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Chapter Text

He knew it, felt it in his bones.

All his life had turned in the opposite direction; plummeted. The wounds on his arm bled. Blood, life, loss, death.

Tom M. Riddle's voice twisted amid seas of despair and fear; He couldn't hear, but knew what his words were: "kill him" said with that creepy and familiar hiss that Harry had heard so many times on his own lips.

His eyes were closed, but could still see the beast rush towards him. Its mouth reeked of poison, full of rotten teeth and a snout capable of smelling his panic.

Any normal person in the same situation would have died screaming, crying or running. Their pleas for mercy drowned in the laughter of the young man who would become the most feared Dark Magician of the last century, their tears fallen on the cold stone of the Dungeons, their corpse left to rot in the deepest pit of hell.

"Anyone" wouldn't stop a Dark Lord's reign of terror before being able to walk on his own.

"Anyone" wouldn't survive a curse designed to rip out a soul and stop a heart.

"Anyone" isn't capable of murder with the simple touch of their skin.

Following an instinct whose provenance he don't know, Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, ordered:

 "STOP!"

He felt the air around him thicken, a kind of strangled moan sounded from the other side of the Chamber (probably Riddle) and, right in his face, the breath of the immense creature washed over him.

Driven by a strange sense of confidence that he didn't understand, opened his eyes, only to jump as he realized that the thing was, in fact, mere inches from his face. Took a few steps back. Weeks later he would say that he did it out of fear, caution or disgust, but the truth was that at that moment he was no longer even able to think completely well and, instinctively, his body only heeded the simplest desire under his belt: take a little look at the famous "King of Serpents".

It was long, over fifty feet, and slim for its size. Hard and proud green scales crowned it, horns and teeth, bright topaz eyes and lids that were, without a doubt, very strange in a snake. Its murderous gaze, which had previously flashed like poison, even seen through a mirror or camera lens, now lay meek, dull.

Took him an embarrassingly long time to realize how much they were making eye contact.

He turned to Riddle, who looked like a Bludger had hit him in the face. The young man reacted to meeting the eyes of his enemy; incandescent green and burlesque, deadly and innocent. Too familiar.

In the second, he was seeing red. How dare that boy, the disgusting spawn of that Mudblood to order his basilisk? The beast was supposed to serve only him.

"I ordered you to kill him! Do it!"

But the snake didn't move a muscle. Harry, for some reason, couldn't imagine what reasons the monster might have to obey the other wizard. He was weak, weak, weak. Something inside him seemed to twist and an unknown fury forced its way through the bleak streams of hopelessness and the cold of horror.

The icy wind that blew through the walls sang and seeped into his mind; A hundred nonsensical thoughts flooded him, and suddenly he no longer knew where fear ended and anger began.

Only took an instant to break fate.

Damned.

Bastard.

Monster.

Assassin.

Half Blood.

Just an instant for a twelve-year-old boy to speak the words that would drag the earth another meter toward hell.

"Kill him"

He didn't even notice the stunned look the other boy was giving him, before all the anger drained away and his expression changed to pure terror. Normal, considering the beast seemed to be taking Harry's words at face value.

"Tear, tear, kill, destroy, dismember; rip, rip, rip” the basilisk chanted as it lunged at its prey.

Tom pulled away immediately, as that reckless move was going to save him from being eaten by his own monster. Or was it Harry's monster? Tear, kill, kill, tear apart. He had given up on making sense of nonsense.

His prey was chased down to the deepest pit, a dark and isolated corner, and just as the attacker's fangs touched his torso, his entire body vanished into a light white haze, flying back towards the damn book.

Blind fury washed over Harry. He felt like a man possessed, the sheer desire to kill consumed and devoured him. He didn't even think about the implications of that, didn't even think about the little girl lying half dead just a few feet away.

"The diary! Destroy the diary!"

And the basilisk complied.

Immeasurable jaws closed over the body of the defenseless Ginny Weasley. A deafening scream was heard from the cursed object, corroded by the venom of the beast, bathed in the girl's blood.

"SLYTHERIN!"

It was there that he felt the weight on his head.

•••

Riddle was right, at least about one thing.

Her skeleton would lie in the Chamber forever.

Harry didn't want to touch her blood, even when the red was washing him from head to toe. Something that was not his, something that did not belong to him. He was said that it was Ginny's fault, she was the one who spilled all her secrets to an artifact of which little and nothing knew. The idiot child who believed in glimpses of a pink-tinged world, fluffy clouds and smiling, benevolent, righteous people.

The basilisk could feast on its remains for all that mattered to him.

He was always a good liar, had to be to survive his childhood. He knew that lying to himself was sometimes the only option.

Priming others with sweet lies was, in hindsight, much easier.

"No, Mr. Weasley" he said; his voice came out slightly hoarse, his eyes flickered excessively, as if an invisible weight rested above his lids.

Arthur looked angry. Not angry, furious. Molly was stunned and worried; her red hair contrasted greatly with the white that covered the entire space.

Ron lay in the bed next to him, overcome by what was surely a sleeping potion. The boy was, so far, the only recipient of the bad news. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't taken it in the greatest light, Harry couldn't wait for him to. The fact that his best friend had come out of there covered in his sister's blood was no consolation either.

He believed that if it weren't for the cold comfort he found in the killer's death (Riddle, obviously. Harry might be dense, but not thick enough to carry the corpse) the young man would have already thrown himself from the top of the Astronomy Tower; such was his grief and denial.

Harry was just… tired.

It was as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. In his mouth were the true and the false, the instinct of self-preservation and the moral compass.

The desire to tell the whole story weighed on his guts. He wanted, for once in his miserable existence, to tell the truth, if only to be called a murderer, a bastard, a monster. Those humble and kind people, although naive, deserved to know the final destination of their last offspring and the circumstances that led him to take his last breath.

For once, he wanted to feel like a good person.

Because Harry Potter was not a good person.

"Even if I told, doubt you will be able to recognize she."

He saw the exact moment when both adults fit all the pieces together. I'd swear he heard the heart of the kind, sweet woman he considered a second mother, break into a thousand pieces. Molly collapsed into sobs and Arthur, horrified beyond description and having no idea what to do, grabbed her and led them to another location in the infirmary. Harry was still able to hear her crying from his bed, through the immaculate curtains.

He only took one glance at his tie, green as a viper's skin, to drag all the guilt to the deepest and darkest place in his mind. He knew then that he would never think of Ginevra Weasley again.

Because Harry Potter was not a good person, even if he desperately wanted to be

•••

That same night, the night that he loaded himself with his fourth corpse, he slept peacefully, slept and dreamed of something that would be.

His aunt, Proserpina Gaunt, screaming, crying and bleeding; alone for too long, her wand lost in a far away place.

