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The Hospital Wing had never felt quite so crowded, Harry reflected as he watched his friends arrange themselves around his bed like some sort of informal war council. Sebastian had claimed the chair closest to Harry's right side, while Hermione perched on the edge of the visitor's chair with a stack of books that suggested she'd been doing research. Daphne stood near the foot of the bed with her usual composed elegance, though Harry could see the genuine concern in her blue eyes. Susan bounced slightly on her toes beside the window, and Neville lingered near the door as if he wasn't entirely sure he belonged but was too curious to leave.
Anna sat in a conjured chair that Sebastian had probably sweet-talked some passing professor into providing, the Aqualis crystal Harry had given her glowing softly at her throat.
The sight of them all together made something warm and complicated settle in Harry's chest. After four years of living with the Tonks family, he'd grown accustomed to having people who cared about him, but seeing his friends gathered like this drove home just how much his world had expanded since that first train ride to Hogwarts.
Of course, leave it to Sebastian to ruin the touching moment.
"So," his dormmate said with the sort of grin that had gotten them both into trouble on more than one occasion, "let me see if I've got the pattern right. First year: possessed professor trying to steal a magical artifact. Second year: thousand-year-old basilisk controlled by a memory of You-Know-Who. I'm starting to think Hogwarts might have a Harry Potter problem."
"I prefer to think Hogwarts has a Dark Lord problem," Harry replied dryly. "I'm just the poor sod who keeps getting caught in the middle of it."
"Oh, absolutely," Sebastian agreed with mock seriousness. "You're completely innocent. Just a coincidence that these things keep happening around you." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "So what do you think it'll be next year? Dragon in the astronomy tower? Demon in the dungeons? Maybe a nice, traditional vampire in the library?"
"Don't give the castle ideas," Anna said with a fond smile for her brother's dramatics. "Some of us would prefer a quiet year of normal schoolwork."
"Where's the fun in that?" Sebastian protested. "Besides, someone has to keep our resident hero properly entertained. Can't have him getting bored and starting to craft talismans for the fun of it."
Harry snorted. "I'll have you know my talisman work is entirely practical and profit-driven, thank you very much."
"Right," Hermione interrupted, finally looking up from what appeared to be a thick volume on magical creature law. "Speaking of practicality, you'll be pleased to know that Gilderoy Lockhart has been officially dismissed from his position."
That got Harry's attention. "Already? It's only been two days."
"Apparently, Aunt Amelia moved very quickly once she had an excuse," Susan said with obvious satisfaction. "She's been wanting to check him for a long time, and your stunt with the talisman gave her the opening she needed."
"They're going through all his supposed heroic deeds," Hermione continued, her voice taking on the particular tone she used when discussing academic fraud. "Cross-referencing his books with official records. It's quite fascinating from a legal perspective, actually—"
"The man's completely finished," Daphne said with the sort of cool satisfaction that reminded Harry why he'd never wanted to make an enemy of her. "Word is he's been forbidden from leaving the country while the investigation continues."
"Good," Harry said simply. "The man was a menace to student safety. Though I have to admit, there's a part of me that's almost disappointed. I was looking forward to a full year of making his life miserable through creative practical applications of magical theory."
Sebastian's grin turned positively wicked. "Don't worry. I'm sure we can find other targets for your educational demonstrations."
Probably best not to encourage that line of thinking, Harry decided. Sebastian's definition of 'educational' tended to involve a suspicious amount of property damage.
"Speaking of targets," Daphne said, her voice taking on a more serious tone, "you should know that Slytherin House is... divided about recent events."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Divided how?"
"Some of the older students are trying to downplay what you did," she explained. "Claiming it was luck, or Dumbledore's doing, or some combination of the two. They're not comfortable with the idea that a second-year could accomplish something so significant."
"And the others?"
Daphne's smile was sharp as a blade. "The others are saying that Harry Potter is a Slytherin, and it's about time the rest of the school remembered what that means. Astoria's been particularly vocal on that front."
The pride in her voice when she mentioned her sister was unmistakable. Harry made a mental note to thank Astoria properly when he saw her next. Having allies in his own House was invaluable, especially when those allies came with the Greengrass family's political connections.
"You know," Susan said with a grin that reminded Harry strongly of her aunt, "you're quite the headache for Aunt Amelia. She's been fielding inquiries from the Ministry, the Prophet, and at least three foreign magical governments since yesterday."
"Foreign governments?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"The Italian Ministry is particularly interested in confirming that their potential business partner is the same Harry Potter who just defeated a basilisk," Susan said, pulling a folded newspaper from her robes. "Though I think you'll find this more immediately concerning."
She held out what was unmistakably a copy of the Daily Prophet, despite the fact that it was still morning and the paper shouldn't have been delivered yet.
"Where did you get that?" Hermione asked, looking puzzled. "The Prophet doesn't come out until—"
"Tomorrow," Susan finished cheerfully. "This is tomorrow's edition. Aunt Amelia sometimes gets advance copies when there are major stories that might affect Ministry business."
Harry accepted the paper with a growing sense of dread. The headline was exactly as dramatic as he'd feared: "BOY-WHO-LIVED SLAYS ANCIENT BASILISK IN HEROIC RESCUE."
He skimmed the article quickly, his expression growing increasingly pained. The basic facts were there—three students petrified, Ginny Weasley taken into the Chamber, Harry's successful rescue mission—but the details had been... creatively interpreted.
"A basilisk," Harry read aloud with disgust. "Defeated in single combat using the legendary Sword of Gryffindor, with assistance from Headmaster Dumbledore's phoenix familiar. The young hero, showing courage beyond his years, descended into the ancient Chamber of Secrets to—" He looked up at his friends with a grimace. "They make it sound like some sort of medieval romance."
