The whispers began the day the Daily Prophet printed his name beneath the screaming headline: Sirius Black Escapes Azkaban.
At first, Harry didn't care. He didn't even know who Sirius Black was. Another mad wizard on the loose. So what?
But something changed after that.
It was in the way people started looking at him. Not with fear, not exactly. Pity. Concern. That same wide-eyed, poor-boy-who-lived expression he'd endured since he was eleven—but worse. It was like they knew something. Something about him. Something he didn't.
Even Ron and Hermione.
They didn't say it outright. But the shift was there. A little too careful with their words. A little too quick to keep things from him. And it made Harry's skin crawl.
He tried to brush it off.
Then the Dementors came.
And Harry fainted.
The first time it happened—on the Hogwarts Express—he told himself it was just the cold. The fear. The memories. He hadn't expected it. He wasn't ready.
But it happened again. And again.
Each time they drew near, that screaming woman's voice flooded his head, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. And every time he got back up, there was always someone standing nearby—wide-eyed, whispering, judging.
Even Ron had started treating him differently. A hand on his arm when he stood too fast. That slight hesitation before drawing his wand when danger loomed. And Hermione, bless her, tried to mother him more than usual.
He hated it.
Didn't they remember?
Didn't they remember the trap in first year? When he killed a professor possessed by Voldemort?
Didn't they remember the basilisk, the damn sword, and the diary?
Wasn't he the one who'd faced Tom Riddle alone in the Chamber of Secrets and lived to tell the tale?
He wasn't a child.
But now—now everyone acted like he would shatter if he so much as heard a scary story.
Even Hagrid.
Even Professor McGonagall.
Even Dumbledore.
Harry could see it in their eyes. The guarded way they talked to him. The extra precautions. The hushed conversations that stopped the moment he walked into a room.
And it was driving him mad.
Then came the worst of it—the Hogsmeade trip.
"You can't go, Harry," McGonagall said, eyes firm but pitying. "Not without your guardian's permission."
And just like that, he was left behind. Again.
Ron and Hermione had offered to stay, but Harry waved them off. He knew what would happen. They'd spend the day feeling guilty, and he'd spend it resenting them.
So he stayed behind. Alone.
Snow drifted lazily outside the tower windows. From the common room, he could just barely hear the faint, excited chatter of students preparing to leave for the village.
He didn't want butterbeer.
He wanted answers.
He wanted dignity.
So he got up. Took his cloak. Took a small package from the trunk. Left through the portrait hole. And walked.
[ Flashback ]
After the whole Aunt Marge debacle—her ballooning into the night sky and his stormy escape into the dark streets—Harry hadn't known where to go. The Knight Bus had dropped him in front of the Leaky Cauldron, and to his surprise, the Minister of Magic himself had simply… let him stay. No questions. No punishment.
So he stayed.
And while other students enjoyed their holidays, Harry roamed the magical alley like a shadow—half invisible, half legendary. He visited every shop he could: Flourish and Blotts, Quality Quidditch Supplies, even a shady-looking stall near Knockturn Alley that sold cursed rings and enchanted shark teeth.
But the place that stuck in his memory—etched itself into the walls of his mind—was a narrow little store wedged between a second-hand bookshop and a closed apothecary. The sign above it read:
"Varkas Hideworks"
The moment Harry stepped in, the smell hit him: leather, smoke, and something almost reptilian. The walls were lined with cloaks, boots, and gloves—gleaming dark materials with scales like polished armor. Dragonhide. Not decorative. Battle-ready.
Behind the counter stood a tall, wiry wizard with dark gloves, thick goggles, and an apron smeared with glimmering dust.
"You're Harry Potter," the man said simply, his eyes peeking over the rims of his glasses.
Harry nodded, uncertain.
"Name's Varkas. You have a good eye. Most don't bother looking in here. Too pricey. Too practical." He waved his gloved hand toward a deep red coat shimmering faintly in the candlelight. "Dragonhide. Romanian Longhorn. Strong enough to stop most hexes. Cursed fireproofing. Woven with stasis-treated inner lining. One of a kind."
Harry stepped closer, trailing his fingers along the fabric.