He came closer, sat in the front row to watch the life fade from two absinthe eyes and hear the crying hang in the new, cold and peaceful air.

Upon waking up, he felt that the world was a beautiful place.

Chapter Text

He fell into a dreamless, empty, calm sleep. He couldn't even feel particularly concerned about what was going on in the world outside his mind. Unconsciousness still enveloped him like a son, it was a cold and imperturbable blanket.

He suffered a slow awakening, going from seeing the infinite whiteness of his mind to seeing the familiar white of the sheets and ceiling of the medical wing, next to the uncertain and pale sunlight, filtering from a window.

He also noticed the muffled voices coming from the other side of the curtains; familiar, low and bewildering. He felt that one of them was, at least, raising his voice, if not screaming. Still, he was unable to discern words.

"I'm awake" he said reluctantly, but firmly. Immediately, each sound dissolved into muffled murmurs, until finally all stopped.

After blinking a couple of times, Harry sat up in bed, prepared for the lengthy conversation that he was sure would soon begin. As soon as he saw the curtains open, he knew he was right.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, walked in, escorted by some kind of dark natural disaster that, on the second, Harry identified as the resident potions teacher, Severus Snape.

The young man let out the sigh that had caught in his throat, knowing that this talk would have to happen at one time or another. Still, he had hoped to have at least a few hours to organize his thoughts, before facing the headmaster and, forced himself not to swallow hard at the next thought, his new Head of House.

 "Potter," Snape practically growled, staring at him like he was to blame for the poles melting.

In that instant, Harry decided that he was doomed and that nothing he could say or do would save him from the professor's misguided fury, so he decided to resist opening his mouth. One of the most important lessons he learned from his uncle was that sometimes you are in every way incapable of making a bad situation better, but you will always, always have the power to make it worse.

"How and why are you in my House?"

Harry kept his expression carefully neutral. He forced himself to keep his legs on the mattress, though all he wanted to do was jump up and crouch against the head of the bed, all to get away from the hideous Dungeon Bat.

Dumbledore, seeing that the situation was flying out of their hands, decided to intervene before having to stop one more… serious confrontation.

In a way, he was surprised that Severus lost control like that, in front of a student, no less! Although he knew that the grudge he felt for James Potter was still alive, burning, in his gut. At some point, he hoped that the man did not hold all that hatred about little Harry, an innocent child who had nothing to do with the rivalry that Severus and James had. But hey, no luck.

"Harry, my boy, in the first instance I apologize for the tactlessness with which Professor Snape is handling your situation." Severus shot him a look that would be capable of killing a basilisk. "But sadly, I have the same questions as him. Could you please tell us in detail what happened in the Chamber? "

"Didn't Ron tell you, Professor?

Albus was a bit surprised by the question that, in perspective, could be considered insensitive. Ronald had been a sobbing mess since the effects of the potion the healer had given him wore off. At least he was no longer in an uninterrupted fit of hysteria, which was the state he had arrived in the medical wing in the night before, which didn't mean he was ready for questioning. Albus did not become Headmaster just to ignore the needs and urgencies of his students, as his successor, Headmaster Dippet had done, and he was unwilling to allow a twelve-year-old boy who had just lost his sister (In addition to suffering a major trauma, the only thing that would explain his disastrous mental state), was haunted with questions about her death.

He knew logically that Harry didn't deserve such treatment either, but right now he didn't have much of a choice. The boy seemed to be still in the process of assimilating the passing of Ginevra, so now he could be fine, cheerful, calm, but when all the information sank in his mind, the most likely is that he would have a collapse equal to or worse than Ronald's. They were too young boys with an immense weight on their shoulders, with tragedies stalking them with every step they took.

With all that, he just wanted to walk away, let Harry rest and just forget about the report he had to fill out for the Auror Department, but it wasn't as if there were alternatives, not if he wanted to preserve the fragile peace that currently exists at Hogwarts.

"Mr. Weasley is still too unsettled by what happened, my boy. You are currently our only source of information." He explained, trying to be as direct as possible, he could see that Harry didn't want the headmaster to go into his usual ramblings.

 "Well".

Dumbledore asked him for a story, he never said had to be the truth.

And he told them. He made sure to frame an expression of hatred at the Riddle's mention, took pride in his own terrified face when he got to the basilisk part; his tongue stuck and tears rained down his cheeks as he described the way in which the evil memory of Voldemort ordered the basilisk to end the girl's life, how he ended up committing suicide out of his own stupidity and arrogance.

The moment he looked into the director's eyes, he knew the old man had bought his performance. Even Snape seemed mollified and, to Harry's complete amusement, he looked a little too pale.

Fake, fake tears, crocodile tears. Feigned pain, snake pain.

 False.

 Pretended.

 Dishonest.

 Corrupt.

If he couldn't stop crying even after his visitors had left, well, his acting was more realistic that way, right?

Harry shuffled his shoes across the cold Dungeon floor, his gait carrying an aura of great misery. Heavy dark circles formed under his eyes, black, a noticeable darkness in a pale and drawn face, as if long months of malnutrition were taking their toll. Most would consider it impossible that, in the absence of a few days of care, a person could appear as if they had been through a long stay in Azkaban.

Vut he was always like that. Even when he was just a small child, he could never escape the pitiful appearance his body took on under careless and stressful situations. It was one of the reasons the Dursleys never denied him food, not even when he had to spend long periods in their closet. He could always count on his going to sleep with a full stomach and a fresh throat, because while the excessive thinness and the oversized garments could be explained with easy excuses, the sucking cheeks, the corpse look and the skin stuck to the bones, on the other hand, they were much more difficult.

Proserpina, sorry, Petunia always complained about it, almost as much as she complained about her drug addict and drunk sister. From the frequency with which both subjects were mixed, he could assume that his mother suffered from the same problem.

(Her aunt liked to ignore that it was also something of her)

"Remember Mr. Potter," his new Head of House told him, bringing him back to reality. "Bullying of other students will not be tolerated."

He just shrugged instead. For some reason, Snape had the idea that Harry was some kind of heartless bully; He didn't think had given him any reason to suspect it, though, being Snape, he sure thought all Gryffindors were wild and violent beasts, waiting for the slightest opportunity to sink their fangs into the innocent and defenseless Slytherins. Anyway, as was well implied, the deal did not go both ways; if the boy was bullied, especially if it was by Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, the Professor would do nothing. Oh well, maybe I'd even give Slytherin points for putting the Potter brat in his place.

But still, he couldn't find the will to worry excessively. Whatever they did, he would bear it, as he had all his life.

After all, on summer vacations, there was never anyone to see him disintegrate.

When they arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, which was hidden in a stone wall. Harry heard the Professor whisper the password: "pureblood", as if he did not want his student to hear it and the door opened in the same way as when Ron and Hermione were here, accompanying him.