At least they hadn't mentioned Tom Riddle or the diary. Dumbledore had clearly been thorough in controlling that particular piece of information. Harry understood the reasoning—admitting that a memory of Voldemort had been loose in the school would cause a panic that would probably shut down Hogwarts permanently, and Dumbledore had discussed with Harry about the public version of the event, making sure Itisa is not part of it, and Harry had agreed with it, as far as everyone was aware. Harry Potter killed the basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor.
"Pulled the sword of Gryffindor from the sorting hat. Can't very well tell them the truth." Harry mumbled under his breath.
That I talked the basilisk into surrendering while my Nundu provided tactical support, he added silently. The magical world would have collective apoplexy if they knew the real story.
"The truth being?" Neville asked quietly, he seemed to have heard Harry's words.
Harry looked at him sharply. There was something in Neville's voice—not suspicion exactly, but a sort of careful probing that suggested he was asking more than just idle curiosity.
"The truth being that I got very lucky and had help from... someone who knew what they were doing," Harry said carefully. It wasn't technically a lie. Itisa definitely knew what she was doing, even if that knowledge came from being an apex predator rather than formal training.
"But weren't you terrified?" Neville pressed. "Facing something like that, knowing you could die—how did you even move? How did you find the courage to keep going?"
The intensity in Neville's voice made Harry study his face more carefully. This wasn't academic curiosity. This was personal.
Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking about how to answer. He could give Neville some meaningless platitude about Gryffindor bravery despite being from Slytherin, but that wouldn't help whatever was driving these questions.
"You know what the difference between fear and bravery really is?" Harry said finally. "Fear is what you feel when you understand the danger. Bravery is what you do despite feeling it. They're not opposites—they're partners. You can't have real courage without first acknowledging that you're afraid."
Neville's eyes widened slightly, and Harry could see the words hitting home.
"I was terrified down in that Chamber," Harry continued. "Terrified for Ginny, terrified for myself, terrified that I'd gotten in over my head and everyone would pay the price for my arrogance. But being afraid didn't make me weak—it made me careful. It made me think. It made me remember that other people were counting on me."
"So... courage isn't about not being scared?" Neville asked.
"Courage is about being scared and doing what needs to be done anyway," Harry said firmly. "Anyone who claims they weren't afraid in a life-or-death situation is either lying or too stupid to understand the danger they were in."
The Hospital Wing fell quiet for a moment as his words settled. Harry could see something shifting in Neville's expression—not confidence exactly, but maybe the beginning of it.
Sebastian broke the silence with his characteristic irreverence. "Very inspirational, Harry. I'm sure that'll look great when they inevitably write books about your adventures. 'The Philosophical Musings of Harry Potter: Volume Two.'"
"There'd better not be any books," Harry said with genuine alarm. "I'm twelve. The last thing I need is someone writing dramatic accounts of my school years."
"Too late," Susan said cheerfully, brandishing the Prophet. "You're front-page news again."
Harry groaned and let his head fall back against his pillows. "I should have just stayed in bed and let someone else handle the whole basilisk situation."
"Right," Hermione said dryly. "Because leaving an eleven-year-old girl to die was definitely a viable option."
"Fair point," Harry conceded. "But next time there's an ancient monster in the school, I'm delegating. Let someone else be the hero for once."
"Next time?" Sebastian asked with obvious delight. "So you admit there's going to be a next time?"
"With my luck? Absolutely."
As his friends dissolved into laughter around him, Harry reflected that despite the newspaper headlines and the political complications and the lingering exhaustion in his bones, this wasn't such a bad way to recover from saving the school.
Even if he was probably going to regret agreeing to whatever the twins were planning.
Harry had barely finished digesting the implications of tomorrow's Prophet headline when a familiar synchronized whistle echoed from the Hospital Wing's entrance. He looked up to see Fred and George Weasley approaching his bed with the sort of carefully casual stride that immediately put him on alert.
Oh no, Harry thought, recognizing the particular gleam in their identical eyes. This is either going to be brilliant or catastrophic. Possibly both.
"Harry Potter," Fred said with theatrical solemnity, pulling up a chair.
"Slayer of serpents," George added, claiming the chair on the opposite side, "defeater of dark professors."
"We come bearing an opportunity," Fred continued.
"A chance for glory," George finished.
Harry glanced around the Hospital Wing, noting that his other friends had conveniently found reasons to be elsewhere after the twins' arrival. Even Madam Pomfrey seemed to have developed urgent business in her office.
Cowards, Harry thought with amusement. Though probably the smart kind of cowards.
"Let me guess," Harry said dryly. "This opportunity involves something that will either get me expelled or make me a legend. Knowing you two, probably both."
The twins exchanged one of their wordless communications—a language of raised eyebrows and slight head tilts that Harry had never quite figured out how to decode.
"Well," Fred said slowly, "legend is definitely on the table."
"Expulsion... less likely," George added. "We've done the calculations."
"You've done calculations?" Harry asked, genuinely impressed despite himself. "This must be serious."
From her perch on the windowsill, Hedwig let out a low, warning hoot. The sound carried the unmistakable tone of a Storm Bird expressing deep skepticism about the intelligence of the conversation's direction.
Itisa, curled on Harry's blanket, opened one golden eye and fixed it on the twins with the sort of stare that had once made a possessed professor reconsider his life choices. Her tail twitched once—a clear sign of impending judgment.
Even my familiars think this is a bad idea, Harry noted. Which means it's probably going to be spectacular.
"The thing is," Fred said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "tomorrow marks a very special occasion."
"The departure of one Gilderoy Lockhart," George explained. "Disgraced, discredited, and disgracefully dismissed."
"And such an occasion," Fred continued, "deserves a proper send-off."
"A celebration, if you will."
"A tribute to his many... contributions to Hogwarts education."
Harry felt his lips twitch upward despite his better judgment. "What exactly are you proposing?"
