Harry claimed a quiet compartment near the middle of the train and slid the door shut behind him. The chill from the window seeped into his sleeve as he leaned against it, watching steam roll across the platform. He felt... oddly still. The kind of stillness that comes after weeks of motion—internal or otherwise.
A few minutes later, the door slid open again.
"There you are," Hermione said, sounding mildly out of breath. "I thought I'd have to search the whole train."
Harry sat up straighter. "Hey."
She stepped in, her hair frizzed from the winter wind and her cheeks flushed pink. "You didn't write back."
"Yeah. Sorry," Harry muttered. "Things got a bit busy."
Hermione sat down across from him, adjusting her scarf. "So? How was your break?"
"It was… nice," Harry said, after a short pause. "Different."
"Different how?"
He shrugged. "I was with Sirius. That helped. We spent some time together, talked. Nothing too exciting."
Hermione blinked, clearly expecting more, but he wasn't offering.
"Well, I'm glad. You needed something normal after… well, everything."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, eyes dropping to the frost-edged window.
There was a beat of silence before a muffled clatter and several loud voices outside the compartment drew their attention.
Hermione peered through the glass, and her face lit up. "Here they come."
Sure enough, the Weasleys were sprinting across the platform in classic fashion. Fred and George were dragging their trunks while cracking jokes, Ron was fumbling with a sleeve still half off, and Ginny was shouting at someone out of view. Percy, of course, looked irritated.
Harry smirked. "I'm convinced it's a family tradition—arriving right before the train leaves."
Hermione laughed. "Honestly, I think it's part of the charm at this point."
The door slid open a minute later as Ron and Ginny tumbled into the compartment, out of breath and slightly disheveled.
"We made it!" Ron gasped, dropping his trunk with a dramatic thud. "Barely."
"Shocking," Harry said dryly, scooting over to make room.
Ginny rolled her eyes and flopped onto the seat beside Hermione. "Mum nearly hexed Fred for vanishing the alarm clock this morning."
"We said we were testing a new prototype," came Fred's voice from the corridor as he passed by, loud and unrepentant.
Neville joined them not long after, looking cheerful if slightly winded. "Hey! Good holiday, everyone?"
There was a general chorus of "yeah" and "not bad" as everyone settled in. The compartment quickly filled with warmth and the easy chatter of friends reunited. Jokes flew, complaints about homework were exchanged, and Ginny stole Ron's chocolate frog without him noticing.
The hours passed quickly, and soon the train began to slow as the peaks of the snowy mountains came into view. The group donned their cloaks and gloves, shivering slightly as they stepped off at Hogsmeade Station into the crisp, cold air.
The carriages—pulled by the skeletal Thestrals only some of them could see—rattled up the path toward the castle. The lights of Hogwarts glowed warmly through the falling snow, welcoming them back like something out of a dream.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, dinner was already being served. Platters of roast chicken and mountains of potatoes steamed invitingly on every table, and the room was filled with the familiar hum of laughter and conversation.
Harry slid into his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, the scents and sounds grounding him.
After dinner, Harry sat through the usual post-arrival buzz in the common room—students catching up, prefects doing last-minute rounds, first-years yawning in overstuffed armchairs. But slowly, the noise dimmed. The fire burned lower. One by one, people trickled off to their dormitories, until finally, the room was quiet.
Harry waited a little longer, seated near the fireplace with a book open in his lap—though he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. Once he was sure the others were asleep, he closed the book quietly and slipped upstairs.
His trunk creaked slightly as he opened it. Inside were the things he needed.
He moved through the castle under his Invisibility Cloak, unseen. Torchlight and shadow flickered over the stone as he passed, his steps silent and sure.
When he reached Myrtle's bathroom, the ghost didn't appear. Either asleep or wisely keeping her distance. The sink opened with a whisper of Parseltongue, and Harry slipped through.
"Stairs."