He banished the intrusive thoughts to the deepest part of his mind. He didn't need them; he was going to survive with or without them.

He advanced behind Professor Snape, as if he had done it a thousand times before, raising his chin and puffing out his chest, displaying all the pride and dignity he did not feel at the moment.

Now the whole common room was staring at him.

 "The Sorting Hat fell on my head for the second time yesterday," he explained, bowing slightly. “I am grateful to have ended up in Slytherin above any other House, including my original House, Gryffindor. I will be your Housemate for the next five years and by the time I graduate, no one will remember that I ever wore red and gold; I'll make sure of it. "

Now almost everyone was looking at him as if he had grown a second head, a third, and a fourth. Anyone in that unfortunate situation would surely have felt a slow suffocation, an invisible and intangible weight, but present.

Unless that person was Harry Potter, trained from the age of eleven in the fine art of "pretending that the rest of the world doesn't exist". So, as casually as possible, he proceeded to ignore everyone, only pausing to give a small polite nod to the Slytherins of his year, (including Malfoy, who had once again failed the pureblood tag; Harry was sure that "jaw-dropping" was not a suitable posture for the heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-eight) and, with his head held high, he headed towards the second-year boys' dormitory.

Perhaps, he thought, had a chance to thrive in the Snake's Nest. 

Chapter Text

The Slytherin Common Room was a cold place. Especially in winter, when the shadows on the walls seemed to envelop those on the furniture, hugging them silently. When the layer of plants that separated the glass from the icy waters froze and, almost without realizing it, his fingers went numb and his lips burned.

Harry was the first to wake up that morning. The Hall was desolate, neither wind nor the sighs of ghosts. The light crackle of the fireplace escorted him on his little journey, exploring, with cautious steps and hesitant breaths, the place he would call his own for years to come.

He had caught a glimpse of it before: during his adventure with Polyjuice Potion and the night before, of which he still had hazy memories and a thread of unease. However, he never had the opportunity to see the place in detail, to admire each serpent statue and each commemorative tapestry decorating the wall. Now, with the mind in mere glimpses of sleep, even the grotesque, twisted coals that nurtured the flames appeared to be the most splendid works of art.

It was difficult to be indifferent to his eyes, which until yesterday had been beacons. Now, they could only shine by reflection of the fire that, with a poker, he stirred and rummaged in it, looking for what he himself did not know.

He saw the flames mutate into pitiful forms. He could have sworn it was magic fire, enchanted to spread into figures born of his nightmares; human faces suffering in silent screams, wizards and diaries, girls and snakes. It was all in his head, but he couldn't help but wonder if some of it was real.

Would he suddenly wake up in a bedroom decorated with red curtains and gold sheets?

He shook his head, smiling bitterly.

Would not like to do it.

He had been fighting his sanity for many years, since the first time he saw a deadly curse hit his mother's body. Since a smoky shadow followed him at dawn and left him at sunset, as every time he was beaten and deprived of food.

A softly speaking shadow called "Mom."

And when he touched it, Harry felt hardness and punishment, like his bones. Cruelty, like the demons that lived in the vain of his cupboard; cold too, cold like home.

Like the Slytherin Common Room.

"Young man" said a dry, demanding voice.

Harry jumped out of his seat, alarmed, already imagining the angry face of Snape or one of the older students. He was confused when he turned around, but found no one.

"Here, here" he heard again.

Immediately, looked up. He sighed in relief when he saw that it was only a painting who was speaking to him.

It illustrated a man with hard, straight features, though emaciated, as if he carried with him months of deprivation and the shadow of a murky childhood. His green eyes shone against the tame, dull background; his hair was black, straight, perfectly combed. He was dressed in dark robes and a green tie, with a strange coat of arms embroidered over his heart: a snake and a deer skull, with tall, crooked horns.

"Hello?" Harry asked, puzzled.

It was strange that the paintings spoke to the students. He had seen them chat with each other, tell things to the teachers or the headmaster and well, there were also the comments of the Fat Lady every time he entered the Gryffindor Common Room. But he had never had a conversation of more than a couple of seconds with either of them. Most lacked the complexity to put more than a couple of sentences together; it would still matter to talk to a dog.

"Good morning, young man, will you tell me your name?"

He might sound polite, but Harry detected the evaluative tone that permeated him, having heard it many times in his own voice.

Taking what he knew to date, he devised an approach, in his opinion, decent. He realized that this interaction was inconsequential at best. But still, he couldn't know if it would be of any use to him in the future. Perhaps this painting had some useful knowledge, in the same way that Myrtle La Llorona had had one of more key pieces to unravel the identity of the basilisk.

In less than a second, his tongue was already twisting around 'Harry Potter', the way he always introduced himself. Then, at the last moment, he remembered the name to which his letter from Hogwarts had been addressed.

"Hadrian Corvinus Potter".

The man blinked a little, as if confused, for an instant later a mysterious smile; something like triumph gleamed in his eyes.

"I've never seen you around here before" the portrait commented absently, as if wanting to downplay its previous exhibition. Harry narrowed his eyes, but let it go.

"Before I was in another House" he explained. "The Hat fell on my head again and put me in Slytherin."

"The Potters were traditionally Gryffindors, so I assume that was your House, right?"

Harry's face warmed, but detecting no aggression or disappointment, he relaxed. His nod was small and silent.

He definitely didn't feel a pang of grief as he realized that even in a normal wizarding family, he would have been a freak.

Apparently the painting noticed something, because it instantly retracted:

"We had a Potter hanging around years ago though. Charlus Potter, his name was" he smiled maliciously. "I remember him because he had a habit of cursing first year Gryffindors with Flagrante, you would have seen the little rats squirm when their own robes burned them!"

"Really?" Harry asked, refraining from commenting on how 'brave' it was to mess with eleven-year-olds. He was much more interested in what the portrait knew about that part of his family.

"Yeah. Look, you pick up your wand and wave it like this, drawing like an italic O, with a little tail at the bottom."

Following the instructions, he gently waved his wand, creating graceful shapes and soft to the eye. The so-called 'tail' of the O was tricky, but he did it on the third try. It was imperfect, without a doubt. He hadn't yet developed the muscle memory to cast the spell without thinking about it, as if it were instinct.

"Good. Now, point to something and say: Flagrante!"

And so he did. Twirling his wand in the proper motion, he pointed to a book on the couch and yelled:

"Flagrante!"

A stream of purplish light erupted from the holly point, leaping toward the target and enveloping it like a spider's web. The flash seemed to melt over the object, to bury itself in it; any remaining glare was swallowed up by the manual's dark and gloomy appearance, illuminated only by the dim green lights of the Common Room.

Harry cautiously approached him and made the pretense of taking him in his hands. He had less than a millisecond to discover that this had not been his brightest idea.