The twins' grins turned absolutely wicked.
"Every suit of armor in the castle," Fred said with the sort of reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies, "has been carefully prepared."
"Enchanted, you might say," George added.
"With specially composed musical arrangements."
"Celebrating the illustrious career of Professor Lockhart."
"And when he makes his grand exit tomorrow morning..."
"They'll provide a rousing chorus."
Harry blinked. "You've enchanted every suit of armor in Hogwarts to sing mocking songs about Lockhart?"
"Not just the armor," Fred said proudly.
"Peeves volunteered for lead vocals," George explained. "Apparently, he's been composing verses about Lockhart's hair care routine for weeks."
"We may have mentioned that participating would annoy Filch," Fred added with false innocence.
Hedwig hooted again, more emphatically this time. The sound clearly conveyed her opinion of wizards who thought antagonizing poltergeists was a sound recreational activity.
Itisa's other eye opened, and she fixed Harry with the sort of look that managed to convey both exasperation and resigned affection. Her expression seemed to say, You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?
She knows me too well, Harry thought.
"So," George said, "the question becomes: are you interested in being part of Hogwarts history?"
"The Great Lockhart Farewell of Ninety-Two," Fred added dramatically.
Harry considered this. On one hand, he was still technically recovering from magical exhaustion and probably shouldn't be involving himself in elaborate pranks. On the other hand, Lockhart had spent months endangering students with his incompetence, and the idea of giving him a memorable send-off had a certain poetic justice to it.
Plus, Harry admitted to himself, it's going to happen whether I'm involved or not. I might as well make sure it's done properly.
"What exactly would my role be?" Harry asked, trying to sound reluctant.
The twins exchanged another one of their silent conversations.
"Well," Fred said slowly, "we were thinking you might want to contribute some... personal touches."
"Creative input," George agreed. "From someone who's actually experienced Lockhart's teaching firsthand."
"And who has a certain reputation for innovative magical applications," Fred added with a meaningful look.
Harry felt his Slytherin instincts engage. If he was going to be part of this, he might as well ensure it was memorable.
"I could modify the enchantments," Harry said thoughtfully, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Add some visual elements to complement the musical ones. Maybe some color-changing effects timed to the verses..."
"Now you're thinking like a proper prankster," George said approvingly.
"And perhaps," Harry continued, warming to the theme, "we could arrange for his precious mirrors to provide backup harmonies?"
The twins stared at him with something approaching awe.
"Harry Potter," Fred said reverently, "you magnificent bastard."
"We knew there was a reason we liked you," George added.
Hedwig buried her head under her wing with a sound that might have been a sigh. Itisa simply closed her eyes and settled more firmly on Harry's lap, apparently resigned to her human's questionable decision-making.
"Count me in," Harry said firmly. "But we do this properly. No half-measures, no amateur hour. If we're going to humiliate Lockhart, we do it with style."
"Naturally," Fred agreed.
"We wouldn't dream of anything less," George added.
"Though," Harry said with a thoughtful expression, "we should probably coordinate with Peeves. Make sure our additions complement his performance rather than competing with it."
"Already arranged," the twins said in unison.
"Meeting tonight at midnight," Fred explained.
"Empty classroom on the third floor," George added.
"Bring your wand and your creative genius," Fred said.
"And maybe some of those color-changing powders you used on his robes last year," George suggested hopefully.
Harry grinned. "I think I can manage that."
As the twins departed with identical expressions of gleeful anticipation, Harry settled back against his pillows and contemplated the immediate future.
Tomorrow, he reflected, is going to be absolutely spectacular.
From the windowsill, Hedwig let out one more disapproving hoot.
Or, Harry amended, noting his Storm Bird's pessimism, it's going to be spectacularly disastrous.
Either way, it's definitely going to be memorable.
Tomorrow
The morning began innocuously enough. Students filed into the Great Hall for breakfast with their usual mixture of sleepiness and anticipation for the day ahead. The only sign that anything unusual was afoot was the excitement radiating from the Gryffindor table, where Fred and George Weasley sat with the sort of innocent expressions that would have made even the most trusting professor suspicious.
At the Slytherin table, Harry Potter pushed his eggs around his plate while trying to look appropriately invalided. Madam Pomfrey had reluctantly allowed him to attend meals, but with strict instructions to return to the Hospital Wing immediately afterward. Sebastian Sallow sat beside him.
"Any moment now," Sebastian murmured under his breath.
"Patience," Harry replied quietly, though his own eyes were fixed on the staff table where Professor Lockhart sat in blissful ignorance, he gestured animatedly to a distinctly uninterested Professor Garlick.
The first note rang out at precisely eight-thirty.
"Oh, Gilderoy, oh what a joy!" sang the armor lining the Grand Staircase, their voices harmonizing in perfect pitch. "With your hair so bright and your smile so coy!"
From the corridor leading to the Great Hall, another chorus joined in: "You claimed you fought a banshee's wail, but we suspect that's quite a tale!"
Then Peeves materialized above the Hufflepuff table, his translucent form shimmering with glee as he took up the lead vocals:
"Oh, gather 'round, ye students all, and hear a tale most sad,
Of golden hair and pearly teeth, and teaching rather bad..."
The second verse was picked up by the armor lining the Great Hall's walls, their hollow voices creating an surprisingly harmonious chorus.
"He said he saved a village from a vampire's bite,But ran away when faced with a real fight!Oh Lockhart, Lockhart, golden-haired fraud,Your teaching skills have left us all awed—aw-fully disappointed!"
By the third line, every piece of medieval metalwork in the castle had joined the performance.
Professor Lockhart's fork froze halfway to his mouth, a piece of kippers dangling precariously as the reality of the situation dawned on him.
"He claimed he fought a banshee fierce, and lived to tell the tale,
But witnesses have testified his memory spells did fail..."
