The Tenth Weasley - CH - 134

The morning edition of The Daily Prophet carried yet another headline about Harry Weasley—this one unlike any before.

“THE SERPENT OF SALAZAR — WEASLEY FAMILY GUARDING RELICS OF SLYTHERIN?”

The article spread like fiendfire. It claimed that Harry Weasley, the same boy who had slain the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, still possessed its remains—a sixty-foot skeleton preserved in the Weasley Manor itself.

And within hours, the whisper turned into a storm.

The Ministry of Magic had always been a nest of politics and pride, but this news stirred something darker—greed.

In a marble-walled conference room of the Department of Magical Artefacts, a dozen officials gathered around a floating copy of the article. Almost all wore green-trimmed robes—Slytherins, former or otherwise.

“This cannot stand,” hissed Bartemius Bletchley, the Undersecretary for Magical Heritage. “A basilisk of Salazar Slytherin himself—slain by a Weasley, no less—and its remains hoarded in their home like a trophy?”

“Those bones belong to the Wizarding Heritage Museum,” said another, slamming a palm on the table. “They are a national artifact, not a family decoration!”

“Decoration?” sneered a third. “I heard the skeleton’s fangs were used in research to create anti-venoms. That’s Ministry property by right!”

A senior Auror cleared his throat. “With all due respect, the boy killed the serpent. It was under Hogwarts, not in Ministry custody. Legally—”

“Legally?” interrupted Bletchley, his eyes cold. “Legally, no twelve-year-old should have entered that chamber at all. He trespassed on the ancient domain of Salazar Slytherin. Those remains are relics of our founders. They must be reclaimed.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“Then it’s decided,” Bletchley said smoothly, lips curling into a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll send a retrieval team. Today.”

By afternoon, three Ministry carriages thundered down the countryside, escorted by Aurors and Magical Heritage officers. They landed in front of the Weasley Manor, their golden insignias gleaming in the sunlight.

Arthur Weasley stood outside the gate, looking weary but calm, Molly at his side. Behind them, Bill and Charlie had gathered watching the officials with uneasy eyes.

Bletchley stepped forward, his polished boots crunching the gravel. “Mr. Weasley,” he began curtly, “by order of the Department of Magical Artefacts, we are here to retrieve an item of significant historical value—namely, the remains of the basilisk slain by your son.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Retrieve? Without permission?”

“It is not a matter of permission,” Bletchley said smoothly. “This relic belongs to wizarding history, not to any one family.”

Molly crossed her arms. “That ‘relic’ nearly killed my son, and he risked his life to destroy it. If you think you can just march into our home and take it—”

Bletchley raised a gloved hand. “Please, Madam Weasley, let’s not make this difficult. We’re not here to argue. Only to collect.”

Arthur stepped forward, his voice low and even. “Then you’d better be ready to break through the protection Harry himself created.”

The Ministry team entered the Manor’s grand hall—and froze.

The basilisk skeleton stretched the entire length of a piller. Sixty feet of ivory bone gleamed under enchanted light, coiled in a display of both terror and majesty. Its skull was massive, its fangs still sharp, each longer than a man’s arm.

Even the most composed officials went pale at the sight.

“My word,” whispered one, “it’s magnificent…”

Another whispered, “It’s… alive, almost.”

Every bone shimmered faintly with protective enchantments—Harry’s enchantments. Runes of containment and preservation glowed blue across the spine, layered and interlocking in complex sequences that made even seasoned curse-breakers hesitate.

Bletchley approached, wand drawn. “Standard barrier-disruption charm. On my mark.”

He flicked his wand, muttering an incantation. Green light burst against the invisible wall surrounding the skeleton—and rebounded.

The shockwave threw him backward into his assistants, scattering papers and wands.

Molly smirked faintly. “Harry always said you should never test a ward without knowing who made it.”

Bill, the family’s resident curse-breaker, stepped forward, clearly impressed. “That’s not just a ward. That’s a rune-sequence fusion. He’s tied the protective enchantments into the basilisk bones themselves. You’d have to destroy the skeleton to break the barrier.”

Bletchley got up slowly, his face red. “Impossible…”

Bill chuckled. “Not for Harry.”

Outside, tempers flared. Bletchley rounded on Arthur. “You will order your son to remove the wards immediately!”

Arthur’s calm faltered for the first time. “My son’s in Hogwarts infirmary. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

Bletchley’s jaw tightened. “Then when he wakes, inform him that refusal to cooperate with Ministry requisition will be treated as obstruction of magical property law!”

Charlie stepped forward, glaring. “He risked his life for that serpent. You risk your ink and quills for paperwork. Don’t you dare talk about law when you weren’t the one down there fighting it.”

Bill stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him. “You’ll need more than law to get through Harry’s wards.”

“Maybe a miracle,” Charlie added with a grin.

