the diary.
Dumbledore quickly snatched it away.
"Why?" Harry asked softly.
Dumbledore didn't answer, sipping his tea instead.
The Headmaster's office fell quiet.
Harry watched Dumbledore down seven cups of tea before stopping.
"Harry, can we drop this for now?" Dumbledore's voice carried a plea.
Harry sighed, his expression shifting for the first time. "Professor, avoiding problems only makes them worse."
"At least until you're older," Dumbledore said, taking another gulp of tea. "You're still too young…"
"Fine," Harry agreed abruptly, surprising Dumbledore.
A sly glint appeared in Harry's eyes. "You didn't think I'd rush off to explore resurrection, did you?"
"The Fat Friar of Hufflepuff said great pursuits require immense magic. I just wanted to see your stance." Harry sipped his tea.
Dumbledore realized he'd been played. An orphan who'd survived by fighting—how could a single memory make him sentimental?
"Professor, don't look at me like that," Harry said, touching his scar. "You said love is something Voldemort could never understand. If my heart is full of love, why worry about me?"
Dumbledore exhaled, relaxing fully. "You're right, Harry. I was overthinking…"
---
Let's shift from the Headmaster's office to Snape.
Snape led Blaise to an empty corridor and stopped.
"Professor Snape, why are we stopping here?" Blaise asked, his voice laced with confusion.
"Tell me what happened," Snape said, his tone chilling Blaise to the bone.
Blaise hesitated, then repeated what he'd told Dumbledore.
Snape loomed over him, his shadow engulfing the boy. His dark eyes, like poisoned icicles, pierced Blaise's evasive gaze. "Dumbledore's mercy lets you dress lies as truth."
Blaise's shoulders shrank, his voice trembling. "I'm not lying… the diary did control me…"
"Oh?" Snape sneered, pulling a crystal vial from his robes—Veritaserum.
"Dumbledore believes you because he has principles—he'd rather trust a child's remorse than tear off the mask. But lucky for you, it's me you're facing."
Snape stepped closer, and Blaise realized just how Slytherin his Head of House was.
"I don't know what you mean," Blaise said, clinging to his story. "I'm feeling weak. Dumbledore told me to go to the hospital wing…" He tried using Dumbledore's name to intimidate Snape.
"Slytherins don't believe in tears or luck," Snape hissed. "Think you can wash your hands of this by hiding the diary's origins?"
Blaise's face went ashen. "I didn't hide anything…"
"No?" Snape's voice rose, snake-like. "Then tell me how a diary from the Dark Lord ended up in your hands. Did you seek it out, or did it choose you? Don't feed me 'I found it by chance.' Veritaserum's taste is a hundred times worse than being controlled by dark magic."
Snape shook the vial, the faint clink echoing in his sleeve. "Speak now, or I'll dose you with three drops and make you confess every sweet you've stolen since birth—then wipe your mind with Obliviate until you forget your own name."
"No! Not Obliviate!" Blaise broke, sweat dripping into his collar. "I'll talk! My father… he bought it from a black-market dealer. Said it was an antique to 'boost magical talent' and told me to keep it on me…"
His voice dropped, tinged with a sob. "It was fine at first. Then I found love advice in the diary… and later, I didn't know what I was doing…"
Snape stared at his trembling lips, his dark eyes devoid of pity. "Why petrify Penelope Clearwater and Colin Creevey?"
Blaise nodded, tears mixing with sweat. "I confessed to Clearwater, but she rejected me. It wasn't a big deal—I've been rejected before—but that day, I had the diary. When I came to, she was petrified."
"As for Colin, Merlin's beard, I don't know!" Blaise was near collapse.
"And the letter?" Snape pressed quickly.
"The diary wrote it. I sent it," Blaise said, shaking.
"Angelina Johnson?"
"Merlin's beard, at the Dueling Club, I saw her leave the Great Hall, and the diary… it told me…"
"Told you what? No tricks!"
Snape's shout startled Blaise.
"It said Muggle-borns should obey pure-bloods, that I was doing Angelina a favor by liking her… so I followed her," Blaise said, swallowing hard, watching Snape's expression. "Merlin's beard, I swear I didn't do anything—she was petrified. I didn't know the Basilisk was nearby. I thought it was in the Chamber…"
"Sounds like you were quite aware," Snape sneered, pocketing the Veritaserum.
"I—" Blaise gritted his teeth, deciding to gamble. "I liked feeling invincible with girls. If I'd known it was the Dark Lord's, I'd have given it to you first thing."
Snape stared coldly for a long moment, then straightened, his sleeve snapping across Blaise's face.
"Remember, I asked you nothing today. I took you straight to the hospital wing from the Headmaster's office." With that, Snape turned and left.
Blaise collapsed onto the carpet, realizing he'd bet right—Snape was indeed the Dark Lord's man…