Green flames flared in the Floo grate of Professor McGonagall's office, and Harry stumbled out, soot-streaked and blinking in the quiet. The tick of the wall clock told him he was late—too late for classes, too early for dinner.
He made it back.
But Merlin, was he exhausted.
Not just tired in the usual sense. This was bone-deep, magic-deep exhaustion—the kind that came after too much spellwork, too much pressure, and too much truth dragged to the surface. For days, he had pushed himself through everything—intense spell drills, complex defensive magic, Occlumency training, and finally, the brutal legilimency session that cracked Peter Pettigrew's mind open.
He had seen everything. The betrayal. The fear. The cowardice.
And the aftershocks were still inside him, like a dull echo in the back of his skull.
"If I don't stop soon, I'll burn out completely," Harry muttered, leaning a hand on the cool stone wall outside the office. "Sirius is free. Peter's locked away. Just... rest. Just for today."
His stomach grumbled its agreement.
He turned sharply down a side corridor, bypassing the Great Hall—he wasn't in the mood for noise or questions. Instead, he made for the portrait of the fruit bowl. One tickle on the pear, and the handle appeared.
The kitchen burst to life the moment he stepped in.
"Harry Potter, sir!" came the delighted squeaks of a dozen house-elves, who ushered him to a seat with reverent speed. A steaming plate of roast chicken, roast potatoes, bread rolls, and treacle tart was placed before him with proud little smiles. Harry thanked them wearily, too tired to speak much, but the comfort of the warm food and the soft chatter of the elves helped him settle.
The moment he finished, he wandered out through the entrance hall and onto the grounds. The sun was slanting low now, casting long golden shadows across the hills and forest. A cool breeze kissed his cheeks as he walked without purpose, letting the quiet heal him.
There was peace here. Hogwarts in autumn was always a kind of magic, even for those used to wands and wards. The trees at the forest's edge blushed orange and crimson. The Black Lake glimmered under the early sunset.
Harry didn't realize where he was going until he saw a broad figure up ahead.
"Hagrid?"
The half-giant turned with a beaming smile. "Harry! Yeh're back! I was just about t' go feed the thestrals and Buckbeak. Want to come?"
Harry gave a tired but genuine nod. "Yeah. I'd like that."
They walked together through the forest path, the leaves crunching underfoot. Hagrid talked about a bowtruckle infestation in the greenhouses and a nifflers' nest near the pumpkin patch. Harry let the words wash over him like background music, not needing to respond much. Just walking was enough.
They reached the clearing where the thestrals waited.
Harry slowed, the sight still stirring something in his chest. They were otherworldly—skeletal wings, reptilian faces, leathery black hides. They were eerie, yes—but not frightening. To him, they were solemn, wise, almost noble. One stepped toward him, recognizing him.
Harry offered it a strip of meat from Hagrid's bucket. The thestral took it gently, its deep eyes never blinking.
"They're drawn to you," Hagrid said softly.
"I think I understand why," Harry murmured, stroking its side. "They're tied to death… to seeing it. But they aren't evil. They just are."
Hagrid nodded. "Reckon they understand things that'd break most wizards. They keep goin'. Yeh see 'em… yeh've felt the worst, and yet here yeh are."
Harry's hand paused mid-stroke, and he looked up at the thestral.
"My Patronus is one of them."
Hagrid let out a low whistle. "Now that's somethin'. Most don't even like lookin' at 'em, let alone letting 'em be a part o' their soul."
Harry smiled faintly. "Maybe that's exactly why. They don't lie. They don't pretend."
For a while, they fed the herd together in silence. The thestrals moved among the trees with quiet grace, and Harry felt the tension inside him slowly begin to ebb. These creatures had seen death, just like him. They didn't fear it—but neither did they worship it.
They understood.
Eventually, they moved on to Buckbeak's paddock. The proud hippogriff greeted them with a piercing screech and a toss of his beaked head.
"Well, he's still dramatic," Harry said with a tired laugh.
Hagrid chuckled. "He's missed yeh, if yeh can believe it. Still won't let Malfoy's name be spoken near him."
Harry approached slowly, bowed, and waited. Buckbeak returned the gesture with imperious grace. Harry scratched behind his feathers.
"Good to see you too, Beaky."
Evening fell gently as they fed him, and Harry leaned against the paddock fence, letting the final rays of sun warm his face.
For the first time in days, there was no noise in his head. No pressure. No expectations. Just the sounds of beasts and wind and the scent of trees.