The officials scowled, but their bravado was fading. They had seen enough of Harry’s power during the tournament to know this was no idle boast.

By sunset, the Ministry carriages left in frustration, their pride wounded and their mission a failure. But the story did not end there.

That evening, the Prophet released another front-page article:

“MINISTRY FAILS TO BREACH WEASLEY WARDS — BASILISK RELIC REMAINS PROTECTED.”

“ARTHUR WEASLEY REFUSES ACCESS TO HISTORICAL TREASURE.”

It was followed by another, more dangerous headline in smaller print:

“Is the Weasley Family Hiding More Than the Serpent?”

Molly slammed the paper down on the kitchen table that night, fuming. “Greedy snakes, the lot of them. They’ll never leave us alone now.”

Arthur rubbed his temples. “Harry built those wards to keep dark wizards out. He never imagined the Ministry would act like one.”

Ginny whispered, “He’ll wake soon. And when he does, they’ll regret crossing him.”

Arthur looked up, worry etched deep in his eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The morning ministry of magic officials heard Harry Weasley regained full consciousness, the peace of the Hogwarts infirmary shattered.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the marble corridors, followed by the unmistakable swish of official Ministry robes. By the time Harry finished his breakfast, the hospital wing doors burst open and half a dozen Ministry officials entered — flanked by two Aurors, a record-keeper, and the gleaming green seal of the Department of Magical Artefacts on their robes.

Madame Pomfrey immediately protested. “You can’t just march in here! The boy’s still recovering—”

But the officials ignored her completely.

At their head was Bartemius Bletchley, the same Undersecretary who had led the failed raid on the Weasley Manor. His expression was polite, but his eyes were sharp and hungry.

“Mr. Weasley,” he said, adjusting his silver-trimmed cloak. “We are most pleased to see you on your feet again. I trust you’ve recovered?”

Harry leaned back on his pillows, studying them. “Still breathing. So yes.”

“Excellent,” Bletchley said smoothly. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we discussed a small matter of historical significance.”

Behind him, two Aurors shut the doors, sealing the room in thick silence.

“We won’t waste your time, Mr. Weasley,” Bletchley continued, clasping his hands. “You know what we’re here for.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Do I?”

One of the younger officials, clearly too eager to contain himself, stepped forward. “We want the skeleton of Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk.”

The room went dead still.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Salazar Slytherin’s Basilisk?” he repeated slowly. “I wasn’t aware I killed anything belonging to Slytherin personally.”

Bletchley’s polite tone slipped into something harder. “Don’t play games with us, boy. Everyone knows the serpent you slew came from the Chamber of Secrets itself — a chamber built by Slytherin. Its remains are the property of the wizarding world, not of one family. You’ve no right to hoard it.”

Harry tilted his head. “You’re saying it’s a historical artifact, then?”

“Exactly,” Bletchley replied. “The law stating that a slayer may keep the remains of a defeated magical creature does not apply to beings of historical importance. The basilisk was part of our heritage, not your trophy.”

Harry’s calm didn’t waver. He met Bletchley’s stare evenly.

“It’s true I killed a basilisk,” he said slowly. “And yes, it was inside Hogwarts. But since it happened on Hogwarts grounds, most of the remains were turned over to the school — with Headmaster Dumbledore’s permission.”

He glanced at the officials, his voice steady. “The venom, the heart, the eyes, the internal organs — they’re all in Hogwarts’ vault. The meat was destroyed. The only things I kept were the hide and the skeleton. I even signed the transfer papers when I was twelve.”

Bletchley frowned. “That doesn’t change the fact that—”

“It changes everything,” Harry interrupted. “Because you’re claiming the skeleton belongs to Salazar Slytherin's basilisk. Yet there’s no proof — none — that Salazar ever owned a basilisk. There isn’t a single record in any Ministry registry, Hogwarts document, or even the founder’s journals that states such a creature existed under his possession.”

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp. “Show me one historical text that calls it Slytherin’s Basilisk, and I’ll hand it over myself.”

The younger official sputtered, “But everyone knows—”

“Everyone believes,” Harry corrected softly. “That’s not the same thing.”

The argument escalated.

“You’re evading the question!” one Auror snapped. “The Chamber was Slytherin’s. That makes anything inside it—”

“Not necessarily,” Harry cut in again, his tone still even. “If I fight a troll inside the Great Hall, does that make it Dumbledore’s property? Or the Ministry’s, since it happened in a school under your jurisdiction?”

A few of the Aurors shifted uncomfortably.

Harry’s eyes glinted faintly. “You can’t take the skeleton unless you prove it belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself. Otherwise, it’s just a dangerous magical creature — and according to magical law, I have every right to keep it. In fact, the Ministry should be thanking me for killing it, before it killed any students.”

Bletchley’s jaw worked silently. The younger officials looked uncertain now, glancing between their superior and the boy in the bed who spoke like an advocate trained in law.

