The soft scrape of Harry's boots echoed faintly through the Chamber as he made his way deeper into the chamber, his breath clouding in the chill air. The shattered locket was still clasped in his hand, lifeless and dull.
But something of it lingered in him.
His mind was still buzzing—not just from the magical surge, but from the memories. They clung to the edges of his thoughts like smoke, curling in and around what he knew, what he'd seen.
Riddle walking through Hogwarts with his prefect's badge gleaming under the sun.
Riddle sitting in Dumbledore's office, all charm and poison beneath the surface.
Riddle in the Room of Requirement, placing the diadem like it was sacred, his eyes gleaming with purpose.
There had been no wild cackling. No dramatic flair. Just calm. Just control.
Just like me, Harry thought grimly, as he passed beneath the gaping serpent archway that led deeper into the tunnel beneath the Chamber.
He didn't head back to the dorms. Not yet. Not while everything inside him still felt so tightly wound.
Instead, he made his way to the Slytherin's study, hidden inside the Chamber of Secrets.
"Revelio," he hissed.
The stone rippled and slid aside with a whisper, and Harry stepped into Salazar Slytherin's study.
The room was just as he remembered it—ancient and untouched, filled with the hum of old magic. Its curved walls were lined with bookcases etched directly into the stone, green fire flickering low in snake-shaped sconces. A desk sat at the far end, clean now after weeks of use, and the armchair beside it creaked softly as if welcoming him back.
He sat.
For a while, he didn't do anything. Didn't reach for a book. He just let the quiet settle around him like a blanket and tried to breathe.
The power he'd gained from destroying the Horcrux still thrummed faintly in his blood. His magic felt looser, more fluid. His thoughts clearer, too. Like someone had wiped a fogged mirror.
And that… frightened him.
Not the strength. Not the clarity.
But how easy it had felt. How natural.
It would've taken just one more step. One word, one incantation, and he could've begun the ritual. He had everything prepared. He'd even practiced how he'd control the toad, how to bind the egg, how to stabilize the transfer of life to forge something ancient and deadly.
A basilisk. His own.
He swallowed hard.
It had been his idea, his plan, tucked away in shadows and silence—because deep down, a part of him had wanted that kind of power.
But now…
Now, after seeing those fragments of Tom Riddle's memories, it was like looking into a future he didn't want. Not a monster in a cloak, but a boy who had wanted too much. Who had thought he could control magic older than memory. Who had walked forward step by step, not realizing he'd crossed a line until it was miles behind him.
Even now, he could remember a passage etched in flaking ink: "A true basilisk is bound not to blood, but to the intention behind its creation. A master who seeks control may find only servitude."
And what had his intentions been?
Power. Protection. A weapon he could hide beneath the school like Slytherin once had. Something that would listen only to him.
But was that really so different from Tom?
Harry had seen the calm in Riddle's eyes when he placed the diadem into the Room of Hidden Things. He'd seen how deliberate, how patient, how certain the boy had been.
No manic energy. No raving madness.
Just control. Always control.
Harry rubbed a hand over his face. He was fifteen. And already he was entertaining the idea of building magical weapons most adult wizards would call madness.
Because he was scared.
Because he wanted to win.
But that wasn't enough. Not anymore.
Not when the cost was something this big.
A basilisk wasn't a spell you could cast and forget. It was a living force, a myth given flesh. If he misstepped—if his control faltered—he wouldn't just be risking himself. He'd be risking everyone.
He didn't have the power. Not yet.
Not while part of him still froze at shadows. Not while Voldemort still terrified him in ways he couldn't even name—not because of the Horcrux, not even because of prophecy, but because even without those things, Voldemort was the kind of wizard who could tear the world apart and smile doing it.
And if Harry kept walking this path without thinking, without choosing… he'd be walking straight into that same smile.
He thought of Sirius, sitting across from him in the dim kitchen at Grimmauld Place, tossing a butterbeer cap at him and laughing like they had all the time in the world.
Of Tonks and Andromeda lighting fireworks.
Of Hermione's concern. Of Ron's lopsided grin.
Of everything he'd lose if he became something else.
"I'm not him," Harry whispered to the empty study, like the walls needed convincing.
But it wasn't the walls he was talking to.
He stared at the ritual scrolls in his bag and slowly, deliberately, pushed them aside.
Not today.
Not like this.
For now, the study could be just that—a place to learn, not to become something he'd regret. A place to find strength without losing himself in the process.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
By the time Harry reached his dormitory, it was well past midnight. He slipped into bed quietly, trying to get whatever rest he could before waking at dawn.
At 5 a.m., he rose without complaint, laced up his trainers, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The grounds of Hogwarts were still and silent, bathed in the cool hush before sunrise. As he ran, the horizon slowly ignited with color—gold and rose bleeding into blue. The castle stood proud against it, timeless and watching.
Last night had brought clarity. He had made a choice.
He would walk his own path—not Dumbledore's, not Voldemort's, nor anyone else's. He would forge something new. Surpass them, perhaps. But without losing himself along the way.
After his run, Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement. The door melted into view at his approach, and inside, it became what he needed—a fully equipped gym, quiet and focused. He pushed through his routine with discipline, each rep grounding him further in that quiet conviction.
Once finished, he headed back for a quick shower, steam rising like the last of doubt being washed away.
As he made his way to breakfast, robes clean and posture steady, he passed Professor Flitwick in the corridor.
The Charms Master looked up at him, eyes bright. "Ah, Mr. Potter! Back at it already? Are you ready to resume our dueling training?" A brief pause. "And perhaps… take it up a notch?"
Harry smiled—quiet, confident. "I'm ready."