Chapter Text
Seekers
Prologue
June 1993
“When all of this is over, remind me to visit Cousin Bella in Azkaban to rub it in her face that her Dark Lord has been defeated again, because of a note left behind by a precocious Petrified Mudblood,” Sirius muttered. “It was a good thing that Arthur’s youngest boy found her note and pulled it out of her hand – how Pomfrey missed that, I wouldn’t know…”
“Don’t use the word,” Remus scolded reflexively, casting an eye at their charge – Harry had his wand held out in front of him in a prepared stance, his eyes intent ahead of him. But the boy – he was so serious, much too young, and Remus’s heart always twisted at the fact – he would never have a normal childhood – hardly seemed to have heard Sirius.
But words have weight, as Remus always reminded Sirius.
They owed it to James and Lily – especially Lily – Remus didn’t want Harry to ever think a word like that could be reclaimed, casually tossed about.
That word had always been used with such knives when directed at Lily.
Remus swallowed hard. The air was stale and still here, and he did not trust it, not when it was also wet with a heavy, oppressive damp. He hadn’t wanted young Harry to be involved in this rescue at all – but when McGonagall contacted the Order following the instructions Dumbledore had left – and the Weasleys were friends, loyal allies, and this was their precious daughter’s life which was at stake – and then they’d figured out that the only way to access the Chamber of Secrets was with Parseltongue…
Sirius had said – Harry won’t be going down to rescue Ginny by himself. He’ll have us, our wands, and your strength, and the Sword of Gryffindor, and the rest of the Order are being summoned.
And if Harry could perhaps speak to the Basilisk…
And you know – Remus – as James did, Harry has the heart of a lion.
Remus’s jaw clenched. In his mind he saw already the armoured scales of the Basilisk, heard the chittering sound as she raised her terrible, hideous head which they would not be able to face directly, not if any of them wanted to live.
And it was still only two of them – and their underaged godson – against a fucking Basilisk, a veritable monster, and whoever was claiming to be the Heir of Slytherin, who Dumbledore had hypothesized had something to do with yet another fragment of the Dark Lord running amok.
Remus didn’t like it – he’d not liked it, when they’d also been called in to help with dealing with Quirrell, last year…at least Harry had been hidden away during that debacle –
There was starting to be a momentum to these strange occurrences, these brilliant flares of Voldemort’s presence in the peaceful quiet since the war. Remus had a bad feeling about how they seemed coiled around Hogwarts –
Hogwarts, which had mattered so much to the Marauders, where Remus had found in his friends salvation.
Hogwarts, which had mattered so much to the Dark Lord.
Which he and Sirius were keeping Harry away from but had now brought into its darkest beating heart.
Remus’s nose twitched – his heightened werewolf senses were picking up a rancid, almost oily smell, a rotting of flesh, a heavy, slinking slide of muscle sheathed in force. He almost heard the flick of a long, forked tongue.
There was a pressure change. He felt it.
“She’s coming,” Remus said, drawing level with Harry, nodding at Sirius. “Be ready to shield your eyes.”
***
Something stank. Harry was reminded of undergrowth, of dead things, shadows in swamps. He felt the kick in his pulse, and he gripped his wand tighter.
Then he remembered Sirius’s voice, saying – don’t hang on for dear life to your wand when push comes to shove, Harry. Hold it as you would, always – feel the breath of your magic.
You’ll need oxygen for fire.
All around them – despite Remus’s warning, Harry hadn’t yet sighted the Basilisk, but his breath felt shallow as his green eyes darted, looking for any sign of movement – were towering stone columns, entwined with carved serpents –
And then, as they drew level with the last pair of pillars, Harry had to look around, between his godfathers’ heads and necks to see that before them was a giant, towering statue of a wizard, his face ancient and with a cunning that had somehow been made immortal in the hooded gaze of his stone eyes.
Between the statue’s feet lay a small, black-robed figure with vivid red hair.