"Oh my," Professor Flitwick said faintly, though his eyes were twinkling with obvious amusement.
Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together in what might have been disapproval, but the corners of her mouth were definitely twitching upward. "Well," she said primly, "at least this time the perpetrators won't be wearing Slytherin robes and looking like overgrown bats, unlike some people."
Her pointed look toward Professor Snape was met with a withering glare, though even Snape seemed more resigned than truly angry.
"Minerva," Professor Dumbledore said mildly, his blue eyes absolutely twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, "I believe we may be witnessing a rather... creative form of student expression."
"His books are full of fairy tales, his courage made of air,
The only thing authentic is his bouncing golden hair!"
The students were no longer even pretending to eat. The Gryffindors were cheering openly, the Ravenclaws were taking notes on the magical coordination required for such a feat, and even the usually reserved Hufflepuffs were giggling behind their hands.
At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass was actually applauding. "Brilliant," she murmured appreciatively. "Absolutely brilliant execution."
Professor Lockhart had gone rather pale beneath his perpetual tan. He looked around the Great Hall with the expression of a man realizing that his carefully constructed facade was crumbling in the most public way possible.
"So farewell, Gil, with your teeth so white,May your next adventure treat you right!But remember this as you depart,True heroes come from a brave heart!"
Peeves descended for his grand finale, twirling through the air with flourishes that would have made a professional performer jealous:
"So here's farewell to Gilderoy, may all his curls stay bright,
But keep your memories to yourself, and check your facts—goodnight!"
The final chorus was accompanied by a spectacular light show—every mirror in the Great Hall (and Lockhart had insisted on quite a few) began flashing in brilliant colors timed perfectly to the music. Purple and gold sparks cascaded from the enchanted ceiling, while the armor pieces took their final bows with surprising grace for inanimate objects.
When the last note faded, the Great Hall erupted in thunderous applause.
"Well," Dumbledore said into the sudden silence, rising from his chair with perfect composure, "that was certainly... educational. Professor Lockhart, I believe you have a carriage waiting?"
Lockhart stumbled to his feet, his usual smile nowhere to be seen. His departure from the staff table was notably lacking in his typical theatrical flair—more of a hurried shuffle than a grand exit.
As he passed the Gryffindor table, Fred Weasley called out cheerfully, "Safe travels, Professor! Don't forget to duck if you hear any roosters!"
"And do try to remember which end of the wand is which!" George added helpfully.
Professor Lockhart's pace quickened considerably.
The student body watched as their former Defense professor made his way toward the entrance hall, where the suits of armor had arranged themselves into a sort of honor guard. Each piece of metalwork offered a solemn salute as he passed, though the effect was somewhat undermined by Peeves floating overhead and humming the melody under his breath.
"You know," Hermione Granger said thoughtfully from the Gryffindor table, "I have to admit that was rather cathartic. Even if it was completely inappropriate."
"Sometimes," Neville Longbottom replied quietly, "inappropriate is exactly what's needed."
As the students began to file out for their first classes of the day, the conversation buzzed with excitement and speculation. The Great Lockhart Farewell, as it would come to be known, had already achieved legendary status.
"Think they'll put up a plaque?" Susan Bones asked cheerfully as she passed the Slytherin table.
"They should," Sebastian replied with satisfaction. "This definitely qualifies as a historical moment."
Anna Sallow, looking healthier than she had in months, smiled at her brother's obvious pride. "Just promise me next time you'll warn me before you help orchestrate a castle-wide musical number. I nearly dropped my crystal when the armor started singing."
At the staff table, Dumbledore was quietly finishing his porridge while the other professors engaged in what appeared to be a spirited discussion about appropriate disciplinary measures.
"Of course," he said to no one in particular, "one must admire the technical skill involved in coordinating so many separate enchantments. Quite remarkable magical achievement, really."
Professor McGonagall looked at him sharply. "Albus, you're not seriously considering adding musical armor coordination to the curriculum?"
"Oh no, Minerva," Dumbledore replied with perfect innocence. "Though I confess I'm curious about the practical applications. Imagine the possibilities for inter-house cooperation..."
As the Great Hall finally emptied, Peeves remained floating near the enchanted ceiling, occasionally humming bits of his composition and looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
The suits of armor had returned to their normal positions, but several students swore they could see satisfied expressions on their metallic faces.
And in the entrance hall, a small brass plaque appeared overnight, reading simply: "In commemoration of creative student expression and the pursuit of educational excellence. May all future farewells be so memorable."
It was unsigned, but the handwriting looked suspiciously familiar to anyone who'd seen Professor Dumbledore's correspondence.
Two Days Later
Harry was beginning to think that the Hospital Wing might actually be a decent place to spend a few quiet days when Sebastian burst through the doors like a man fleeing a pack of Grindylows.
"Harry!" his dormmate called out. "We have a problem. A big, Ministry-sized problem."
So much for quiet recovery, Harry thought, setting aside the Transfiguration essay he'd been pretending to work on. The truth was, even writing for more than a few minutes made his hands shake from the lingering magical exhaustion—a rather inconvenient side effect of helping the twins with their elaborate prank two days ago.
Should have listened to Madam Pomfrey about complete rest, he reflected ruefully. But watching Lockhart's humiliation was absolutely worth a few extra days of recovery.
"What kind of problem?" Harry asked, though Sebastian's expression already suggested he wasn't going to like the answer.
"The kind that wears a bowler hat and thinks the entire wizarding world belongs to him," Sebastian said grimly. "Minister Fudge is here, Harry. Right now. And according to my uncle's emergency owl, he's planning to claim the basilisk for the Ministry."
The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest. He shot upright in bed, before his body reminded him rather forcefully that sudden movements were still a spectacularly bad idea.
