July 1993
July 9, 1993
In the three weeks Harry’s spent in the Chamber, he’s been productive. He’s already completed all of his summer homework, got a head start on studying the first few chapters of his textbooks for third year, and picked up quite a few housekeeping spells he’s worked into his daily routine. Dobby brought home Madame Parsnip’s Precise Spellwork for a Tidy Home, and the simplest of spells made Harry’s tent spotless in a matter of minutes.
There were also the hours Harry spent under the false sun in his garden, tending to the fruit and vegetables Dobby had planted for him, and the little fenced-off section full of potions ingredients. After a childhood full of tending to Petunia’s roses, he’d been trained well on how best to care for some of the fiddly plants, but working in his back garden had been a relaxing way to spend a few hours every few days. Somehow, the pruning and weeding and raking weren’t nearly as miserable without Aunt Petunia glaring out the window, ready to critique his every movement, and the sun in his garden never seemed to get too hot or give him a sunburn.
Plus, his strawberries were coming in early, and Harry was convinced something in the soil made them the best strawberries he’d ever tasted.
Magic, probably, he had thought to himself with a grin.
A portion of the day was also spent responding to letters, mostly from Ron and Hermione, but now and then he’d open the post office box and find a letter from Fred or George included in the stack as well.
Since Dobby stole all of his letters last summer, Harry hadn’t known what to expect from his friends while they were reduced to communicating only through letters. He wasn’t sure if the frequency started just to check that Harry wasn’t dead from some hidden booby trap in the Chamber, or if the letters would have come as frequently as they did even if he had been at the Dursley’s, but it was rare for him to open the box and find it empty.
Ron kept him up to date on the quidditch league, writing him not just the players’ stats and the highlights from matches, but also his own opinions and predictions on the teams. Slipped between quidditch talk would also be brief mentions of the other Weasleys - Ron complained about Percy irritating all of his siblings with his non-stop worrying about whether he’d be awarded Head Boy; Charlie came by for a visit when he was stationed in Wales for a few days for work.
Harry got two letters from Ron the day his father had won a drawing at the Ministry and took home 1,000 galleons. Ron had heard the news from his father at dinner and immediately wrote a second letter to Harry. By the time Harry got it, the news was a day or two delayed, thanks to the process of using a post office box, but Harry always sent a daily letter back, and two boys carried out multiple conversations, each responding to whatever letter they got that day.
Hermione’s letters were more academically focused. When she heard Harry was taking more of an interest in schoolwork, she had immediately sent him photocopies of her notes from the last two years (the thick stack made him grateful for the expansion charms within the post office box, there’s no way an owl would have been able to carry it). She told him she had begged her parents to bring her to their dentist office after hours so she could painstakingly copy all of her notes, just in case he found them useful in his studies.
Fred and George would just send him prank ideas, and ask how many detentions he thought they’d receive if Snape was the target.
So responding to letters took up some time of his day, but there was still plenty of time for other activities. One of Harry’s favorites was practicing on his Nimbus 2000, using the soft - well, soft-ish - landing of one of the pools of water to work out some of the more challenging maneuvers Oliver had asked him to look over this summer. Harry was aiming to get the Strimberg Screw move so perfect that he’d bring his quidditch captain to tears come September.
Flying was how he spent this evening, although in a much less structured practice than what Harry knew Oliver would have pushed him to do. Tonight, he just flew for the fun of it. Guiding his Nimbus through sharp corners and steep dives one moment, just to drift lazily along the ceiling the next, letting his thoughts be distracted with puzzling through different transfiguration theories, or quizzing himself on how potions ingredients interacted with each other. It was, he thought, the perfect way to spend the hours between his dinner and bed.
Setting his broom in the shelf on the tent wall, Harry walks through his tent, humming to himself as he tidies up for the night and makes sure the fire in the living room is extinguished. He doesn’t think a fire would ever spread from it if he forgot one night - surely a Wizard’s fireplace in a tent would have some sort of fireproofing charms, but he keeps forgetting to ask Dobby whenever the elf comes for a visit, and Harry would hate to make a wrong assumption about something like that.