"OH!" he screamed in pain, knocking it off immediately.

Breathing hard, he looked at his hands, only to find reddened and blotchy skin. Small moist blisters accompanied his, growing between the folds that marked the phalanges. A drop of blood slid from his index finger, falling between the channels of his palm.

With a worried expression, he turned to the portrait, who was looking at him with a slow lake of satisfaction flowing under his eyes.

"Never, in my more than one hundred and twenty years of life, did I see someone perform that curse on the first try" the corners of his mouth twisted, marking his face with a wild, dark, proud smile. "You will go very, very far, Hadrian"

Harry nodded without rhyme or reason, still trembling under the deep pain of his injuries. But this time, with a strong realization burning in his heart, sinking in triumph.

Another curse, another achievement on his long list of them. But, for the first time, he felt it was worth it..

"Thanks, ¿Mr…?"

"Gaunt, Corvinus Gaunt"

It took him too long to notice the more than twenty pairs of eyes that pierced the back of his neck, staring at him with panic, distrust or reverence.

He squirmed uncomfortably, wondering if his nose was dirty, his eyes oozing with mischief, or his robe turned inside out. He didn't know how rare re-sorted students were, but he didn't think it was such an implausible fact or, at the very least, not something that would earn said student the fixed, static gaze of all his classmates. Although of course, being the Boy-Who-Lived, he understood that he would never be free from the spotlight. He has always been an exception.

After giving up trying to find something in his physique that might be the cause, he looked around, as if a reasonable explanation were going to appear out of nowhere. It was there when he saw.

Standing a few yards from the couch was Professor Snape, pale, stiff, and staring at Harry as if he were not a wizard; he saw a memory, a shadow, a dementor. His grip on the paper, Harry's timesheet, was deadly tight. His throat closed in on itself, trying not to make the slightest sound.

Suffice it to say, his confusion tripled.

What would make Severus Snape, the man who dwelt in the darkest of dungeons and in the most horrible nightmares of the first years, this disturbed?

What could Harry have done to terrify him to such a degree that he would fear uttering words?

"So you still continue as Head of my House, Severus" said a mocking voice.

The Professor looked up so fast his neck creaked. Harry followed suit, ending with his eyes fixed on the portrait.

Corvinus Gaunt was watching Snape with pursed lips and a pursed nose, as if he were smelling excrement. His pose reaffirmed, haughty and proud, though without the level of pedantry I'd seen in other adults, like Lucius Malfoy.

"Gaunt," Snape growled, gathering himself.

Harry felt a slight shudder creep up his neck at the tone; it was the kind of speech that did not bode well.

"Hadrian told me some truly lovely things about you." He narrowed his eyes, further marking his expression of utter contempt. "Of course, it's too much to ask for a mangy half-blood to be able to recognize true talent in a student, though." He turned to give Harry a smile, acting like he hadn't just made his life a thousand times more difficult.

If looks could kill, Snape's would kill by poisoning. Harry was suddenly relieved that only basilisks possessed such extraordinary power, otherwise there wouldn't be much left of it.

"Potter," Snape called, his teeth and fists clenched as he walked towards him. "Here," he tossed the schedule next to him on the couch, ignoring the Boy-Who-Lived's shocked expression.

The Professor started to leave, still furious. Harry hesitated to stop him, but let's just say he wasn't in his plans to load the paper between his teeth and then vote it on his bed. That would be killing his reputation before it even began to form.

"Sir!"

Snape flinched, as if he'd been hit. He turned suddenly, at the same time that all eyes fell on Harry again. He was almost used to it at this point.

"Could you please take this to me-"

"In English, Potter!"

Harry immediately fell silent.

Now, that was why he had started this whole scene.

He had been speaking in Parseltongue.

He had been talking to Corvinus in Parseltongue.

"Please, can you take my schedule to the bedroom?" he asked, uncomfortable.

"Why? Does the Boy-Who-Lived consider himself above loading his own schedule?" Snape spat, more venomous than usual. A couple of Slytherins laughed, but even those sounds felt tense and fearful.

Harry framed the gaze, not defiant, but cold and dead and jaded. Lily Potter's eyes had lost any sense of radiance, they were two deep, dry retinas, an abysmal green and toxic, like the Killing Curse; lacking in warmth.

The boy threw up his hands, exposing a set of hideous burns that spread over every inch of tissue. Dried blood that marked paths in his wrinkles, ulcers, black skin and rot.

Curse wounds.

"I think I have to go to the infirmary, Sir."

Chapter Text

"You look horrible, know?"

Ron just nodded repeatedly, as if unaware that Harry had stopped talking. His face was pale and worn, his knees together, shivering under the covers. His gaze was fixed on the white wall, as if the slow wear of the paint was the most compelling event in the world. He looked like a mental patient.

"I can't say I look better on you." He took a moment to inspect Harry. "Are those scars new?"

"Not at all" Harry laughed.

"Did you need an excuse to see me?" Ron asked, somewhat spaced. "Or to see her?" he turned around.

Hermione's inert form was, without a doubt, a haunting image. Stiff, tense legs and puzzled expression; next to Ron's bed, he lay.

They had not yet cured the petrification. They wouldn't, at the very least, until before the end of the year. They were safe from the basilisk, their victims were no longer a priority, because they no longer carried what could be valuable information; they had no more use for a set of muggleborns and a cat.

And, being from Muggle families, there was no parental pressure. They were left thinking that their children were safe, enjoying their little fantastic and magical world, not turned into the target of a horrible child, who had hatred for what he himself sinned to be.

Half-Blood.

He couldn't imagine being the son of a Muggle father. He felt sorry for the poor wretch who had to suffer it.

"The Hat fell on my head in the Chamber”. He said suddenly.

"Ah" was his friend's intelligent reply, although Harry did not feel entitled to demand anything better.

He had killed his sister, after all.

"And he put me in Slytherin." He saw Ron blink.

"I see".

Harry had expected a scream, a gasp of indignation, even a whispered and spiteful "bloody traitor". But the Gryffindor looked like he'd been told this would be a cloudy day.

He fought the urge to growl at that.

He hated when people were unpredictable and his best friend was proving himself in the worst ways.

"Slytherin, you know." Harry pressed him "House of dark wizards, Snape's, Malfoy's" the redhead frowned slightly at the last mention, but otherwise nothing.

"Come on Ron" he snorted, puffing out his cheeks like a little boy. "Just give me a hint."

Ron muttered something, too low to be heard, as if the air was draining from his lungs.

"We can't fix it" he buried his face between his knees, letting out a light sob. "She's dead and we can't fix it."

Was that a challenge?

Interesting.