Just for today, that was enough.
As the last traces of twilight faded into the stone towers of Hogwarts, Harry wandered back up from the grounds, his steps slow but steady. The castle was quiet—classes had ended hours ago, and dinner wouldn't begin for another hour and thirty minutes.
But Harry wasn't quite ready to return to Gryffindor Tower just yet.
There was something else. Something he'd been putting off for weeks now.
The Chamber of Secrets.
He had meant to revisit it ever since third year started. But with school, Pettigrew, Sirius's trial—it had all gotten lost in the shuffle.
No more.
Tonight, he would finally go back.
His footsteps echoed softly as he turned off the main staircase and headed for the second-floor girls' bathroom. The familiar peeling door creaked open, releasing the faint smell of mildew and damp stone.
And there she was.
Moaning Myrtle hovered sulkily over one of the cracked sinks, arms folded, translucent hair drifting around her like fog.
"Oh," she said in a mockingly curious tone, spinning around to face him. "Look who's back. Harry Potter. Come to die dramatically in the same bathroom again?"
Harry sighed, already regretting this part of the plan. "Hi, Myrtle. I'm just visiting. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone I was here."
Myrtle sniffed, drifting closer. "Depends. Are you planning anything interesting? I am dreadfully bored. I could haunt someone for you if you like."
"Maybe next time," Harry muttered.
He glanced around, confirming the place was as deserted as it had always been. Then, after a brief pause, he whispered, "Dobby."
There was a loud pop, and the little elf appeared, ears flapping, eyes wide as saucers. "Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is here! Is Harry Potter hurt? Is he in danger?"
Harry shook his head. "No, Dobby. I'm fine. But I need your help. I'm going back into the Chamber of Secrets."
Dobby gasped, clasping his hands. "The chamber! The terrible, nasty place where the basilisk lived—oh, brave Harry Potter!"
"Dobby," Harry said gently, "I need someone with me. Just in case. I trust you."
The elf straightened with a squeaky sniff, puffing out his little chest. "Then Dobby will go! Dobby will protect Harry Potter with his life!"
Myrtle perked up immediately. "Oooh! You're going back down there? How thrilling! Can I come? I promise I'll only hover and scream a little!"
"No," Harry and Dobby both said in unison.
He moved to the far sink, tracing a finger along the faded outline of the snake engraving. Myrtle hovered beside him, pouting.
"Open," Harry hissed, speaking in Parseltongue.
The sink trembled. Then, with a grinding screech of stone on stone, it sank into the floor, revealing the dark, gaping pipe beneath.
Harry took a deep breath and looked to Dobby. "You ready?"
Dobby gave a firm nod, grabbing his leg tightly.
"Let's go, then."
As Harry stood over the gaping pipe, wand in hand and Dobby clutching his robe, he paused. The drop was steep—too steep, really.
Back in second year, he'd simply slid down. But that had been desperate, rushed, chaotic.
Now… he was older. Sharper. And this time, he was thinking.
Tom Riddle would never have slid down a pipe like a child at a playground. And Salazar Slytherin, proud founder of the House of serpents, certainly wouldn't have designed his legacy to be entered like that either.
Harry tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the pipe. Then, channeling the cold precision he used in his Occlumency training, he spoke softly, "Stairs." But not in English—he hissed the word in Parseltongue.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, with a low grinding of ancient stone, the inner curve of the pipe shifted. Steps began to emerge one by one, spiraling down into the dark like the spine of some great subterranean beast. Cold air rushed upward as the shadows deepened.
Even Myrtle gasped. "Well. That's new."
Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "Thought so."
Dobby's eyes were round with awe. "Harry Potter is a true heir of Slytherin," he whispered.
Harry grimaced. "Let's not make that a title, yeah?"
He lit his wand—Lumos—and began the descent, each step echoing beneath his feet. The further they went, the more the air changed—cooler, damper, tinged with that strange, metallic tang he remembered all too well.
The path wound down in silence, until at last the corridor leveled out into the same vast stone hallway Harry had walked before. The snake statues lined the walls like silent sentinels, their emerald eyes glinting faintly in the wandlight.
Harry paused just at the edge of the great arched door where he'd once battled the basilisk. He took a breath and raised his wand.
"Open," he hissed again in Parseltongue.
The door obeyed, groaning wide with the same grinding screech of ancient hinges.
And the Chamber of Secrets yawned open before them once more.
Dark. Vast. Timeless.