The stone rumbled beneath him. From within the wall, ancient mechanisms groaned to life, and a spiral staircase uncoiled like a serpent shedding its skin. He took each step carefully, clutching the bundle close to his chest—everything he needed was inside: the ritual materials, the egg, the toad, and one more thing, the locket.
When he stepped into the Chamber, the air felt different. Heavy, like it was watching him. The remains of the basilisk still lay coiled and massive at the far end, bones pale as driftwood and just as dead.
Harry approached it without flinching.
Using a simple levitation spell, he eased one of the fangs free from the cracked, gaping skull. It slid out with a soft shick, still sharp, still stained faintly green.
He drew the locket out of his pocket, its surface gleaming cold in the torchlight. It pulsed faintly in his hand, like a second heartbeat.
He set it on the stone floor and backed away just a little. Then, in Parseltongue again, he said:
"Open."
The locket vibrated once—and then split open with a hiss, releasing a swirl of black smoke that twisted into the air like ink in water.
And from it, he stepped out.
A younger Tom Riddle. Pale, dark-eyed, elegant in the way only something completely in control could be. He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You'll never be more than a shadow," the illusion said softly. "A scared little boy playing at power. You think you can win? You've just been lucky. That's all you've ever been."
The voice coiled around Harry like a curse, wrapping tighter with each word.
"You don't know what real magic is. You don't understand what it takes. What it costs."
The illusion took a step forward, eyes glinting.
"You'll break before you ever get close to me."
Something deeper stirred in the smoke, starting to form shapes—people, maybe. Things meant to distract, to seduce, to wear him down.
Harry didn't give it the chance.
He drove the basilisk fang straight into the locket with a solid, echoing crunch.
The scream that erupted wasn't human. The smoke thrashed, flared outward—and then collapsed in on itself, rushing outward in a wave of blackness that washed over Harry before he could even brace himself.
He staggered, eyes wide, heart hammering—and then his mind wasn't his anymore.
He was somewhere else.
He stood in the sunlight of a grand corridor at Hogwarts, watching a boy with dark eyes and a prefect's badge walking beside Slughorn, all charm and confidence.
A shift.
Now he was in Dumbledore's office. Tom Riddle sat across the desk, eyes calm but cold as frost, asking—no, expecting—to be offered the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Dumbledore's silence was the only answer.
Another shift.
Now he saw a strange, endless room filled with broken things—vanished things—lost things. Riddle stood in the center of it, holding a diadem. His wand moved slowly, carefully. His expression was one of cold, reverent focus. He placed the object behind a broken cabinet and walked away, calm as ever.
Harry gasped as the visions shattered, stumbling back into himself like falling through water.
His hand was still on the basilisk fang, and the locket was a mangled, melted husk, its magic gone.
But something inside him had changed.
His body buzzed, faintly alive in a way it hadn't before. Magic curled in his fingers like it wanted to stretch, like it had more space to breathe. And his thoughts—clearer. Sharper.
The Horcrux was gone.
He exhaled slowly.
A soft, familiar chime rang somewhere in his mind—sharp and quiet like glass tapping stone.
--Magic increased by 2 levels--
-- Magic: 11 → 13--
A pause. Then another.
-- Mind increased by 1 level --
-- Mind: 11 → 12 --
Harry blinked, surprised—and then elated. He hadn't expected anything to happen beyond the destruction itself. But the way his magic now stirred beneath his skin, the way his thoughts felt steadier, sharper—it was undeniable. He couldn't be sure, but a theory formed in the back of his mind. Maybe it was the resonance. The fragment of Voldemort's soul he had absorbed was reacting to the one he had just destroyed. Some kind of magical resonance. A ripple, perhaps. Whatever it was, it had done something. Something good.
The locket was gone. One more piece of Voldemort, destroyed.
But Harry knew this was only the beginning.
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[A/N] -
I've finally decided what to do with the basilisk idea. I know some of you might like the direction I've chosen, and others might not—but I had to seriously consider how it would affect the story and its overall flow. You'll see how it plays out in the next chapter.
Thanks for reading !