Once the downstairs was clean enough even Petunia would find it hard to critique, Harry took himself to his bedroom, going through his nightly routine before crawling into bed and snuggling down under the covers. Sighing to himself, Harry focuses on the faint sound of running water, just audible through his open window facing the back garden, and lets himself drift off to sleep.
*
Harry sat up sharply in bed, jolting out of a nightmare. His bedroom, darkened but for the false moonlight pouring in from the window, was so silent that his pounding heart and heavy breaths sounded thunderous.
His memory of the nightmare wasn’t clear—just fragmented images of green scales and skin burning under his hands, the feeling of venom in his bloodstream, and laughter that alternated—strangely, between a high-pitched, breathy laugh he couldn’t place and a more childlike one with Draco Malfoy’s signature mocking tone.
During this summer break, his nightmares had become more frequent. He wasn’t sure why.
Other than perhaps those few giddy and untroubled hours between Hagrid sweeping him away to Diagon Alley and listening to the heart-wrenching story of how his parents had truly died, Harry’s life had never been happier.
He thought he had also never been as relaxed as he was now. He wasn’t constantly being watched by his peers, whether out of idolization, suspicion, or general curiosity. Harry didn’t have to worry about any of his relatives catching him when they were in a bad mood, looking to take it out on someone.
It was blissful.
Which is why he was so confused when the nightmares had increased.
Sighing to himself, Harry throws back the covers and stands, grabbing his glasses from the side table and sliding his feet into the slippers waiting for him at the side of the bed. He knows from experience that he won’t be able to fall back asleep after a nightmare; he might as well get up now.
Breakfast doesn’t sound appetizing to him, not when his stomach is still turning over from the bad dreams, and he’s too restless to read. So Harry passes by the kitchen and cozy living room downstairs and wanders out the front door of his tent into the Chamber of Secrets. It was early enough the floating witchlights were beginning to lighten the space again. Harry hadn’t noticed the pattern to the witchlights at first, but starting around nine o’clock in the evening, they’d begin slowly dimming - mirroring the sun outside. Around four o’clock in the morning, they’d start to gain brightness again.
One night, when Harry lit himself a small (and carefully controlled) bonfire to attempt s’mores, a treat much lauded by his cousin, he was surprised to note that the blue flames followed the same pattern as the witchlights and began to extinguish themselves as it grew later. He figured it was some ancient charm meant to mimic the natural light outdoors.
Or it was just Dobby enforcing a bedtime. The elf had become practically militant over Harry’s wellbeing whenever he stopped by for a visit.
Whatever the cause, Harry appreciated it. With no sunlight in the Chamber of Secrets, it was a nice way to ensure his sleeping schedule wasn’t ruined if he spent time outside his tent and the false sunlight he received from the tent garden.
As it was now, though, it was still a bit too early to see comfortably without an additional light source.
“Lumos,” Harry says quietly, only feeding a small amount of power into the spell, so the tip of his wand glows softly. Aiming it at the floor, Harry started towards the back of the Chamber, away from his tent and the koi ponds. Harry had yet to do much exploring back here other than to scoff at the humongous statue of Salazar Slytherin.
Checking out the smooth walls on either side of the statue now, Harry sees faint carvings he hadn’t noticed before. The shadows caused by his wand and the dimly lit witchlights make them stand out in stark relief, much more apparent than when the witchlights flooded the Chamber with light during the day.
He couldn’t tell what they were of; some looked like letters (although they joined together into words he couldn’t decipher, like “alyfan” and “wræcca” and “gecnawan”). Others looked more like the hieroglyphs he remembered from lessons on ancient Egypt in primary school, or the little symbols he’s seen the upper years painstakingly transcribing in the common room - ancient runes, he thinks.
The marks had clearly been worn away over the centuries from water damage. The entire back wall was slightly damp, and in some places, rivulets of water trickled down from the high ceiling above.
Harry wondered if the Black Lake above him would eventually flood this place, and in another few centuries, the whole Chamber would be lost to time and legend.