Harry put a hand on his shoulder; his eyes cold, bright, and disgustingly happy. He sat on the edge of the bed and his gaze, as crazed as it always looked, showed not a speck of hesitation.

"Can't we, huh?" Harry leaned against him; an odd smile split his face. "Then we will."

Ron flinched.

****

He couldn't say that his conversation with Ron had gone as well as it could have. But, being aware, He shouldn't have had such high expectations.

He hated seeing his friend like this, even if his understanding of the situation did not go beyond the merely intellectual. He never had someone whose death he could mourn; h couldn't imagine suffering for someone else.

But Harry could fix it. He was the one who always did the best.

Halfway to the table, the entire Great Hall had already noticed. As expected, this whole affair turned him, once again, into the Hogwarts’ pink elephant.

"Did you sleep well, Potter?" asked one of the Slytherins, Nott, whom Harry considered tolerable.

He sat in the chair across from Nott, next to Zabini, another Slytherin with whom he was on neutral ground. Malfoy was more than five places away, and from the way he kept his gaze fixed on the opposite direction, he most likely didn't want to start a fight this early.

"Very good" he said, his face twisted into a warm smile. "The beds are much softer than those in Gryffindor and the sound of the water is extremely relaxing."

Suddenly, it seemed to have evolved from "pink elephant" to "purple nundu," since even Malfoy had turned to keep an eye on it, though he was trying, without much success, to hide it.

Harry just snorted. Did they really think he was going to complain about his beloved House on the first day? He wasn't stupid; He knew that continuing to act like a lion would result in some kind of social suicide, even if it was the simplest way to keep on good terms with the other three parts of the student body.

It was like being in elementary school again. In Surrey, the teachers had waited for a would-be criminal, abuser and spoiled brat, so much so that it took years of excellent behavior and brilliant grades to banish that idea. Here, instead, his only reference image was his bad relationship with Malfoy, who, as he could hear from his roommates, was not nearly as powerful in Slytherin as he seemed.

So, in hindsight, he had chosen to play the good boy, at least for the moment.

"Potter, what the hell?"

Harry wanted to drink ammonia.

He looked up, only to find Oliver Wood, who stood in front of him with crossed arms and glassy eyes. If he were wrong with himself, he would say that, from his face, he was about to burst into tears.

"The Hat fell on my head again and put me in Slytherin" he faked a tremor and lowering his head, he murmured: "I'm sorry".

The entire Great Hall erupted in hateful whispers.

"But tell me you can still be the Gryffindor Seeker!"

It took all of his self-control not to frown. This was one of the most disconcerting and annoying things about living surrounded by Gryffindors: his legendary reluctance to keep private matters private, along with his propensity to create scenes with a wide audience. As someone who hated unnecessary attention, this was something of a personal hell for him.

"I do not think so"

Of course not.

"It is not allowed for someone to play for another House."

"Gryffindor is your House!"

Harry knew, in that instant, that this would be a shitty day.

****

"How do I revive the dead?"

Corvinus turned suddenly pale, his eyes wide and his solemn posture forgotten with a simple question. Harry saw his hands tremble and the snake painted around his neck gave an unintelligible hiss.

"What do you mean?" the portrait asked, as if it had not heard him correctly or, more precisely, as if he did not wish to believe those words.

Harry looked at him in bewilderment, assuming he had expressed himself adequately. A great holdover from his time as a Gryffindor was his tendency to be too direct about what he wanted at times. Still, he was always the type of person to keep his cards close to his chest. He knew when to be discreet.

"We are wizards" he made an ambiguous gesture. "We have Trolls, Goblins, and Cerberos; we travel on brooms and turn desks into pigs. You can't tell me that no one has really thought of curing death."

The portrait shot him an intrigued look, as if the enigma that made up his existence was suddenly taking on new layers; somewhat armed, but undone, broken, precise and too conscious.

"It exists" Corvinus said. His icy face did not let anything escape. "But it's not the kind of magic you want to get caught doing."

That would set your average Gryffindor back but, as illustrated above, Harry Potter was far from ordinary and even when he was dressed in gold and red, no one sensible would call him a lion.

"Dark like a Locomotor Mortis or 'Dark' like an Avada Kedavra?"

"More than any Unforgivable."

Harry gave a thoughtful sigh, considering his options. Then, with his eyes focused and deadly, he nodded.

"Tell me more".

Necromancy, it was called.

It was the art of giving movement to the immobile, of animating the inanimate, of life and death, of the words whispered on the left side of the Veil. It was a black science, not even dark, black; it finish coined by the blood wizards to define what crossed the limit of the depraved. The kind of magic that idiots like Malfoy or Parkinson would never dare to play, cowards as they were. There were no records of a Black ever going beyond a couple of spells, an Inferius for the most gifted and brave. Corvinus could not name a wizard who did not fear drowning in that Darkness.

Nobody except Gaunt themselves.

Not all, it should be clarified. Corvinus, for example, never strayed from the basics; he had no reason to. He was the type of person who rarely thought about the dead. In that sense, they were alike.

But Harry had a mission, something that could keep him entertained for years to come. Yes, maybe his motivations were twisted; not always being able to differentiate remorse from compassion.

Still, he knew this would be fun.

Chapter Text

Ron, sitting by the big Christmas Tree, wished he had something new for once.

He was five years old at the time and while he could list all the great gifts his siblings received in the past, he believed that he would never get one. Not Bill's huge books, not Charlie's gleaming broomstick, not Percy's fine, delicate robes.

Not Ginny's colorful, flexible, and expensive toys.

"For the good behavior" his parents said, but Ron was not naive.

Rather, he was a quiet, smooth-walking child; nothing special, nothing to write home about. He couldn't recall a time when he had made his mother raise her voice. Instead, he always did what he was told, because, despite wanting the attention and adoration of his family, he did not know how to obtain it. He was not as brave and creative as the twins, not as sensible and helpful as Percy, and not as sporty as Charlie.

Ron was the quiet one.

His little sister didn't deserve that cute little puppy stuffed animal, which she would surely fill with drool and vomit. She was noisy, always clinging to her mother's skirts like a parasite; still unable to go to the bathroom on his own. Spoiled for the simple fact of being born with a hole between her legs.

But, of course, the five-year-old wizard wasn't thinking about that yet, he wouldn't think about it for many years. Now, he only waited for the little wooden train, painted with cheap lead paints, that he had asked Santa Claus for.

No luck.

•••

Ronald Weasley, in Ronald Weasley's opinion, was nothing special.

Six children, easily three more than any family needed and being the sixth, he understood that he had hit the short end of the stick. Just another redhead with an anonymous face and ragged clothes, a silly smile and a quick temper. He was expected to do everything his brothers had done, but if he did, it wouldn't be anything special, because Percy could too, because Charlie would do so much better, because Bill had done it so many years ago that it wasn't even considered an achievement anymore. but the standard.