The Hospital Wing tilted sideways as his overtaxed magical core protested the abrupt change in position. Harry's legs, still weak from days of bed rest and magical depletion, simply gave out beneath him as he tried to stand.
He would have crashed ignominiously to the floor if Sebastian hadn't lunged forward with Seeker reflexes, catching him under the arms and hauling him back upright.
"Steady there, hero," Sebastian said. "I know you're eager to defend your conquest, but face-planting on the Hospital Wing floor probably isn't the best way to demonstrate your capabilities to the Minister."
"I'm fine," Harry insisted, even as he leaned heavily on Sebastian's steadying grip. "Just moved too fast."
From her chair beside his bed, Nymphadora looked up from her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook with an expression that clearly conveyed her opinion of his definition of 'fine.'
"Harry," she said with the sort of patient tone usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to particularly slow first-years, "you can barely stand without assistance. Maybe now isn't the best time to go toe-to-toe with the Minister of Magic."
"Besides," she continued, closing her book with a decisive snap, "Fudge can't claim anything. Right of Conquest is ancient law—older than the Ministry itself. You defeated the basilisk in single combat, which makes everything it possessed legally yours. Even Fudge isn't stupid enough to challenge precedent that established."
"You're assuming Fudge cares about legal precedent when there's a fortune in basilisk materials at stake," Harry said grimly. "A thousand-year-old basilisk represents enough valuable components to fund the Ministry's operations for a decade."
Sebastian's expression grew troubled. "My uncle mentioned something about that in his letter. Apparently, there's been talk in the Ministry about 'nationalizing dangerous magical resources' and ensuring they don't fall into 'inappropriate hands.'"
"Inappropriate hands," Harry repeated with bitter amusement. "Meaning anyone who isn't a Ministry official looking to line their own pockets."
From her perch on the windowsill, Hedwig let out a sharp cry that perfectly conveyed her opinion of Ministry officials and their grasping tendencies. The Storm Bird's golden eyes flashed with indignation, and Harry could practically feel her desire to throw thunderbolts at a few politicians on his behalf.
Itisa, curled on his abandoned pillow, opened one eye and fixed it on Sebastian with the sort of measuring stare that suggested she was calculating exactly how much effort it would take to remove any threats to her human's property. Her tail twitched once—a sign that she was seriously considering more direct solutions to the problem.
Easy, beautiful, Harry thought, reaching out to stroke behind her ears. Let's try diplomacy first. We can always resort to creative problem-solving later.
"Right," Harry said, pushing himself fully upright despite the way the room seemed to sway slightly around the edges. "If Fudge wants to play politics with my legally acquired property, then we're going to have this conversation properly."
"Harry," Nymphadora said warningly, "Madam Pomfrey specifically said four more days of bed rest. Your magical core is still stabilizing from the exhaustion, and using magic for the prank two days ago didn't exactly help matters."
She's right, Harry admitted to himself. But some things are more important than following medical advice.
"My magical core will have to stabilize while I'm protecting my business interests," Harry replied firmly. "I'm not letting Fudge steal a fortune in basilisk materials just because I'm temporarily indisposed."
Sebastian studied Harry's face for a moment, then nodded.
"All right," Sebastian said simply. "But you're not doing this alone. And you're definitely not walking all the way to Dumbledore's office without support."
"I can walk perfectly well," Harry protested, then immediately undermined his argument by swaying slightly as he took a step forward.
"Right," Nymphadora said dryly, rising from her chair and moving to Harry's other side. "And I'm secretly a Veela. Come on, you stubborn git. Let's go save your basilisk before Fudge finds a way to justify grand theft through creative legislation."
Harry opened his mouth to argue further, but the determined expressions on his friends' faces made it clear that resistance was futile. Besides, he reflected, having backup when facing down the Minister of Magic was probably tactically sound anyway.
"Fine," he said with as much dignity as he could manage while leaning on Sebastian for support. "But I'm handling the negotiations. Fudge may be a politician, but he's also a bully, and bullies understand strength."
"Just remember," Sebastian said as they began making their slow way toward the Hospital Wing doors, "my uncle says Umbridge is with him. And unlike Fudge, she's actually competent at political maneuvering. Don't underestimate her just because she looks like an overgrown toad."
Dolores Umbridge, Harry thought with a surge of anticipation rather than dread. Perfect. I've been wanting another chance to demonstrate my opinion of her 'oversight' ever since that Ministry meeting.
As they left the Hospital Wing, Harry caught sight of Itisa padding silently behind them, her golden eyes alert and her posture suggesting she was ready for trouble. Hedwig soared overhead, having apparently decided that moral support required a bird's-eye view of the developing situation.
Well, Harry reflected as they made their way through the corridors toward what was likely to be a very interesting political confrontation, at least I won't be facing this alone.
Time to remind the Minister of Magic why it's a bad idea to steal from a Slytherin.
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The journey to Dumbledore's office felt like it took approximately three years, though Harry's pocket watch insisted it had only been ten minutes. By the time they reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance, Harry was grateful for Sebastian's steady support and trying very hard not to let his exhaustion show.
Nothing quite like political crisis to motivate a recovery, Harry thought grimly as they approached the familiar statue.
What he hadn't expected was to find Professor Snape already stationed beside the gargoyle, looking for all the world like a particularly vindictive bat guarding a cave entrance. The Potions Master's black eyes took in their small procession with the sort of expression that suggested he found their presence both predictable and deeply irritating.
"Well, well," Snape drawled, his voice carrying its usual mixture of silk and venom. "Potter and Sallow. How... unsurprising. And Miss Tonks, straying rather far from her natural habitat, isn't she?"
Charming as always, Harry thought, noting the way Snape's gaze lingered dismissively on Nymphadora. Nothing like a crisis to bring out his warm, nurturing side.
