The Tenth Weasley - CH - 78

The days that followed were the brightest Harry had known in a long while.

With the hidden treasures of Salazar Slytherin now safely in his possession, a shift took place inside him—subtle at first, but unmistakable. The pain of betrayal, the anger he’d carried since the Chamber incident, began to lose its sting. Not because he had forgotten, but because he had found something far greater.

Truth. Power. Purpose.

Each morning, after breakfast at Weasley Manor, Harry would retreat to the secluded study he’d claimed for himself. The enchanted trunk containing Slytherin’s tomes and journals remained locked and warded, and no one—save perhaps Bill—dared touch it. The others left him to his studies, content to see Harry smiling again.

Within the dusty pages of those ancient books, Harry discovered not the ravings of a mad dark wizard, but the life of a brilliant, misunderstood man.

Salazar Slytherin, The Healer.

That was how the journal began.

Harry would sit cross-legged by the window, the sunlight pouring onto the yellowed pages as he read the words written over a thousand years ago. In Salazar’s own elegant, slanted script, he chronicled a world unlike the one Harry knew. He had wandered through distant lands, learning from shamans in the deserts of the East and potion masters in the frozen valleys of the North. His knowledge of healing arts, of magical anatomy, of life energy and blood magic, was beyond anything Hogwarts currently taught.

Salazar had cured plagues with his bare hands.

He had closed mortal wounds with the power of his voice.

And he had spoken to serpents—not to control them, but to learn from them.

“He was never a monster,” Harry whispered one evening, the candlelight dancing across the open journal. “They lied about him.”

One page in particular caught his eye. It was a spell, or more accurately, an invocation—written in Parseltongue.

Harry read the line aloud, and the candle beside him flared for a moment before stabilizing. He blinked, stunned.

“You can… cast spells in Parseltongue?”

The idea thrilled him.

The next day, Harry took the book to the training yard behind the manor. It was a secluded area surrounded by hedges, with stone dummies and runic targets left over from the Weasley twins’ less-than-subtle magical experiments. It had become his sanctuary.

Standing before a worn target, Harry raised his wand and began to speak—not in Latin, like traditional spells, but in hisses and slithers that came naturally to him now.

“Nath’tar rathiss!”
A jet of silver light erupted from his wand, slicing across the target like a whip. The wood smoldered.

Harry stared at it in awe.

Again.

“Issar’ven ka-rrask!”
This time the ground beneath the target rippled, and green vines burst upward, lashing and ensnaring the dummy in seconds.

Breathing hard, Harry grinned.

He wasn’t just learning spells—he was rediscovering a lost language of magic, a branch that had died with Salazar Slytherin.

Charlie Potter and Ron spotted him practicing from afar and cautiously approached.

“Mate,” Ron said, eyeing the vines slithering back into the earth, “what in Merlin’s name was that?”

Harry wiped sweat from his brow. “Parseltongue magic.”

Charlie gaped. “That’s a thing?”

Harry nodded. “Slytherin created it. It’s completely different from what we learn at Hogwarts. The magic is tied to intent and resonance. It’s like… like the wand and your voice merge.”

Ron scratched his head. “Sounds mental. But also wicked cool.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “It is.”

As the days passed, his control over the spells sharpened. He mastered defensive spells that turned away enchanted projectiles, healing chants that closed minor cuts on his arm, and even elemental spells that summoned small bursts of wind, fire, or fog—all spoken in the tongue of serpents.

He began to feel something unfamiliar—confidence. Not the blind confidence of a child, but the confidence of one who knows he is capable.

With each page he read, with each spell he practiced, Harry became something new—not the Heir of Slytherin the school had feared, but the true inheritor of Salazar Slytherin’s knowledge. A guardian of wisdom long forgotten.

And this time, he didn’t need Dumbledore’s approval.


The morning began like any other.

