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The Tenth Weasley - CH - 135
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 15:17:49 +0000 UTCThe dawn that broke over Hogwarts the next day was quiet, almost unnaturally so — as if the castle itself sensed that something important was about to happen.
Harry Weasley had been released from the hospital wing only the night before, his strength still returning, but his mind already fixed on a single task.
He had made no announcement, no formal permission, no public gesture.
In fact, not even the professors knew what he was planning.
Because what he was about to do wasn’t for show. It was something private, sacred — a piece of history that few would ever be allowed to witness.
The meeting happened silently, after dinner.
One by one, those Harry trusted slipped away from the Great Hall — taking different corridors, using shortcuts, and vanishing from sight. By the time the castle clocks struck nine, many figures gathered in the echoing corridor on the second floor, outside a plain, old girls’ bathroom that hadn’t seen visitors in decades.
The visitors were hand-picked.
From Durmstrang, Viktor Krum, Anya, Ivan Karelin, and two others — proud, disciplined, and unflinching in the face of danger.
From Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour herself and her companions, light steps echoing softly against the wet tile.
And from Hogwarts, only the Weasley family — those bound to Harry by blood and choice: Ginny, Fred, George, Percy (who claimed official oversight but came more out of curiosity), Rose Potter, and Hermione — the girl who stood closest to Harry, her eyes reflecting both pride and worry.
No one else knew.
No one else could know.
“Harry,” Hermione whispered as they stood by the sinks, the smell of old water and stone heavy in the air. “Are you sure about this? If anyone finds out…”
“They won’t,” Harry said quietly. “Not until we’re done.”
He looked around at the faces — some curious, some nervous, all silent. “You’re not here as tourists. You’re here as witnesses. What lies beneath Hogwarts isn’t just a chamber. It’s the last mark left by one of the greatest wizards in history — and one of the most dangerous.”
Even Fleur, who normally carried herself with regal composure, swallowed hard. “You mean Salazar Slytherin.”
Harry nodded. “The same.”
He stepped toward the cracked, ancient sink, the one that looked so ordinary it was easy to overlook the tiny serpent etched into its side.
The air grew heavier as Harry raised his hand and whispered the ancient tongue.
The sound of Parseltongue slid from his lips — deep, resonant, inhuman.
“Open.”
The entire room trembled.
Pipes shifted. Metal groaned. The snake engraving glowed a violent emerald before the sink began to twist and fold into itself, revealing a dark, circular tunnel wide enough for a full-grown man to slide through.
A gust of stale, cold air swept upward, smelling faintly of earth and decay.
Fred blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re going down there?”
Harry turned, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. “You wanted a tour.”
“Not that much of a tour!” George muttered, but he followed his twin to the edge nonetheless.
Hermione leaned close to Harry and whispered, “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“Safer than it used to be,” Harry said quietly. “The basilisk is gone. The wards are mine now.”
He stepped forward first, gripping the edge of the pipe. “Hold tight and don’t panic. The magic will slow your fall.”
And with that, he disappeared into the darkness.
One by one, they followed — sliding down the smooth, wet chute that twisted deep into the earth.
The air grew colder, heavier, ancient. The echo of their movement bounced off stone walls as the magic guided them safely down.
After what felt like minutes, they landed — not hard, but gently — on damp, cold stone. The faint glow of Harry’s wand illuminated a massive corridor lined with serpentine carvings, each one alive with glimmers of faint green light.
Fleur’s breath caught. “Mon Dieu… this is real…”
“This way,” Harry said quietly, his voice echoing softly through the corridor.
As they walked, the group entered the grand circular hall — the Chamber of Secrets itself.
Even those who had imagined it couldn’t have prepared for the sight.
The walls stretched higher than any cathedral, carved with massive stone serpents coiling around marble pillars. Torches of green flame lit themselves as Harry approached, revealing the vast statue of Salazar Slytherin at the far end, its stony eyes staring down in eternal judgment.
The Durmstrang students stood in silent awe.
The Beauxbatons delegation crossed themselves instinctively.
Even Percy, who rarely showed emotion, lowered his quill and whispered, “Merlin’s beard…”
Hermione stepped closer to one of the walls, her fingers brushing ancient runes. “These are thousands of years old… a blend of Parseltongue glyphs and Old Norse symbols. No one’s ever documented anything like this.”
Harry’s voice was calm, but it carried the weight of memory. “The basilisk’s lair was there,” he said, pointing toward the dark pit near the statue’s base. “When we fought it, it came out of that tunnel.”
Fred whistled. “That’s… bigger than Three Broomsticks.”
“And uglier,” George added automatically.
Harry managed a faint smile. “You’re not wrong.”
Hours passed as they explored carefully — taking sketches, notes, and memories but not one item. When at last they ascended again through the winding pipes, emerging into the moonlit bathroom, the castle above them was silent as a grave.
They left quietly, dispersing into different hallways like ghosts, vanishing before dawn could reveal their absence.
Only their faces betrayed what they had seen — awe, reverence, disbelief.
By sunrise, Hogwarts was buzzing.
Students whispered in the corridors, wide-eyed and breathless:
“They went down there — Weasley and the foreign delegations!”
“They saw the Chamber!”
The professors tried to quell the rumors, but it was too late. The story had already taken root:
Harry Weasley had opened the Chamber of Secrets once more — not as a suspect, not as a monster, but as a guide through living history.
By the time the sun rose over the next day, Hogwarts had turned into a cauldron of whispers, envy, and outrage.
What had started as hushed speculation about a secret midnight tour had now spread into full-blown scandal — and the name Harry Weasley was once again the center of every conversation in Britain.