He loved his brothers, he was proud of them; which didn't mean he didn't hate being confined to their shadows.

He wanted to shine for his own medals.

He wanted to be the one who overshadowed everyone else.

He wanted glory at his feet.

He wanted the whole world at his command.

But he didn't think he could do it, so he would have to settle.

•••

Potter was a strange boy.

At first, he thought that they were both quite similar. Even before he knew his elusive name, Ron knew they would get along, since, since he first saw him, sitting in that lonely car, he felt connected to him.

He presented himself as not very talkative, withdrawn and, like young Weasley, extremely calm. Not many sentences were exchanged on that first trip, the two of them immersed in their own affairs. He didn't even find out his name until the Malfoy brat interrupted.

Something unknown, wild and warm swelled in his chest when, for what seemed to be the first time in his life, someone chose him, only him. Potter dismissed the idiot like he was a bloody bug buzzing in his ear. He told him, even politely, that he would rather be quietly next to Ron than shouting next to Malfoy.

At that moment, he thought that he had found something invaluable.

•••

Harry Potter was not the same when they were alone as when they were surrounded by people.

Privately, he was the same boy that Ron met on the train. Quiet, gentle, and cheerful, though subdued in some way; more interested in practicing spells than engaging in conversation. If he had to compare it to anything, his first choice would be a crystal clear stream, flowing through the rocks and grass in his backyard - warm and welcoming, calm and homey.

But everything changed when entering the Great Hall, arriving to class or crossing busy hallways.

His personality seemed to take a 180 degree turn, turning into a complete social butterfly. Always with a smile stretching his cheeks from side to side, he greeted everyone as if they were old friends whom he had not seen in years. Sweet and bubbly; even Slytherins couldn't go long without falling into his caramelized spiders web.

The perfect student.

The perfect companion.

The perfect Gryffindor.

But Ron knew it was little more than a mask, a covering that had only been removed in his presence and that of no one else.

He adored it.

Ron was fine with that, since he wasn't entirely honest with what was left of the world either.

•••

Harry and Hermione were his best friends.

It was, even months later, a strange thing to say. He had never had friends before. His siblings didn't count (as he didn't get along particularly well with either of them) and even the play dates that his mother had made in the past felt empty and without substance. The other children could have fun talking about their comfortable lives of only children, but Ron only died of boredom and restlessness every time he saw them open their mouths. They weren't the type of people he wanted to associate with. But, as the bossy Percy always said: "You have to make connections. Think about your future!"

They were the only ones for Ron, them and only them. There was no place for anyone else in their little fantasy world, in which they were, as Harry had called them, "The Golden Trio." When he was by their side, he felt unbeatable, he felt needed, he felt loved and that was a feeling that his family had never been able to grant him.

(Later, Hermione would confess that she felt the same way. Harry just looked at them with a genuine smile and a telltale glow in his eyes).

So, he also had to admit that he could be a little, too, jealous at times. But was that really that bad? He would dare to say, without hesitation, that this friendship was the greatest gift he had ever received. For Merlin, he adored them! It was normal for him to be suspicious of strangers who tried, in his opinion, to come between them.

(Especially his horrible brothers).

•••

He was completely covered, drenched from top to bottom. Snot-green paint dripped from the ends of his hair and the ends of his robe, creating sticky pools wherever he was going to cross. His new tie was ripped, almost split in half, and stained in Slytherin colors.

He wanted to cry.

Harry had tried different cleaning, disinfecting, sterilizing spells, even some advanced spells, like Aguamenti (although he only managed to make small drops of water come out of his wand, nothing more). When nothing worked, they had resigned themselves to having to do it the old-fashioned way: scrubbing wet wipes and wet notes, while squirting small jets of water at him with a glass that Harry had stolen from the kitchen.

"I'm going to kill them!" Ron exclaimed, trying, unsuccessfully, to rescue his clothes. It was one of only three he had; he couldn't afford to lose it.

"Idiots, right?" Harry asked, smiling without grace.

"More than that: bastards" he clenched his fists so much that crescent-shaped wounds formed on his palms. "Fucking family that touched me!"

Harry blinked, then raised his head and looked at him in surprise.

"Are they your family?"

Ron looked at him like he was a fool.

"Of course, don't you see? The red hair, the freckles, the eyes. They are my brothers."

"But then, they are not your family" he repeated. "They are your relatives."

"What is the difference?"

Harry pursed his lips, as if the simple question was a personal offense. Immediately, he stopped rubbing and sat on the floor, leaning his back against a wall and crossing his arms. For a second, two deep green eyes took on a deadly glow.

"Your family fills you with attention and adoration, warns and advises you. For your family, you are the center of the universe, you are the most special. There is no one equal to you and they do not expect it to exist. Your family is yours and nobody's more" he gritted his teeth. "Family is love; kinship is just obligation."

Ron flinched at his tone.

"T-they love me" he hesitated. His friend did not seem very convinced "We came from the same place, we grew up under the same roof, we have the same blood."

Harry stepped closer, his expression indecipherable and, not caring how dirty he was, he wrapped his arms around him. Ron felt the colors rise to his face, but when he was about to ask he to release him, he knew it.

Magic swirled around Harry, wild and volatile, uninhibited, tangible. He froze in fear as he caught the blasts of darkness that were interwoven with violence and despair. Not complete malice, as would be expected of a Dark Wizard, no. Those were vines of blackness that coiled in a gray inside, that suffocated his heart, that were evil and boredom, disgust, rottenness.

And then he smiled, hideous, crooked, and joyless. He was looking up at Ron, but he wasn't really looking at anything.

"Auntie always says that blood is sacred. She says that if you are not pure, you are nobody." A dry laugh tore his throat. His gaze framed, looking almost dreamy. "She cried every night, because she married a dirty Muggle why, why, why did her sister always have it better? Tell me if that makes any sense!"

"Harry, you-"

"But then she would get up in the morning, kiss him on the cheek and make him tea, it seemed like she loved him!"

"But-"

His gaze returned to stark white.

"One day, she told me that she would like to kill my cousin, because he was a 'dirty half-blood' and a Squib. Oh, but when he and Vernon came home from school it was all 'my Dudders, my little angel, the miracle of my life ', as if nothing had happened".

When they finally released him, Ron staggered into place, stunned. Every part of his body trembled inconsolably, sweat trickled down his forehead and terror chilled his bones. It took him too long to turn to Harry, but as he did, his mind raced again.

Suddenly, all the bad magic had disappeared, sprouting, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, in its brightest values. Calm, a muted and unchanging being, something almost ethereal. Happiness and welcome, affection, acceptance, flourishing, advice and guidance, home found amidst the mist.

Uncompromising love.