Harry stirred awake to the golden sunlight filtering through the tall windows of his room at Weasley Manor. He yawned, stretched, and dressed without hurry, the scent of freshly baked bread and cinnamon drifting from the kitchen downstairs. The manor was peaceful, warm with summer energy and the sound of distant laughter. A perfect start to another day of training, reading, and magic.

He padded down the hallway, rubbing his eyes and stepping lightly on the familiar wooden stairs—until he reached the entrance hall.

And then he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Bloody hell…”

There, coiled with perfect symmetry around the grand central pillar of the entrance hall, was the entire skeleton of the Basilisk.

Its pale, polished bones shimmered under the enchanted chandeliers. The massive skull, with fangs as long as swords, had been set in a proud, upright pose at the base of the stairs, its jaw slightly open. Its ribcage spanned wider than a piller, each vertebra perfectly aligned, curving like a spiral staircase around the pillar. Its long tail was elegantly twisted at the end, forming a decorative curl above the front rug.

Harry stared, wide-eyed, barely breathing.

“Oh… my…”

The living room had been transformed.

And everyone was already gathered.

Mrs. Weasley stood near the fireplace, one hand over her mouth, tears glistening in her eyes. Fred and George were walking around the display in circles, muttering awe-struck commentary. Ginny stood near the couch with wide eyes, holding a biscuit she’d long forgotten to eat. Percy was scribbling something in a notebook, probably measuring or recording magical residue.

“I-is that…” Molly stammered, unable to finish her sentence. “That’s what you fought?”

Charlie appeared from behind the skeletal tail, a wide grin on his face and dirt still on his robes. “Morning, Harry! Like the surprise?”

Harry turned slowly, his jaw still hanging. “You… did this?”

Charlie looked immensely pleased with himself. “Preserved the bones, enchanted them to be secure and floating, reinforced them with stabilizing runes. Took me three days.”

“Three days?” Harry echoed, blinking.

“Worth it,” Bill added from the other side of the hall, arms crossed and a small smirk on his face. “We figured everyone should see what you were really up against. It’s one thing to say ‘Basilisk,’ it’s another to see it wrapped around your sitting room.”

Fred gave an exaggerated shiver. “It’s terrifying… and beautiful.”

“I can’t believe it’s so big,” Ginny whispered, still staring at the coils.

Molly sniffled, wiping her eyes. “Oh, my dear boy. You were alone down there with this? How did you survive?”

Ron stepped forward quickly. “He wasn’t completely alone,” he said with pride. “I was there too! I helped. I got Tracy and the others out—and I distracted the thing for a while.”

Fred elbowed George. “He distracted a Basilisk. Mental.”

“I believe it,” Arthur said, stepping forward now, his eyes fixed on the enormous skull. “This is... extraordinary craftsmanship, Charlie. But more than that, it’s a monument. A monument to courage.”

He turned to Harry, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “We are proud of you, son.”

Harry swallowed hard. He felt something swell in his chest—a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. This wasn’t praise from a crowd of strangers. This was pride from family.

“Thanks,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “Thank you… all of you.”

Charlie clapped him on the back. “Thought it might cheer you up. And now, anyone who visits the manor will know what kind of hero lives here.”

Harry stepped closer to the pillar, reaching out to touch one of the rib bones. It was smooth, cold, and humming faintly with ancient magic. He looked up at the skull towering above him, eyes settling on the gleaming fangs.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”

Fred leaned toward Ron. “So, when are we getting a skeleton for the pranks we’ve survived?”

George nodded solemnly. “The Chamber of Exploding Cauldrons.”

“The Great Toilet Curse.”

“Professor Lockhart’s Ego.”

Ron laughed. “All very deadly.”

Molly rolled her eyes but smiled through her tears.

Harry looked around the room again, heart full. The skeleton, coiled around the Weasley family home, was no longer just a reminder of what he had fought—it was a symbol of everything he had gained.