With his head tilted back so he could follow one trail of water to its source, Harry trips over a piece of uneven stone. His slippers give little traction on the smooth stone beneath him, and he goes flying forward. Catching himself on the hard ground, his wand clattering to the side.
“Ugh,” He groans. “This is why you don’t explore before the sun is up.” Shoving himself to his knees, Harry winces at his scraped-up palms speckled with blood. His knees are sure to be black and blue within a few hours, with how hard he landed.
At least I’ve got a med kit now, he reminds himself smugly.
Between his own forays into potions and salves, and Dobby continuously bringing back more supplies, he had stockpiled a nice little chest of various medical supplies. Bumps, bruises, scrapes, and burns - all the little things he was likely to do to himself over an unsupervised summer - all had remedies waiting for him in carefully labeled and organized jars and pots.
Harry braces himself against the wall and uses it to push himself to his feet, grimacing at the aches in his hands and legs. Bending down again to pick up his wand, Harry glances back at the wall and sees he’s left small smears of blood. He knows the water will eventually wash it away, but…
Call it a lingering instinct from growing up in Petunia Dursley’s pristine household, or a recently learned reticence to leave behind blood - which could be used in many a potion or enchantment - but Harry raises his wand and points at the stain.
At the very least, he reasons with himself, it’s a chance to practice a new housekeeping charm.
“Scourgify.”
A stream of bubbles erupts from the tip of his wand, and he aims it towards the bloodstain.
The instant the first bit of magic lands on the wall, he hears a deafening grinding noise to his right. Jerking his head towards the source of the noise, Harry focuses on the nearby statue of Salazar Slytherin and raises his eyes to the mouth where Tom Riddle had called forth the basilisk.
Immediately cursing himself for a fool, Harry quickly lowers his gaze, knees weak at the relief of not catching sight of anything gleaming yellow out of the darkness. That’d surely be the last thing he ever saw.
Now that his eyes are lowered, however, he notices the feet of Slytherin’s statue moving. Harry hears the grinding noise - like stone rubbing against stone - stop, but nothing that makes him think of scales on stone or any hissed murder threats. The only other thing he can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his chest.
Harry stares at the floor for what feels like a century, listening hard and wondering what to do next. But he can’t just stay there forever, and if something came into the Chamber that’s going to eat him, better to get some idea of what he’s facing.
Cautiously, Harry looks up again. The statue, which previously had been standing straight and looking out over the Chamber, has taken a step to the side, revealing a narrow hallway that had been hidden behind him. The statue’s arm points to the doorway with a flourish, as if in welcome. Harry would even swear that his previously stern-looking face had softened just a touch.
Eyeing the entrance that the statue has opened, Harry considers it. He knows - knows, that it’d be foolish to go in. He can hear his oft-ignored inner responsible side (sounding like an odd combination of Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Professor McGonagall) already shouting about “unknown dangers” set up by “centuries-old bigots” or perhaps “cursed traps” spelled there by “more recent bigots.”
Not counting Ginny or Dobby, Harry knew of only two other people who had access to the Chamber of Secrets, and he wasn’t keen on going into either Salazar Slytherin or Voldemort’s secret room hidden within an even larger secret room.
But…well, he had nothing else to do today.
Might as well. Harry shrugs, and then wonders if he’s been getting a bit too bored in the Chamber if he’s so willing to wander into a suspicious and likely dangerous entryway.
“Lumos.”
Harry takes the few steps forward necessary to get close to the revealed secret hallway. He lifts his wand to cast light down it, but it becomes unnecessary when torches along the wall suddenly burst into flame. He lowers his wand slightly but keeps a tight grip on it and doesn’t extinguish the light.
When he takes into consideration the original state of the Chamber of Secrets, this hallway is…surprisingly clean. There’s no dust or cobwebs, no rodent skeletons - either from dying naturally or because of a hungry basilisk. He doesn’t think Dobby’s been through here to clean, though. The air has a feeling to it - like it’s been undisturbed by anyone for an awfully long time.