"She is my relative, not my family" he said, more serious than ever. Something immovable, stubborn and fierce burned in the windows of his soul.

"You and Hermione are my only family."

Ron blushed.

In that moment, he understood that he would have to feel angry, surprised, terrified, the feeling that crossed his mind should not be consolation. He already knew of this devastating danger, he had encountered it a long, long time ago.

Like the infesting joy with which he watched whenever a little Slytherin writhed in fear.

Like those nights when he returned from having wandered through the Forbidden Forest, always with snakes coiled around his calves and a glint of ecstasy in his eyes.

Like the echoes of madness that bounced off his gaze as he enchanted Malfoy with something painful and humiliating, something no first year should know.

Ron didn't know which was more terrifying, discovering he was walking next to a monster or knowing that he didn't care.

The next morning he received five new high-quality robes, a top-of-the-line potion set, and each schoolbook in its limited edition, all delivered by an owl who would later be told was his, too.

He called him Harry.

•••

He was dangerous, strange and dangerous.

His lips twisted into a too-pleasant smile, filled with such happiness and paralyzing falsehood. Ron knew how to fear it from the first moment it manifested itself.

(Because that smile meant demolished walls and beds set on fire; ripped tiles and troll entrails decorating the floor.)

Behind him was little more than a tangle of destruction, as if a hurricane had brewed and died in the sophomore boys' dorm. Harry's palms were bleeding and the flesh around his nails peeled off, as if he had tried to carve a rock with his bare hands.

(There are burnt marks where his bed should be - too small, sharp, and charred paw claws.)

Harry approached and Ron wanted to run away, because no accidental magic outbreak would be capable of this, no known spell would be capable of this, because there was only one something that would be strong enough, crazy enough.

But Harry nodded (laughed/screamed/begged/broke into delirious crying) and for what seemed like the first time in his life, he fell silent, an expectant silence, and it was what gave him peace. He had been honest with Ron, he had shown him the darkness that grew inside him, the demon that crawled through his gut, not knowing if his friend would accept it.

So Ron tensed every muscle and tendon, filled his bones with magic and forced himself to remain still, planted in place, waiting. His eyes embraced a stubborn, unshakable gleam that would one day be feared by the entire world. His breathing settled and his shoulders slumped. He could do this.

He looked up at Harry Potter and saw his best friend (the monster trapped in the cupboard/a force of destruction/the broken girl everyone knows/the man who killed her/the man who tried to escape death/the boy who made all the wrong decisions/the boy who had no choice).

He came over and hugged him, promised he would stay, because he didn't want his story to be another tragedy.

“Oh Albus, haven't you learned anything? No, obviously, because you are still raising children to destroy themselves and then surprising you when they do it.”

 —Gellert Grindelwald,

in 1985.

•••

He couldn't remember the exact moment when he knew this friendship would be paid for in blood.

Perhaps he felt it as a slight pang in his heart, seconds before opening the door of that compartment that September 1, 1991.

Perhaps he found out only while waiting in the anteroom of hell, when his thoughts wandered between unease and shame, because he was more concerned with the boy he shared a bedroom with than the girl with whom he had shared a womb.

He had gone too far, he had lost the north. Time could never be recovered.

Then Harry came out of that deep well, full of red and with sweet lies on his lips. Stories he never told, because even though he could fool the world, he couldn't fool Ron, nor did he want to.

Anyone would see this as a sincere confession, as a form of atonement even. But even if he was accused of having a twisted vision, he knew better: it was the preamble to his true act, the beginning of his story of light and shadows.

Because Harry Potter always made things better, even if not everyone shared his meaning of "better."

It was there that he saw it clearest ever. When he saw guilt and concern in the other wizard's gaze, but nothing broken. When, sitting on the edge of his bed, that apparent courage turned into a sick determination. Like a child who had just crushed a canary, with pity, sadness, but without empathy, without understanding.

No fix. Not for Harry, not for Ginny, not for himself.

And he smiled, what Ron should have wanted, that smile filling his heart and boiling in his gut. The warmth, the protection, the one that told her that none of this was his fault, that it wasn't anyone's burden. As if Ginny was just a small setback. Because Ron was going to ignore and forget, to laugh and shrug, to say that everything was fine, that nothing was lost.

"Will you help me, Ron?"

He killed her.

"We will bring her back!"

Could he?

It would be a betrayal. His parents and siblings would absolutely hate him, if they didn't already, since Ron had known for days and kept his lips sealed, because something inside him was twisting at the thought of betray Harry.

He should do it right and tell the masters, he should have done it when the Aurors questioned him, he should have confessed. Heartbroken and crying, he would have to do what was right.

For his parents, for his brothers, for his family.

(But you haven't called them that in years.)

"Imagine it! We will be brilliant, influential and powerful; we will be the first to heal death!"

It wouldn't be so bad, right? They say that you only measure the true value of something when it has already been taken from you. So if Ginny left and then came back, they would not only be relieved and joyful, but they would love her like never before, which in turn would make her happier than ever.

It was that instant, although he did not know it, that he would burn this world and build on its ashes.

"And our names would be forever in the history books."

Harry's smile only got bigger.

"That's the spirit, Ron!" Harry exclaimed, taking his friend by the arm. "Get out of that bed and dance with me!"

Ron just tightened his grip, fearing it would disappear.

He would stay, follow him to the end of the world, even if it destroyed him.

Chapter Text

"It's just a trick."

After those words, Harry shrugged, as if that somehow strengthened his statement.

It was insignificant, like a small fairground display. It didn't even work out at first: the scrolls caught fire in the middle of the journey, that is if they moved at all. But over time he had mastered it, always in small steps. Since, more than any other type of magic, it was somewhat exhausting.

"Not many can perform this famous 'trick', as you call it."

"You could?" Harry asked, turning to the portrait. From what he had read in some historical tomes, Professor Dumbledore and a few others had been capable of similar feats. Although it seemed to be less common in recent centuries.

"I was too old when I first tried: fifteen." Corvinus shook his head, looking almost nostalgic. "Unless you start out as a child, you will never get the hang of it."

Harry nodded silently, then went back to his investigation. He really wasn't as interested in the subject as everyone could hope. After all, he only used it to make life easier for himself, attracting distant things or lighting candle wicks when, like now, he needed to study in the dark.

Corvinus had guided him to this small hiding place in the bowels of the school, which had once been used as an experimentation room for Dark Wizards. Apparently, even in ancient times there was strong discrimination towards practitioners of these Arts, which is why a Slytherin Head, a Black, had built this place as a sanctuary for his students. Centuries after his death, the room had been lost, the password long forgotten. It was a true fortune that, like all the other guarded entrances to the castle, this one also reacted to Parseltongue.