"Professor," Harry said with carefully neutral politeness. "We were hoping to speak with the Headmaster."
"Were you indeed?" Snape's smile was the sort that made small animals seek shelter. "And what urgent matter could possibly require the attention of three students who should undoubtedly be elsewhere?"
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Sebastian. There was something in Snape's tone that suggested he already knew exactly why they were there, which was either very good news or very bad news, depending on whose side the Professor was planning to take.
"Is the Minister of Magic inside?" Harry asked directly, abandoning any attempt at subtlety.
"He is," Snape confirmed with obvious distaste. "Arrived approximately two minutes ago with his... retinue. Including the delightful Under-Secretary Umbridge, though 'toad' would be a more accurate description of her current disposition."
Well, Harry reflected, at least Snape and I agree on something.
"Then I need to speak with him," Harry said firmly. "This concerns the basilisk, and since it's my property—"
"Your property?" Snape interrupted with a smirk that made Harry's hands clench into fists. "How fascinating. Though I seem to recall Madam Pomfrey specifically ordering you to remain in the Hospital Wing for several more days. Something about magical exhaustion and the dangers of overexertion."
The smirk widened as Snape took in Harry's obvious physical strain. "Perhaps you should return to bed, Potter, and leave matters of political importance to those actually capable of handling them."
Harry felt his temper flare, and from somewhere near his feet came a low, threatening sound that made Snape's eyes snap downward. Itisa had emerged from behind Harry's legs, and the look she was directing at the Potions Master could have frozen molten lava.
Easy, beautiful, Harry thought, though he had to admit there was something deeply satisfying about watching Snape take an involuntary step backward. Save it for the real enemies.
"Harry just wants to discuss the situation with Professor Dumbledore," Nymphadora said with admirable restraint, though her hair had shifted to a distinctly aggressive shade of red. "As a prefect, I'm simply ensuring he gets there safely."
Snape's attention shifted to her with obvious disdain. "Ah yes, Miss Tonks. How noble of you to concern yourself with students outside your own House. Though I suppose when one belongs to Hufflepuff—the bottom of the Houses, as any reasonable person would acknowledge—one must find purpose wherever possible."
And there it is, Harry thought with cold fury. The real Severus Snape, in all his petty, vindictive glory.
Nymphadora's hair flared to a brilliant scarlet, and Harry could see her hands trembling with the effort of restraining herself. Six years of dealing with Snape's casual cruelty had clearly taken their toll, but her prefect training kept her from responding as she obviously wanted to.
Before the situation could escalate further, the gargoyle's stone eyes suddenly glowed, and the statue began to rotate aside with the grinding sound of ancient mechanisms. Professor McGonagall appeared at the entrance, her sharp eyes taking in the tense tableau with obvious irritation.
"Professor Snape," she said crisply, one eyebrow raised in pointed inquiry. "Don't you have a cauldron to intimidate somewhere? Or perhaps some first-years to reduce to tears?"
Trust McGonagall to cut straight to the point, Harry thought with genuine admiration.
"I was merely ensuring that Potter understands the importance of following medical advice," Snape replied smoothly. "The boy should be in bed, not wandering the corridors in his condition."
McGonagall's gaze shifted to Harry, and he could see her taking in his obvious exhaustion and the way he was leaning on Sebastian for support.
"Normally, I would agree," she said thoughtfully. "However, since Mr. Potter is already here, and since the current situation directly concerns his property rights, perhaps it would be more efficient to allow him to participate in the discussion."
She stepped aside, gesturing toward the spiral staircase. "Come along, Mr. Potter. The Minister is expecting you."
Expecting me? Harry thought with surprise. How did he know I was coming?
"Sallow," Snape said sharply as Sebastian moved to follow Harry. "Return to your common room immediately. This matter does not concern you."
Sebastian looked like he wanted to argue, but Harry caught his eye and shook his head slightly. Having one friend present was probably enough, and Sebastian's uncle worked for the Ministry—it wouldn't do to put him in an awkward position.
"Go ahead," Harry said quietly. "I can handle this."
"And Miss Tonks," Snape continued with renewed venom, "perhaps you could make use of your... unique abilities... and simply disappear. I'm sure you could find something useful to do for once, rather than inserting yourself into situations above your comprehension."
The insult was so casually cruel that Harry actually took a step toward Snape before Sebastian's restraining hand on his arm reminded him that starting a fight with his Head of House probably wasn't tactically sound at the moment.
Nymphadora's response was to straighten her shoulders and meet Snape's gaze directly, her hair shifting to a steely gray that somehow managed to look more intimidating than the previous red.
"Of course, Professor," she said with icy politeness. "I'll be sure to find something productive to do. Perhaps practicing advanced Transfiguration. I understand metamorphmagi have certain advantages in that subject."
The implication—that she could transfigure Snape into something unpleasant if she chose—was subtle but unmistakable.
Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could respond, McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly.
"Mr. Potter," she said firmly, "the Minister is waiting."
As Harry made his way toward the stairs, he caught Snape's parting comment to Nymphadora: "Do try to stay out of trouble, Miss Tonks. Some of us have more important matters to attend to than cleaning up after impudent children."
One day, Harry thought as he began climbing the spiral staircase, I'm going to have to do something about Snape's attitude toward anyone who isn't a Slytherin. Or at least anyone who isn't his particular favorite Slytherins.
But today, I have bigger fish to fry.
Or rather, bigger Ministers to outmaneuver.
The first thing Harry noticed upon entering Dumbledore's office was the blessed sight of familiar faces. Ted and Andromeda Tonks, their expressions mixing relief at seeing him with concern about his obvious physical condition. Amelia Bones occupied one of the chairs facing Dumbledore's desk.
The second thing he noticed was Minister Fudge, sitting casually with an air of arrogance around him. Dolores Umbridge perched beside him like a particularly vindictive pink toad, her black bow perched atop her curls and her expression suggesting she'd been looking forward to this encounter.