"It feels… powerful."
Varkas smirked. "Because it was. Dragonhide carries residual magic. Not just resistance. It adapts, deflects curses, protects the body from shock spells, even slows bleeding. Took me five years to earn the right to work on one of these. Dragon pieces only come from those that pass naturally, old age or sickness. Ministry regulations worldwide."
"So... no one hunts them anymore?"
"They used to, a few centuries back," Varkas said, his voice dipping lower. "But it was banned after the Great Concord of Magical Beasts. These days, you wait. And even then, you pay. Dragonhide's rare. Price goes up every year."
Harry looked around. "So... what about basilisk hide?"
The room fell silent.
Varkas looked up sharply, studying Harry's face.
"You just ask that off the cuff, or…?"
Harry gave a small smile. "Let's say I've seen one. Up close."
Varkas removed his gloves slowly, as if handling something sacred.
"Boy," he said in a low voice, "Basilisks are extinct. Some say they never existed. A myth. A curse. There's not a living soul in this world who's seen a fresh basilisk corpse—let alone harvested one. Do you have any idea what a single scale would be worth on the black market?"
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "What about an entire carcass?"
Varkas went pale. "...You're not serious."
"I'm very serious."
And then, Harry told him.
Not everything. Not about the diary, or Tom Riddle, or Fawkes. But enough.
About the Chamber. About the sword. About the basilisk. Its size. Its death. Its still untouched body lying below Hogwarts.
When he was finished, Varkas looked like someone had slapped him with a bag of Galleons.
"Merlin's beard," he whispered. "If you're telling the truth… that hide could be worth ten times more than dragonhide. Its venom alone could kill continents."
"I don't care about selling it," Harry said. "I want armor. Boots. Gloves. Something light and strong. Something that makes people think twice before pointing a wand at me."
Varkas stared at him.
Then he grinned.
"You're not the scared little boy the papers make you out to be."
"No," Harry said quietly. "I'm not."
They made a deal.
Harry would grant Varkas access to the basilisk, and in exchange, Varkas would craft a custom set of battle garments—armor disguised as clothing. In return, he could keep some of the hide, venom sacs, and bones to sell or study. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
[ End]
Hidden under the shimmer of his invisibility cloak, Harry moved silently through the dim corridors of Hogwarts. The voices of students heading for Hogsmeade faded behind him, distant and unimportant. His steps were quiet, purposeful, and as he reached the familiar door of the girls' bathroom—the one haunted by Moaning Myrtle—he paused only long enough to make sure the coast was clear.
He slipped inside.
The bathroom was quiet. No Myrtle. No ghostly sobs echoing through the cracked tile and dripping sinks.
Harry stepped to the farthest sink—the one with the tiny snake engraved on the tap—and lowered his hood.
"Open," he hissed in Parseltongue.
The sink shuddered, grinding backward with the sound of ancient gears turning after centuries of slumber. A circular pipe opened in the floor, wide and deep, descending into shadow.
Harry peered down.
It was just as he remembered.
Without a second thought, he climbed onto the edge—and jumped.
The fall was long, but smooth. He landed in a splash of foul-smelling water, his boots skidding slightly on the damp stone. Drawing his wand, he cast a quick Lumos and glanced around. The tunnel stretched into darkness, quiet and still. The scattered bones of rats and long-forgotten debris lay undisturbed. Ahead, a massive pile of old, cracked skin lay coiled like a discarded cloak.
The Basilisk's shed skin.
He gently tucked it into the special trunk Varkas had provided, enchanted for durability and magical preservation and magically expanded.
"Still fresh," he muttered to himself, brushing off one of the long, dried scales. "Even after all these year."
Harry pressed forward.
He passed the collapsed tunnel where Ron and Lockhart had been separated from him during the rescue. The stone was still cracked, chunks broken and scattered, undisturbed since that day. With careful steps, Harry descended deeper until he reached the great stone doors that led to the inner chamber.
He hissed again. "Open."
The serpents etched into the stone slithered apart, grinding slowly, until the doors yawned wide, revealing the true heart of the Chamber of Secrets.
There, resting like a fallen titan beneath the carved statue of Salazar Slytherin, was the dead Basilisk.