He steps through, bracing himself for... well, anything. But nothing happens.
He goes a few more steps, with more torches lighting up along the walls to light the path, the flames dancing merrily. Eventually, no more than fifteen meters down the hallway - he reaches the other end and sees it opens up into another room. Peering in carefully, he sees it’s much smaller than the Chamber. On the far side, an enormous fireplace is unlit but laid with firewood. There’s a sturdy desk to the right, several chests against the wall to the left, and what Harry thinks might be a training dummy in the far corner. Every other available inch of wall was covered with bookshelves. There must have been a thousand books in the room.
The only decoration was the portrait on the wall directly across from the door. A man was sleeping behind a desk—no, the very desk in this room was recreated in the painting, and the man slept behind it. He was young, maybe ten or fifteen years older than Harry. The portrait was too far away for Harry to make out more than the man’s dark hair, but his chest rising and falling as he slept was the only movement in the room.
Peering around into all the corners, Harry hesitantly edges over the threshold, only to jolt back immediately when the fireplace erupts into cheerful, crackling flames
Heart racing, Harry looks into the room again, checking every corner for anything that might have become more visible with the light from the fire. But the room looks exactly the same, if better lit.
Except - bright blue eyes from the portrait frame meet his, and instinctively, Harry yanks his head back through the doorway to hide.
A moment of silence, and then the portrait spoke, amusement clear in his tone, “Well, you might as well come in, child. After waking me from my peaceful slumber, you could at least do me the courtesy of introducing yourself.”
Sheepishly, and calling himself a fool for hiding from a bloody portrait, Harry steps through the door and walks to about halfway between the doorway and the painting.
The portrait is scanning him from head to toe, one eyebrow raised skeptically. “Well then, what is your name, child?”
“Er, hello. I’m Harry Potter, and… sorry I woke you. It was an accident.”
The portrait tilts his head slightly in question. “’An accident?’ Unless I am very much mistaken, and someone moved me while I slept, then I am still in my study, which is within my Chamber, which was hidden with a great deal of care. If you were not intending to be here, how did you manage to stumble across me?”
“Y-your chamber?” Harry asks, stunned, and a bit horrified, “Are you…Salazar Slytherin?”
“Yes, I suppose I failed to introduce myself in return. However, I was laboring under the assumption that you knowingly woke me…and ergo knew who I was.” The portrait stands from his chair and does a little half-bow to Harry, “Salazar Slytherin, it is a pleasure to meet you, child.”
Harry glances around the room again as if he somehow missed signs proclaiming “Death to muggles” on his first pass around the room, or maybe a pile of bloody daggers or other indicators of evilness. But the room hadn’t changed, and Harry had to turn back to the - oddly courteous and friendly Salazar Slytherin.
“Err, right? Well, I really didn’t mean to wake you. Or know who you were. I’m, er, sort of hiding out here in the Chamber until school starts back up again.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Harry once again curses himself. He’s on a roll for foolish decisions this morning.
So much for keeping secrets. What if he goes and tells other portraits or just goes straight to Dumbledore?
“I see. And who are you hiding from, Harry Potter?”
“Er, everybody, I suppose.” Harry replies, doing some quick scheming, “You see, my parents died when I was a baby, and I was given to muggles to take care of me. Only they don’t really like me much, so when I discovered the Chamber this year during school, I figured I would just stay here over the summer instead of going back there.”
The portrait did not look impressed, but Harry wasn’t sure if it was over his running away, or his being placed with muggles in the first place. In case it was the first, he rushed to reassure him, “I’ve been here for a few weeks already, and it’s been going really well. I’ve got a friend helping me out who set me up with a tent and is making sure I get food regularly.”
Remembering Slytherin was a teacher, so assuredly education was important to him, “And I’ve already finished all of my summer homework, which would never happen if I was with the Dursleys.”
Harry wasn’t sure how well he had convinced the portrait, whose eyes had gotten narrower and narrower as Harry spoke.
“I sense there is much you are not telling me, Harry Potter. Details you have intentionally left out of your explanation. Why?”