It was the Weasley girl. Ginny.
Sirius had pointed the girl out to him, when he’d brought Harry under the Invisibility Cloak to the Hogwarts Express waiting at King’s Cross. It should have been his first day of school. Sirius and Remus had explained why he could never attend, of course – Sirius had thrown a fit when Harry had received his letter.
Harry’s eyes had lingered on the small girl, and he remembered, inexplicably, the prick of tears in his own eyes, watching her wave with both her arms after her brothers who had climbed aboard the Express, running with all her might down the length of the platform as the train pulled out, her face tear-stained but still split wide with a smile that was all sunshine.
She’d stood there at the end of the platform for some time, stubbornly refusing her mother’s proffered hand to leave, staring after the train.
That image – that memory – of her had flickered in and out of Harry’s imagination since. It flared when Sirius and Remus had explained about what had happened to her, of what danger she was in.
Even before Remus had carefully explained that Harry could be needed because he was a Parselmouth, Harry had already had the clear thought in his mind – we have to save her.
He couldn’t contemplate Ginny Weasley being left to die in the Chamber of Secrets. Not with her overlong bright hair which fell in waves, her face that had reminded Harry of a picture book fairy, some princess whose prized possession was a cherry tree – a mermaid of Muggle lore.
Her still-smiling sadness at her being left behind, unable to attend Hogwarts the year that Harry had been supposed to attend.
In the present, Harry wanted already to sprint towards her, to call for her, but Sirius swiftly placed a hand on Harry’s left wrist –
A movement caught Harry’s eye, and he glanced up.
A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as if he were a projection, as if he were made of vapours and smoke.
Harry’s eyes widened – he thought he could see through the boy. Yet he was not floating like a ghost – his feet were firmly on the ground, and he even cast a long, diagonal shadow from where he was.
What was he?
The boy’s eyes were so dark that Harry thought they were black.
Harry recognised him. Some time ago, when Dumbledore had visited their safehouse in rural Antrim in Northern Ireland, he’d shown them the picture of a pale, handsome boy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in the 1944-1945 school year.
Slytherin House’s brightest son, who everyone had thought had faded into obscurity.
The boy who would grow up to kill Harry’s parents. Who by the time his picture had been taken, according to Dumbledore, had already killed a fellow classmate, and his Muggle father and grandparents.
Tom Riddle.
Harry felt the coil of anger in his chest, a sudden blackness so large it felt like it was quickly overtaking him from the inside out.
“Ah,” said Riddle, sounding faintly amused, “My pretty, silly princess was right. The cavalry’s arrived.”
“And look,” he continued, and now Harry felt the weight of his gaze directly on him, sharpening. The hair on the back of his neck rose on end, but Harry positioned himself so that he could still meet the boy’s contemptuous eyes, even as Sirius and Remus shuffled before him.
“I see the boy who’d defeated me has come, too,” Riddle bit out. “What an unexpected treat. It is not difficult to recognise your own kind. How nice of you to come, Harry Potter.”
***
Harry would later reflect that nothing could’ve quite prepared him – them – to fight the king of serpents with their eyes closed. Really, the tide turned when Fawkes – Dumbledore’s phoenix, he’d heard Remus shout – had arrived, soaring in with a spine-tingling, unearthly music, then had gone straight after the twisting, lunging Basilisk, gouging at her great yellow eyes.
And then things had happened, truly, so fast – too fast – after that.
Sirius and Remus were shouting spells which were mostly glancing off the snake’s glittering scales but were starting to find purchase in her, slowing her down.
Riddle screamed commands at the blinded, thrashing creature; Harry quickly discovered that trying to shout in Parseltongue over Riddle’s voice was pointless – the beast could discern her master.