Harry’s voice softened, though his words carried an edge of warning.

“Look,” he said, “if this were truly about history, I’d have no problem letting the skeleton be displayed. But let’s not pretend this is about heritage. You want it because it’s powerful. Because basilisk bones hold residual magic. You want the venom, the fangs, the hide — not the history.”

Bletchley’s face flushed red. “How dare you—”

“Prove me wrong,” Harry said calmly.

The room fell silent. Even the ticking of Madame Pomfrey’s clock seemed to stop.

Finally, Bletchley smoothed his robes, voice cold again. “You may have the law on your side, Mr. Weasley. For now. But mark my words — this matter is far from over.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I’ll look forward to your paperwork.”

As they turned to leave, Dumbledore stepped through the door, eyes twinkling in that quiet, knowing way. “Ah, gentlemen. I trust our student has satisfied your… historical curiosity?”

None of them replied. They brushed past him in silence, their pride trailing behind them like smoke.

Dumbledore chuckled softly, then turned to Harry. “You seem to have handled them quite well.”

Harry leaned back against the pillows. “Let’s just say I can't be bullied into submission.”

Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed.”

Rumors, once born, grew wings faster than owls.

By the end of the week, the wizarding world had moved beyond talk of the basilisk skeleton. The new obsession whispered through every pub, classroom, and alleyway was that Harry Weasley had taken more than bones from the Chamber of Secrets.

They said he had found Salazar Slytherin’s lost library, hidden for a thousand years beneath the school — that he had scrolls of serpent magic, a staff made of wyrmwood, and the founder’s own journals, written in a script no one alive could decipher but him.

No one could prove it.

No one could deny it either.

In the Department of Magical Artefacts, the Ministry officials pored over ancient texts, desperate for leverage. One of them slammed a brittle copy of Founders of Hogwarts: Truth and Myth onto the table.

“Here!” he said, pointing to a faded passage. “It says Salazar Slytherin maintained a private study beneath his Chamber. If that boy had access, he’s hoarding magical heritage!”

Another official scoffed. “You think a Weasley can even read Parseltongue? Those doors won’t open for him.”

“But he did open them once,” said Bletchley coldly. “And if he did it before, he can do it again. Which means he still has the key.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“If he’s hiding artifacts, we can’t prove it without seeing the chamber ourselves.”

Bletchley’s lips curled. “Then we’ll make him open it.”

Two days later, an owl arrived at Hogwarts. It was no ordinary owl, but one bearing the seal of the Ministry — heavy, official, and lined with emerald wax.

Professor McGonagall herself delivered it to Harry in hospital wing, where he sat surrounded by study materials from both schools — Hogwarts and Durmstrang.

“From the Department of Magical Artefacts,” McGonagall said stiffly. “They’ve… requested your cooperation.”

Harry broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The letter was written in the ornate, self-important language of bureaucracy, but one line stood out immediately:

“The Ministry formally requests your guidance and assistance in accessing the Chamber of Secrets for inspection of possible historical and magical artifacts belonging to Salazar Slytherin. In return, ownership of the basilisk remains shall be granted to you and your family without contest.”

Harry let out a humorless laugh. “So that’s their offer? My silence and cooperation in exchange for what’s already mine?”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “They’re treading dangerous ground. Even Headmaster Dumbledore advised them against it. But the pressure from the Wizengamot is rising — half its members were Slytherins once.”

Harry leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “They don’t want history. They want power. Whatever Slytherin left behind — they think it’s still there.”

Dumbledore, seated behind his desk, gave a soft sigh. “I suspect they believe you kept something… more valuable than bones.”

Harry looked at him carefully. “And if I tell them I didn’t?”

“They’ll never believe you,” Dumbledore said simply. “You’ve become a legend now, Harry. And legends invite greed.”

That evening, Harry sat in the hospital bed with Hermione and Ron near him, the unopened second letter from the Ministry lying on the table between them.

“They’re practically bribing you,” Ron muttered, glaring at the parchment. “Give them a tour of the Chamber, and they’ll let you keep the skeleton. Typical Ministry trick — they’ll stab you the moment you turn your back.”

Hermione frowned, deep in thought. “Still… if they’re that desperate, it means they believe the Chamber holds more than relics. Maybe spells, blueprints, magical designs — something tied to the founders themselves.”

Harry’s gaze hardened. “Or maybe they just want proof that the Chamber even exists. Half of them didn’t believe it until Dumbledore told the truth.”

Hermione hesitated. “Will you take the offer?”

Harry thought for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not yet. If I take them there, they’ll twist it however they want. Say I hid things, or destroyed evidence. No — if I go back, it’ll be on my terms, not theirs.”

Ron grinned. “Good. Make them squirm a bit longer.”

Hermione bit her lip. “But they won’t stop, Harry. Not until they get inside.”

Harry’s voice dropped, calm and cold. “Then let them try.”