The story had broken faster than any charm could stop it.
Harry had taken foreigners — Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students — into the Chamber of Secrets, while denying access to the Ministry, the Hogwarts staff, and even most of the Hogwarts students themselves.
To the world outside, that was not an act of caution.
It was a declaration.
Every corridor echoed with gossip.
“He didn’t let a single professor go down there!” one Ravenclaw whispered, wide-eyed. “Not even Dumbledore!”
A Slytherin boy sneered, “Of course he didn’t. He’s hoarding whatever Slytherin left behind. That chamber’s supposed to be sacred!”
“Sacred?” a Beauxbatons girl replied coolly. “It’s a tomb, not a temple.”
But the Slytherin only smirked. “For you maybe. For us, it’s a pilgrimage.”
And he wasn’t exaggerating.
For generations of Slytherins — pure-blood loyalists, historians, and old families who still traced their blood to the founders — the Chamber of Secrets wasn’t just a room. It was heritage. A lost shrine of power built by Salazar Slytherin himself.
And the thought of a Weasley walking through it freely while they were barred from entry burned like poison in their pride.
By mid-afternoon, entire departments within the Ministry were in uproar.
At the Department of Magical Artefacts, Undersecretary Bletchley stormed into the conference hall, slamming a crystal memory vial onto the table. Inside shimmered silver-blue smoke — a memory pulled from one of the visiting Durmstrang students.
The officials leaned in as the memory played: Harry Weasley, walking at the front of a procession of students, torchlight reflecting off emerald walls. The vast statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed in the background, silent and regal. The chamber glowed in eerie green flame, and Harry’s voice could be faintly heard echoing, guiding them through ancient stone and serpent runes.
When the image faded, the room was utterly silent.
Bletchley’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. “You’ve all seen it now. He’s hiding something.”
A junior officer hesitated. “But the chamber looked empty, sir. The study behind the statue — there was nothing left. No books, no scrolls, no artifacts. Just dust.”
“Exactly,” Bletchley snapped, his eyes gleaming. “Which means he already took them.”
Another officer frowned. “But there’s no proof.”
Bletchley turned sharply, voice like venom. “He’s a Weasley. Do you think they’d leave relics of Slytherin in the hands of Gryffindors? He stole them. Probably years ago.”
The room murmured in agreement.
“Prepare a report for the Wizengamot,” Bletchley ordered. “We’ll demand a full investigation. If Harry Weasley won’t let us see the chamber, we’ll make him hand over whatever he took from it.”
When the rumors reached Harry that evening, he didn’t even flinch.
He sat in the Gryffindor common room, a soft fire crackling beside him, Hermione reading quietly nearby while Fred and George argued over the Prophet headlines.
“They’re calling you a thief,” George muttered, tossing the paper across the table. “And they’ve even got a title for you now — The Crimson Serpent.”
Harry smirked faintly. “Catchy.”
Hermione looked up, frowning. “Harry, this isn’t funny. The Ministry’s furious. You know what they’ll do if they think you’re hiding something.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, voice low but steady. “Let them. They’ve already made up their minds. Whether the chamber was empty or not doesn’t matter. They’ve decided I’m guilty because they can’t stand the thought of a Weasley standing where only Slytherins were meant to tread.”
Ginny, who had been sitting by the window, spoke quietly. “You don’t trust them anymore, do you?”
Harry’s expression hardened. “I did once. But when the school turned on me after the Chamber opened, when I was blamed for every attack, where were they? The staff? The Ministry? Even Dumbledore stayed silent. I learned my lesson.”
Hermione bit her lip. “So you’d rather they hate you than risk the truth?”
“Yes,” Harry said simply. “Because I know what’s down there. And I know what they’d do with it if they ever got their hands on it.”
While Harry remained calm, the world outside was descending into madness.
The Chamber of Secrets had become an obsession.
Old pure-blood families began petitioning the Ministry to allow “guided access” into Hogwarts, citing “ancestral rights of descent.” The Daily Prophet published speculative diagrams of what “Slytherin’s lost study” might contain — enchanted quills, serpent crowns, grimoires bound in basilisk hide.
One journalist even wrote that Harry Weasley had used the relics to craft the blue-fire spell he conjured during the First Task.
The Ministry couldn’t confirm it — but they didn’t deny it either.
For many wizards, visiting the Chamber of Secrets became a religious dream. They spoke of it as though it were holy ground — a pilgrimage site of pure magic.
And that only made their hatred of Harry deeper.
Because he had seen it.
He had walked its halls.
And they hadn’t.
By the end of the week, the name Harry Weasley carried both reverence and fear.
To some, he was the Keeper of Slytherin’s Legacy — a guardian of lost knowledge.
To others, he was the Thief of the Serpent’s Treasure — a boy who dared to steal from one of the founders.
But Harry paid the rumors no mind.
He continued his classes, walked the halls of Hogwarts in silence, and ignored the stares that followed him everywhere. He had already been through worse — he had been accused of being the Heir of Slytherin once before.
Now, he simply wore the accusation like armor.
In a dark office deep inside the Ministry, Bartemius Bletchley watched the student’s memory again and again. Each time, his eyes lingered not on the chamber itself, but on the empty desk in Slytherin’s study.
He paused the image, whispering to himself. “Empty… no dust on the center. Something was there. Something was taken.”
He leaned back in his chair, a slow, cruel smile forming.
“Harry Weasley thinks he’s clever,” he murmured. “But every thief leaves a shadow behind. And I’ll find his.”