And then Harry pulled at the gleaming sword at Sirius’ back, and just as the Basilisk’s head was reaching towards him, her body coiling around, and Harry heard Remus’ voice shouting as if from a distance, and the Basilisk stretched open her mouth towards him, and in that instance all Harry could see were fangs, and the endless dark of the snake’s throat –
Harry swung the sword as hard as he could, driving it to the hilt into the roof of the Basilisk’s mouth. He felt the force and inertia of the action, the piercing through of flesh, bone, skin, scales – and then the sinking of the beast against the sword, as her life abandoned her.
But as blood rained down Harry’s arms, over his head, his shoulders and face, seeping through his shirt, he felt the intense pain above his elbow. His heart squeezed violently as he realised, his eyes widening, that a poisonous fang was sinking into his arm. It splintered as the Basilisk finally keeled, groaning heavily, falling sideways, still twitching, to the floor.
The Basilisk took the sword, still stuck through her, with her; Harry wouldn’t have been able to hold onto it.
Harry felt the sudden rush of air into his lungs as he gasped, falling to his knees. He heard Sirius and Remus running towards him – a flash of scarlet, the sound, the beating of wings –
Someone – perhaps Sirius – wrenched the fang out of his arm. Harry registered pain that nearly equalled that from the stab – but somehow, so quickly already, he knew it was only a facsimile of what it could have been, and Harry felt his lips move, his mind trying to communicate the thought – it’s too late.
It’s too late, Sirius.
Remus.
I love you – I’m sorry.
Ginny –
The room was spinning, slipping, swimming around him.
“It’s pointless,” came Riddle’s voice from just a length away. Harry could hear the arctic remorselessness in it. “Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. He’s crying.”
“Sirius,” Remus hissed from next to Harry. He was holding Harry up; Harry couldn’t quite see him, and he felt –
All over, he felt only the cold. A singular chill.
“Sirius, move – let Fawkes get to Harry’s arm – and take the fang – the diary –”
Harry felt – in the haze and the fog that was enveloping him – abruptly quite clearly, the sensation of something wet, on his arm. Even as his body lurched as someone – Sirius – had pulled away, and Harry felt his heavy, heavy body fall towards one side – towards Remus.
He felt the grip of talons in his shoulder, the brush of feathers on his neck and face, pushing at his hair.
“Get away, you stupid, stupid bird – I should’ve known, Dumbledore and his tricks –”
But Harry never heard what Riddle’s conclusion was, about Dumbledore’s tricks. He never heard it, because what followed after was a terrible, soul-wrenching scream.
***
“Ginny, Ginny,” came a boy’s voice.
Ginny was blinking, and then she was gasping for air like she was breaking the surface of a too-still, too-dark lake, her eyes flinging open.
Above her hovered the face of a boy – his black hair was mussed and wet, dripping – was that blood? – and his glasses were askew in his pale face, which looked caked with what surely had to be blood, but really, all Ginny could focus on was the intense green of his eyes.
The green of his irises, blown wide open, were the deepest part of a verdant forest.
“You’re alive,” said the boy, but his voice sounded smaller, more distant than Ginny would have expected. He sounded happy, and if he were, Ginny was glad, because he looked like he cared to find that she was alive, and she –
She knew, she’d been the cause of all of this, because of Tom, because she’d loved him, and listened to him, when all Tom had wanted was to –
Where was Tom?
As if reading her mind, the boy was saying, “You’re safe now – you’re safe with us, Ginny – Riddle’s gone, the diary’s destroyed…”
The diary – her best friend. The vessel for the boy who’d said he loved her, and then betrayed her – Tom, who’d known the inside of her dreams, who’d shown her the orphanage where he’d taken beatings, come to know thirst and hunger…
Tom.
And then Ginny felt the wave of nausea, a closing of her consciousness like it was pulled under a black tide, and then she saw no more.
***
July 1993
31 July 1993
Dear Harry –
Happy Birthday. I have no idea if this letter will ever reach you – Professor Dumbledore promised me it would, but seeing as almost nobody has ever seen you since the night you vanquished the Dark Lord as a baby, I don’t know. Maybe he’s having me on; everyone’s been very delicate with me.