Dumbledore himself stood beside his phoenix perch, Fawkes preening contentedly on his shoulder, while the Headmaster observed the proceedings with the sort of benign interest that usually preceded spectacular political maneuvering.
"Ah, Mr. Potter," Fudge said with false bonhomie as Harry entered. "How good of you to join us. Though I must say, you look rather pale. Perhaps you should be resting instead of concerning yourself with matters beyond your understanding."
Matters beyond my understanding, Harry thought with cold amusement. Like property law and business negotiations? How patronizing.
"Minister," Harry replied with careful politeness, making his way to stand beside Ted and Andromeda. "I appreciate your concern for my health. Though I suspect my understanding of this particular matter might be more comprehensive than you assume."
From his perch near the window, the Sorting Hat suddenly stirred to life. "Oh, this should be entertaining," the ancient artifact observed in its gravelly voice. "Nothing quite like watching politicians try to steal from children. Though I suppose when you're as morally bankrupt as some people in this room, the age of your victims hardly matters."
Umbridge's expression soured further, if such a thing were possible. "Perhaps someone should explain to that... object... that its commentary is neither requested nor appropriate."
"And perhaps someone should explain to the toad in pink that looking like a children's party decoration doesn't actually make you qualified to discuss matters of magical law. Though I suppose when your primary qualification is sucking up to incompetent superiors, fashion sense becomes secondary." The hat said right away with a grin on its hat face.
I think I like this version of the Sorting Hat, Harry thought with genuine amusement. Much more entertaining than the usual cryptic wisdom.
Fudge cleared his throat loudly, clearly hoping to regain control of the conversation. "Yes, well, be that as it may, we're here to discuss a matter of significant importance to the Ministry. Specifically, the dangerous magical creature currently residing in the Chamber of Secrets."
"The basilisk is dead, Minister," Harry said quietly. "I killed it to save Ginny Weasley's life."
"Indeed," Fudge said with the sort of smile that probably looked reassuring in mirrors but came across as deeply condescending in person. "And a heroic act it was, too. Which is precisely why the Ministry believes such dangerous materials should be properly secured and studied by qualified professionals."
Here we go, Harry thought. Time for the grand theft to begin.
"The Ministry has a responsibility," Umbridge added with saccharine sweetness, "to ensure that dangerous magical materials don't fall into inappropriate hands. Surely you understand that a child—however heroic—simply cannot be trusted with substances that could level a city block if mishandled."
Harry felt his temper flare but kept his voice level. "How fascinating, Under-Secretary. I wasn't aware that heroism came with an expiration date based on age. Though I suppose when one's primary experience with dangerous situations involves committee meetings, the concept of actual courage might be difficult to grasp."
The insult sailed completely over Fudge's head, but Umbridge's eyes narrowed dangerously. She'd caught the implication that her bureaucratic maneuvering was hardly comparable to facing down a basilisk.
"The Ministry," Fudge continued obliviously, "needs those materials far more than a little boy with delusions of entrepreneurship. We have Aurors to equip, research to conduct, and public safety to maintain."
"Public safety," Amelia Bones said dryly, speaking for the first time since Harry's arrival. "How noble, Cornelius. Though I seem to recall the Ministry's track record with dangerous magical creatures being somewhat... inconsistent."
"Now see here, Amelia—" Fudge began.
"Furthermore," she continued smoothly, "there's the small matter of magical law to consider. Right of Conquest is one of our oldest and most established legal precedents. Mr. Potter defeated the basilisk in single combat. Everything it possessed is legally his property."
"Single combat?" Umbridge scoffed. "The boy had help from Dumbledore's phoenix and a legendary sword. Hardly what one would call a fair fight."
If only you knew about Itisa, Harry thought with dark amusement. Though I suppose 'I had help from my disguised Nundu' wouldn't improve the legal situation.
"I'm curious, Under-Secretary," Harry said with deceptive mildness. "Are you suggesting that using available resources in a life-or-death situation somehow invalidates the outcome? Because if so, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the Ministry's policy of equipping Aurors with protective gear before sending them against Dark wizards."
The Sorting Hat cackled appreciatively. "Oh, well done, boy! Nothing quite like pointing out logical inconsistencies to someone whose brain runs on bureaucratic doublethink."
Ted stepped forward. "Minister, with all due respect, you're essentially asking us to ignore established magical law because you've decided the outcome is inconvenient. That sets a rather dangerous precedent."
"The law is clear," Andromeda added, her Healer training evident in her precise, clinical tone. "Right of Conquest transfers ownership of all possessions from defeated party to victor. There are no age restrictions, no Ministry override clauses, and no provisions for 'public interest' seizure."
Fudge's face was beginning to show hints of red around the edges. "The Ministry has a responsibility—"
"The Ministry," Dumbledore said gently, speaking for the first time since Harry's arrival, "has a responsibility to uphold the law, not circumvent it for political convenience. Mr. Potter's ownership of the basilisk's remains is legally unassailable."
"Legally unassailable," the Sorting Hat agreed cheerfully, "unlike certain Ministers' claims to competence. Though I suppose when your primary qualification is kissing the right arses, actual legal knowledge becomes optional."
Umbridge's face had progressed to an alarming shade of purple. "This is ridiculous! A child cannot be trusted with materials that could fund a small army or level half of Diagon Alley!"
"You're absolutely right," Harry said with apparent sincerity. "Which is why I've already arranged for proper security and handling through Gringotts. Their curse-breaking and material preservation departments are far more qualified than any Ministry facility."
And considerably less likely to 'accidentally' lose valuable components to bureaucratic sticky fingers, he added silently.