Its green scales still glinted faintly under the eerie torchlight. Its massive coils stretched along the chamber floor, unmoving but awe-inspiring.
Harry swallowed.
He moved closer, drawing the enchanted tools Varkas had provided—diamond-edged skinning blades, preservation vials, and enchanted wrappings.
He tried.
But it is too hard, not a work that could be done alone.
Harry worked in silence—cutting, lifting, measuring the basilisk hide. But it was too big. Too thick. His hands were already aching. Sweat dripped down his brow.
He needed help and a name came to his mind.
"Dobby!" Harry called aloud.
With a soft pop of displaced air, the tiny house-elf appeared, his tennis ball-sized eyes wide and glowing.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby beamed, looking around in astonishment. "You called Dobby to this... this big snake dungeon, sir?"
Harry grinned. "Glad you came. I need help."
Dobby blinked. "Of course, Harry Potter! Dobby always comes when Harry Potter calls!"
Harry hesitated. "Dobby, did you... find a new job?"
The elf's ears drooped. "No, sir. Dobby tried. Dobby asked many wizard families, but they all turned Dobby away when Dobby asked for wages. They say house-elves are not to be paid, sir. Dobby tried, he did."
Harry frowned.
"Then how about this—Dobby, would you like to work for me? I'll pay you five Galleons a month and give you weekends off."
Dobby's eyes welled with tears. "Too much, sir! Too much!"
Harry smiled. "Alright. Three Galleons, then. And you don't have to call me 'sir' every second."
"Deal!" Dobby squeaked, bowing low. "Dobby is Harry Potter's friend and worker now!"
"Well," Harry said, gesturing to the giant snake, "here's your first job."
Dobby turned, jaw dropping.
"That's a Basilisk," he whispered in awe. "And it is... so dead!"
Harry handed him a blade. "Varkas, my friend, said the hide's ten times stronger than dragonhide. We're harvesting it."
Dobby beamed. "Yes, Harry! Dobby will do it right away!"
And just like that, the elf got to work. Unlike Harry's careful, hesitant cuts, Dobby worked with astonishing speed. His small hands shimmered with elf-magic, guiding the knife, peeling back the scaled hide in long, perfect sheets. The tools danced in the air as Dobby controlled them without touching, rolling and folding the material into tight coils before floating them into the trunk.
Hours passed, but progress was rapid.
As they reached the tail, Harry and Dobby stumbled upon two more massive coils of shed skin, curled near a broken arch. Dobby stored them as well, his magic preserving them without damage.
When they were nearly done, Harry turned to the statue of Slytherin, gaze narrowing at the spot where the Basilisk had emerged from.
"I want to see where it came from," he said.
Dobby followed silently as Harry crawled through the narrow opening. It led into a wide chamber—smaller than the main hall but still massive. Strange carvings lined the walls.
And at the far end… something utterly unlike anything in the wizarding world.
A massive metal object, shaped like a great wingless bird, resting silently in the shadows.
"What... is that?" Harry whispered.
It was dark grey, smooth, and clean—not rusted, not aged. Like it had just placed yesterday.
No runes. No wand-marks. No signs of enchantment. Just a subtle glow beneath its surface. And on its side, a symbol—a circle carved through with vertical, angular letters too worn to read.
Dobby approached hesitantly, eyes wide.
"It's not wizard-made," Harry said. "I don't think even the Ministry knows about this…"
He ran his fingers across the smooth surface. It was cold to the touch. Alive with some energy he didn't understand. His heartbeat quickened. His pulse felt heavy.
He was out of time.
"I have to get back before anyone notices," Harry muttered. "Dobby, can you stay here? Keep harvesting, and... explore this place. Carefully. Store anything interesting in the trunk."
Dobby nodded eagerly. "Dobby will guard it like treasure, Harry Potter!"
Harry gave one last glance at the strange metal thing.
He didn't know what it was yet. But something inside him whispered that it was important. Very important.
Dobby teleported Harry straight to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
No one saw him return.
No one knew where he had been.
And the world kept spinning, unaware that deep beneath the school, the legacy of a Sith Lord had just stirred.