Somehow, writing to you feels like I’m writing to Santa, or to the dead. Or to Tom, now – out of force of habit, maybe. He doesn’t write back any longer, don’t worry. You did a complete job, according to Professor Dumbledore. Well, at least I don’t think
[here, there appeared to be words written, but they were heavily scratched out]
there will be a parchment or paper on which he’ll write back on.
The only difference is of course that I do know that you’re real. And I believe in you.
I never did get to thank you. Or say goodbye to you.
Thank you, even if this is only one small ‘thank you’ among the many that you must have already received, and perhaps will keep receiving (I hope not, and I hope you find peace the rest of your life. I hope safety and comfort follow you).
I still want to say ‘thank you’, even though it will never be enough. For what you’ve done for me. Mum says you almost died, saving me. And you’re only turning thirteen, today.
It’s tremendous to think about.
I don’t remember anything of what happened in the Chamber. I’m sorry for that. I only know that you saved me. Will you also thank your godfathers – Mum describes them as your uncles, but Professor Dumbledore describes them this way, so I’m not sure which is correct? – for me? Only Order members are allowed to know who they really are, though Mum did let slip to me that they were your parents’ friends. Whoever they are – I thank them, too. And I thank them for looking after you and keeping you safe all this time.
My birthday wish for you is that one day you can live a free, normal life. I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to attend Hogwarts, for instance. I imagine you can’t attend a Quidditch match, just as yourself. I wonder if you know anyone our age. It hurts my head and my heart to think of these things, for you.
I try to imagine the kind of life you lead. I don’t want to compare, because perhaps you’re perfectly happy how you are now. But still – I suppose it would be nice, or I would prefer if you had the choice to live your life the way I can expect to live mine.
What you did as a baby – what you’ve just done for me, just last month – how you continue to live now – has allowed me to live my life. I’m sorry that until last month I never realised what you are to all of us.
I promise that I will do my best always to honour you in the way I live.
I promise also never to trust a boy with my heart the way I did with Tom. I think I don’t want to love a boy, ever again.
You probably think I’m silly, saying that. Ron (he’s my brother, he’s the same age as you, and I like to think you would have been friends in Gryffindor (because surely you would’ve been Sorted into Gryffindor!) if you could’ve attended Hogwarts – he can be annoying, and always says I’m too little for things, but he’s still one of my favourite brothers (I have six), and he’s wicked good at chess) says you wouldn’t care, but I just want to assure you that I’m serious about being careful now.
I don’t think I can ever look at any diary the same.
But all the same – I hope your godfathers / uncles let you have a lot of cake, and your favourite food (is it shepherd’s pie? Or roast? Or curry? Mum can make all of them well – I hope you get to try her cooking, someday, she would throw such a feast for you if you ever came to the Burrow, which is where we live, at Ottery St. Catchpole in Devonshire), on your birthday.
Maybe you’ll get to see the sea today, or maybe they’ll take you flying. I love flying, and I hope you get to do that, too – the sky is a beautiful thing. It’s all freedom when you’re up there, isn’t it? When I’m there – I don’t
[here again there were words written, but heavily scratched out]
think so much, of things that bother me.
Take good care. Happy Birthday again.
I hope one day I’ll be able to meet you again, and you’ll be free. And happy. Maybe one day we can be friends.
Know that in my heart – you’re already mine. My friend.
With all my love,
Ginny Weasley
***
A/N 2:
Some of the Chamber scenes (when Harry, Sirius and Remus first come upon Ginny and Tom, how Harry kills the Basilisk and Tom's reaction to Fawkes crying) hew closely to the canon sequences, though in my own words. Everything else about what happened in the Chamber (and who was there and why, obviously) are inventions.
Details of Harry, Remus and Sirius’ life on the run (including Dumbledore’s relationship with them and their safehouse in Antrim) are canon divergences/inventions for the purposes of this AU.