"Furthermore," Harry continued, his voice taking on the sort of crisp professionalism he'd learned from watching Ted navigate Ministry meetings, "I've been in communication with the Italian Ministry regarding specialized applications for basilisk materials in their Auror protection program. I'm sure Minister Lombardi would be fascinated to learn that the British Ministry attempted to interfere with our established business relationship."
The threat was obvious. If Fudge seized the basilisk materials, Harry would ensure that Britain's international magical relations suffered accordingly.
Fudge's expression suggested he was beginning to realize that this conversation wasn't going according to plan. "Potter—"
"Mr. Potter," Amelia Bones corrected sharply, "is well within his rights to dispose of his legally acquired property as he sees fit. Any attempt by the Ministry to seize those materials would constitute theft under magical law."
"And," Ted added with the sort of smile that had made him legendarily effective in Ministry negotiations, "I'm sure the Wizengamot would be very interested in hearing about any such... creative interpretations of property law."
The Sorting Hat chose that moment to deliver what was probably the final blow to Fudge's political ambitions for the day. "Amazing how quickly 'public safety' becomes 'we want valuable things that belong to someone else.' Though I suppose when your moral compass points toward whatever's politically convenient, consistency becomes challenging."
Umbridge's expression had progressed beyond purple into something approaching volcanic. "Wait just one moment," she said with dangerous sweetness. "If Mr. Potter truly defeated this basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor, as the Prophet claims, then surely he can demonstrate this... ability... once more?"
Shit, Harry thought with growing alarm. She wants me to prove I can summon the sword. The sword that supposedly only appears for worthy Gryffindors in times of great need.
"I'm sure I don't understand what you're suggesting, Under-Secretary," Dumbledore said mildly, though Harry caught the slight twinkle in his blue eyes.
"I'm suggesting," Umbridge said with the sort of smile as if she had won the game, "that if young Mr. Potter genuinely pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat during his heroic encounter, he should be able to do so again. After all, if he managed it once in mortal peril, surely he can manage it now to verify his claims?"
Harry felt his mouth go dry as he realized the trap Umbridge had laid. If he couldn't produce the sword, she'd have grounds to question the entire official version of events.
Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely unperturbed by this development. In fact, his smile had grown distinctly warmer as he turned toward his desk.
"An excellent suggestion, Dolores," the Headmaster said cheerfully, lifting the Sorting Hat from its stand. "I'm sure Mr. Potter would be delighted to demonstrate. After all, truth has nothing to fear from verification."
He held out the ancient hat toward Harry with a subtle nod that somehow managed to convey both encouragement and absolute confidence.
He knows something, Harry realized. He wouldn't be this calm if he thought I was about to humiliate myself in front of the Minister.
Harry took the Sorting Hat with hands that he hoped weren't visibly trembling, acutely aware that every eye in the room was focused on him. The ancient leather felt warm beneath his fingers, and for a moment, he could have sworn he heard the Hat's voice whispering too quietly for others to hear.
I told you that you held the courage of a Gryffindor, now, show it to everyone.
Taking a deep breath, Harry reached into the Hat's depths, half-expecting to find nothing but ancient fabric and disappointment. Instead, his fingers encountered something solid and unmistakably metallic.
Harry's eyes widened with amazement as his hand closed around an ornate hilt. It's actually there.
He drew the sword slowly, watching in fascination as the legendary blade emerged from the Hat's depths. The Sword of Gryffindor gleamed in the office's magical lighting, its ruby-encrusted hilt made Harry really wish he could keep the sword. The blade itself felt magical.
But I'm a Slytherin, Harry thought with genuine confusion. How is this possible?
The silence in the office was profound. Fudge's mouth had fallen slightly open, while Umbridge looked like she'd just swallowed something particularly unpleasant. Even Amelia Bones was staring with obvious surprise.
"Remarkable," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice carrying a note of deep satisfaction. "Though perhaps not entirely unexpected, given recent events."
"But he's a Slytherin," Fudge managed, apparently voicing Harry's own thoughts. "The sword belongs to Gryffindor House."
"The sword," the Sorting Hat said with obvious amusement, "belongs to whoever proves worthy of it through deeds, not through House affiliation. Young Potter here has demonstrated rather conclusively that courage and honor aren't the exclusive province of any single House."
Well, Harry thought, still staring at the blade in his hands, that's going to require some serious reconsideration of everything I thought I knew about House politics.
"Fascinating as this is," Umbridge said through gritted teeth, "it hardly changes the fundamental issue of material ownership and public safety."
"On the contrary," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "I believe it confirms Mr. Potter's heroic credentials quite thoroughly. Unless, of course, you have further doubts about his account of events?"
The trap had closed as neatly as any Slytherin could have wished. Umbridge had demanded proof, received it in spectacular fashion, and now found herself with no grounds whatsoever to challenge Harry's ownership of the basilisk materials.
"I think," Ted said into the loaded silence, "this demonstration rather settles any questions about Mr. Potter's qualifications, don't you?"
Harry carefully placed the sword back into the Hat, noting the way it seemed to dissolve back into the fabric as if it had never been there at all. The magic involved was fascinating from a theoretical perspective, though he suspected now wasn't the time to request a detailed explanation.
"Now then," Dumbledore said brightly, settling the Hat back onto its stand, "is there anything else the Ministry requires clarification on? Any other aspects of Mr. Potter's heroic encounter that need verification?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Fudge rose from Dumbledore's chair with obvious reluctance, his face now fully red and his bowler hat slightly askew. "I wish Mister Potter a good day," he said with as much dignity as he could muster.
Umbridge gathered her pink cardigan around herself like armor, her expression promising future retribution. "We shall meet again."
As the Minister and his Under-Secretary departed with the sort of dignified retreat that fooled absolutely no one, Harry allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
Ministry zero, Harry Potter one, Harry thought with a smile as if he had just captured the snitch in a Quidditch match.
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