During the reforms that had taken place in Hogwarts around the XVIII century, during Corvinus' tenure as Headmaster, it was discovered while the infrastructure of the Dungeons was being reviewed. The Gaunt had covered it all up, he said, so that the general public would think it was one of Slytherin's small dueling halls, as many had been discovered in the past, and whose only interest was merely historical.

"Having such a room would only invite the children to fight fierce duels, to hurt themselves, to kill themselves," were the words with which he got the Board of Governors, full of docile sheep and too concerned about their own reputation, to agree to render the room useless forever without even having glanced at it to see if it really was what the Headmaster claimed to have seen.

But the key never changed since Corvinus. "Absolute" was, in Parseltongue. All the books, compendia, and tracts that had rested in the Chamber longer than the Gaunt name had existed were moved there for their protection. Because all of Corvinus' siblings knew of Slytherin's lair, but only their descendants would know the true genius of their lineage.

Ancient and sinister, of rot, of dust and of death, were the words with which Harry would describe the environment. In some sick way, he was charming and magnificent and… terrible.

Shadows enveloped him, cradled him like an old friend, and suddenly he was that terrified and hungry child again, unstable. Again, the monster that slept in the cupboard, the one who broke windows, set fire to rugs, and talked to snakes. Again, the bitter boy who hurt Muggles with magic, who hung skinned cats on the boys 'porches, who hid snakes in the girls' backpacks.

Again, the one who died twice, the one who died was born; the boy who never lived.

The chair behind him caught fire.

He turned around and whispered a hurried "Anapnéei", waving his wand carelessly. As quickly as they had been conceived, the flames withered, suffocated and died. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, repaired the chair and dropped into it, taking in his surroundings again.

There were shadowy passages and looms, spun webs of spiders dead for many centuries; of gloomy silence and suffocating stillness. Books of bad teachings clustered one after another, flooding the shelves with their heavy presences.

Not everything was Dark Magic, it was one of the first things he learned. While most of the material was questionable, there were also several volumes relating concepts far removed from the Dark. Mental Arts, for example, were the most neutral thing that could exist and Biomancy was Light Magic. It was curious how Blood Magic, one of the darkest types in existence, was so closely related to Biomancy, to the point that many parts of it were considered legal.

"It's a shame I didn't have any talent for this" he heard Corvinus sigh, looking at the Necromancy book. "My mother was a healer, you know? A Bones, to top it all off. If it weren't for my Aunt Equidna, I wouldn't have been able to cast a hex properly."

Harry felt something inside him shudder.

"I keep having those dreams you know?"

"Dreams?" Corvinus asked. Harry thought he had already told him about them, but that was probably from a talk that never happened.

"I don't see anything, but I hear my aunt screaming like she's being torn in two. She stops for a moment; a baby cries, then comes back louder." He shook his head, smiling as if he had just told a joke. "It's weird and persistent, too persistent."

The portrait didn't have an answer for that; Harry hadn't expected it anyway. Leaning over the desk, he resumed his reading.

•••

How pathetic was it that, even in dreams, he was unable to escape from them?

He was paralyzed, again. He felt nothing, nothing at all; it was like being dead, dead but still conscious. Without pulse or breath, pale as a ghost, cold as a corpse. Suddenly, a memory came to his mind of a time far away, when his aunt found him in this state and, without a hint of doubt, buried him alive.

Not a coffin! Alone, in the little back garden, just dirt and moisture ann asphyxia. He felt the mass go down his throat: sand, grime, and he still couldn't move.

His magic was unleashed at that moment. He picked up the dirt, cut between the roots and Harry emerged from the grave like a zombie from the bad 80s movies!

In the end, it was a fun memory.

(Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott did not think the same when Harry told them the anecdote, after his loud and creepy laughter woke them up in the middle of the night.)

(They also didn't appreciate that their bedroom was completely devastated by a sudden surge of accidental magic, but they were just being whiny kids; they would get used to it by now.)

•••

Ἄτη or 'Ate', as articulated in more familiar languages, was the first. But it was not at all, because that word was only the interpretation that those books aimed at non-speakers gave, trying to condense a meaning too deep into something so simple and superfluous as to leave, without any difficulty, the lips of anyone wizard or muggle. The true pronunciation was a low hiss rising from the throat, pecking around the tongue and dying on the tip of the palate. Hardly audible, but full of so many meanings that it would be impossible to know them all, even by the young wizard who could feel each one, understand them at a primordial, structural, natural level.

The author's assessment was, although on a vain and simplistic level, correct. Ate was the Ruin, the Misfortune, the Dire Fate. Perhaps as a mockery charged with cynicism, perhaps as some kind of twisted honor, but Ate was and always would be, the rune that would open the creation of an Inferius.

Harry took the dagger and began to carve, as evidence, into a small piece of wood. He did not have many bones, only those that had remained from decades past. He knew that at some point he would have to sacrifice animals for his experiments, but he would not dare until the weeks passed, the dust settled and people took their eyes off him.

Visually, Ate was a snake hatching out of the shell. Sudden misfortune, unleashing itself on the earth in the form of a small creature with big eyes and soft scales. Harmless, many would say, and would pay dearly for her impertinence, for the Nefarious One would attack without a trace of scruples, tearing the minds and souls of her victims with its deadly poison.

Ate was death seen from the outside, from the eyes of those who attended the wakes, of those who saw life slip from the eyes of a loved one from one moment to the next. A shame, a tragedy, a deep and rooted fear that had its home in the soul of every human being. It took a necromancer of great wisdom to evade Ate, because it would always be easier to see death as an avoidable evil than as the natural course of things. Ate was firmly torn at the ankles of each Inferius, like unnatural creatures born out of sheer denial.

Harry dropped the knife, sighing wearily. The rune, carved in multiple places, ended with a perfect last try, but he didn't feel resolved at all. Worse still, he had slept so little that he was beginning to imagine things. His mind shifted and shifted with each passing second between the dusty desk and the fearsome curtain of darkness, until at one point he had mistaken the shadows cast by the bookshelves for humanoid silhouettes. It was there that he decided to stop, cover himself with his invisibility cloak and leave the place.

At first she had considered going to sleep and finishing his research the next day, but then, due to the sun already rising, he realized that it was already the next day and he had class in a few hours.

So he simply snuck into the Common Room and grabbed a Wide-Eyed Potion from one of the shelves. He would have made it himself, but if he didn't trust his ability to write a letter in this state, he would have less confidence in his ability to grind snake fangs, and to top it off, he had no billywig stingers left in his potion kit.

He returned to his new lair and spent the rest of the morning working.

Mother would say that he is, in his best days, an abomination born out of sheer pain and self-contempt; at worst, the bastard son of a wizard and a hurricane. And yes, he was neurotic, dangerous and self-destructive at times, but mostly he was skittish, elusive and confused. "

—Dudley Dursley.