Slytherin spoke with such a tone of command that it was clear he—or rather, the real-life person the portrait was based on—wasn’t used to being told no.
“Well, it’s, er, kind of a long story, for one thing.” Harry hesitates, then sighs and decides to take a risk. “Also, I really don’t want you to kick me out or tell anyone I’m down here. Honest, I think if the Headmaster shipped me back to my Aunt and Uncle, they’d probably kill me.”
Slytherin straightened up and glared down his nose at Harry, “Preposterous. You have claimed that your life and happiness would be in danger if you left the safety this Chamber provides. I built these halls to be a last bastion of security against any threat to the children of Wizardkind. No descendent of mine would ever be turned away from this place. You will have sanctuary here for as long as you need it.”
Harry blinks at the portrait momentarily, too distracted by the “descendent” comment to be pleased about Slytherin promising he won’t rat Harry out.
“‘Descendent?’ I don’t think I’m your descendent, sir.”
The portrait sat down in his chair again, giving Harry a soft smile. “You have spent blood and magic against the wards protecting this inner sanctum. Were you not of my blood, you would not have gained entry. It may be diluted through the years, or so distant it is impossible to track, but I assure you, Harry Potter, you are a descendant of mine. If you need no further proof, you speak the language of serpents, which was a magical curse tied to my bloodline.”
“The language of…” Harry realizes with a start that he is speaking parseltongue, and he has been, he suspected, since first walking into the room.
“Now,” the portrait begins, and Harry can finally hear the sibilant hissing in the words, “Why don’t you start by telling me why you were left in the care of non-magicals when your parents died, and why exactly you fear they will kill you if you are returned to them, as I sense you are not speaking in hyperbole.”
*
It’s hours later when Harry finally stumbles back into his tent. Salazar - and Harry had been invited to call him that after about the twentieth time Harry called him “sir” - had skillfully dragged Harry’s entire life story out of him.
Harry swore he intended to gloss over things. He hadn’t wanted to tell Salazar that his mother had been muggleborn - he’d been afraid the legendary muggle-hater would turn on him, but Salazar had just nodded and asked another question about Harry’s relatives’ treatment of him, and that had been it.
Even when Harry had told Salazar about what happened during his last school year, and how Harry and Fawks had killed “Slytherin’s Monster,” Salazar hadn’t reacted as Harry had thought he would. Harry had braced himself for anger, but the portrait had been saddened to hear that the basilisk was attacking students, and grieved for the loss of the magical creature, while saying he understood Harry’s actions.
It had been bizarre. Towards the end, Harry had cautiously brought up the by-and-large accepted opinion that Salazar Slytherin hated muggles and would oppose muggleborns. The portrait had been aghast.
“Of course, I didn’t like non-magicals; they were hunting us down and killing us,” the portrait had told him, “Well - some of them. Most of them were happy to work with us or just ignore our presence. But we didn’t know who was who, obviously, and it was a safer practice to just avoid them all. I proposed caution, but nothing like the aggressive hatred you described this Lord Voldemort displaying.” Salazar had said Voldemort’s chosen name with a sneer, as if both disgusted by it and perplexed that anyone would choose it as their name.
By the end, Harry’s throat was sore from talking, and the portrait was pacing in his painted office and muttering to himself about “upstart youths that can’t even research their ancestors’ actual beliefs” - although Harry thought (hoped) that these comments were aimed at Tom Riddle, and not himself.
Salazar had sent Harry off to rest and eat, but asked him to return soon so they could continue speaking.
Harry fixes some tea and toast, then settles into the couch in front of the fireplace, already lit and crackling merrily. He thinks back over the conversation with the portrait. It had been nice; he realized. Speaking to an adult. Dobby was quickly becoming a friend, and Harry certainly hadn’t missed his aunt and uncle - or even any of his professors, but Salazar had listened patiently, asking questions to pull more details out of Harry, and never responded dismissively or with criticism. It had been nice to have an adult listen and seem to respect Harry’s opinions and viewpoints of the events that Harry himself had gone through.
Setting his empty plate on the side table, Harry stretches out on the couch. Glancing at the clock, he sees it’s a little after eight o’clock. Usually, that’d be much too early for a nap, but he figured he could use an extra couple of hours with his disrupted sleep that morning.
Curling up on his side, he drags a blanket over him, his eyes already drifting shut. He’s asleep within minutes.
*
July 10, 1993
“Tell me again why you’ve chosen to study the art of divination if you have not displayed any natural talent for the art of foretelling?” Sal asks.
Harry had spent the afternoon answering the portrait’s questions about the current state of Hogwarts. Although Salazar hadn’t come out and said it, Harry had the impression that the founder wasn’t all that impressed.
“Er, well, my friends are taking it. And Ron - you remember, I told you Ron’s whole family are witches and wizards - his older brothers told him the class wasn’t too difficult. So I guess that’s why we’re taking it.”
Salazar purses his lips. “Child, the study of divination is best suited to those with a natural talent for foretelling the future. While it’s possible those not gifted with prophecy can read hints of the future in Tasseography or Astragalomancy, the future will be too clouded to your eyes for it to be much use. When I was teaching at Hogwarts, we offered divination studies only to those students who would benefit most.”
Salazar rummages in the bookshelf behind him and pulls out a red, cloth-bound book. “I know I am only a portrait, Harry, but if you would consider taking my advice, I recommend studying Runic Magic - the course you now call Ancient Runes. Arithmancy would also serve you well if you are willing to take more than the required number of classes.”
“I suppose I could probably switch classes,” Harry offers. “What are runes used for?”
Salazar settles back in his chair, with the book on the painted desk before him. “Anything you like, Harry. Runes are the primary defense of my Chamber. I carved the runes myself, runes for protection and secrecy. Although more time-consuming to create, Runes can accomplish nearly everything a wand can. In fact, I knew wizards who refused a wand. They worked solely with runes and potions.”
“You can imbue anything with a rune - they can be dug into the earth itself or written on parchment. You can draw them with blood or trace the shape in the air. Each method will produce slightly different results - the rune’s permanence, strength, and activation time will vary. You can determine all of this through runes and the method by which you create them. And, of course, your intent is also a crucial part of using runes. You can draw a rune the same as another individual, but if your intentions behind it are different, the results will vary.”
That actually sounds interesting. Harry thought, At least, more interesting than staring at soggy tea leaves and crystal balls.
“Do you think I should try to contact my Head of House and ask to switch?”
Salazar grants him a small smile. “Yes, she should be able to change your course schedule. And if you wish, I can begin tutoring you on the subject. When I was alive, students began studying runes as soon as they came to Hogwarts, which means you’re already at least two years behind.”
*
And so Harry’s days featured a new activity to keep him busy. He’d start each day making himself breakfast, then spend a few hours working on potions. He was slowly working through every potion they had studied in first and second years, making and remaking them until he was happy with the results. After lunch, he’d spend an hour or so outside in the garden attached to his tent. Sometimes, he was pruning the flowers and harvesting different vegetables or fruits, or potions ingredients; on other days, he just found a shady spot and read or napped.
In the afternoon, he reported to Salazar’s portrait. Having carried in a few pillows and blankets, Harry would curl up in a chair in front of the desk and listen as Salazar lectured on elemental rune composition. After seeing Harry’s attempts at drawing the first few runes that Salazar was teaching him, they quickly pivoted into lessons on how to use a quill properly. Salazar had made him write out spells and their usage over and over again to practice writing, and by the end, Harry’s chicken scratch was more than legible, even approaching something that was pleasant to look at.
After a few hours with Salazar, Harry would return to his tent and fix himself dinner, giving himself the evening to relax or practice quidditch.
All in all, his July passed in this way. With letters to friends, an ever-increasing understanding of different magics gained through Salazar’s patient tutoring and Harry’s own reading, and shared meals with Dobby, and it all contributing to a quiet contentment that was new to Harry, but not something he was looking forward to losing come September.