The awe over the Basilisk skeleton began to fade in the Weasley household as the days passed. What had once inspired gasps and cries of wonder now simply loomed like an exotic centerpiece in the manor’s entrance hall—a constant reminder of Harry’s battle beneath Hogwarts.

But one morning, Charlie Weasley had a different idea in mind.

“Harry,” he said, stepping into the study where Harry sat reading one of Slytherin’s journals, “put the book down for a bit. We need to move.”

Harry glanced up. “What’s going on?”

Charlie leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “We need to start selling the Basilisk parts before they lose their magical potency. Even magical components degrade over time. If we wait too long, the value drops—and fast.”

Harry frowned. “I thought they’d last for years?”

Charlie shook his head. “Some do. Venom holds for a while, but only if sealed right. Same for organs, meat, and hide. But best to sell now—while they’re still fresh and dangerous.” He grinned. “Besides, I’ve got contacts. Potion masters, wandmakers, magical creature traders. We can get a good price if we act quickly.”

That was how Harry found himself on the back of a Thestral-drawn cart by noon, traveling with Charlie to some of the most hidden magical enclaves in Britain.

From fog-wrapped valleys in Wales to coastal settlements in the North, they met all sorts—wizened potion masters with glowing eyes, half-goblin alchemists with strange accents, and forest witches who tested samples before buying with a whisper and a wave of their fingers.

Charlie handled it all with ease. His reputation as a dragon handler opened doors everywhere.

“Don’t let the robes fool you,” he muttered to Harry as they entered a crooked apothecary with creeping vines on the windows. “Some of the richest wizards I know live like hermits.”

It turned out he was right—especially when they visited Diagon Alley.

Harry had seen Ollivander's wand shop many times before. The crooked sign. The dusty windows. The cluttered shelves and the old man who always looked like he needed a good rest.

But now, as they stepped inside carrying a sealed case of Basilisk heart and optic nerves, Harry began to realize just how deceiving appearances could be.

Ollivander greeted them with his usual glassy-eyed stare. “Ah. Mr. Potter… and a Weasley, yes? I sensed you’d return with something… rare.”

Charlie handed him the case without a word.

The wandmaker opened it, and the moment his eyes fell on the preserved heart and nerves, his fingers trembled with reverence. “A Basilisk… and such quality. This—this is a gift. A treasure beyond compare.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you worked with Basilisk parts.”

Ollivander chuckled, his voice like dry parchment. “We have… since the days before Hogwarts. My family has been crafting wands since 382 B.C. And I assure you, Mr. Potter, there are wand cores that the world has long forgotten. Until now.”

He handed Charlie a small slip of parchment.

Harry leaned over and stared at the number.

“That many zeroes?” he whispered.

Ollivander merely smiled.

Charlie laughed and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Told you. Never judge a wizard by his coat.”

The next day brought a different kind of buyer.

Goblins.

Gringotts had caught wind of the Basilisk’s death through Bill’s quiet whispering, and soon a formal delegation of goblin traders arrived—not to demand, but to offer.

They wanted the meat.

“Magical meats are delicacies,” Charlie explained as they negotiated. “Dragons, Chimaeras, Basilisks… the more dangerous the creature, the greater the honor in consuming it. For goblins, it’s not just food—it’s tradition.”

“They eat Basilisk?” Harry asked, half-disgusted and half-impressed.

Charlie grinned. “Oh, they’ll enchant it first. Cure it, treat it with silver salts and dragonfire. Once prepared properly, it’s safe. And worth a fortune.”

The goblins paid in enchanted gold bars—pure, weightless, and guaranteed never to depreciate.

The final two days were a blur.

Potion masters arrived from around the world: dark-eyed Egyptians, pale Danes, fiery Spaniards. Some came through Floo, some Apparated directly to the outskirts of the Weasley property. All of them had heard that Basilisk venom was for sale—and they came with their vaults open.

Harry watched in awe as Charlie directed it all.

Every vial was tested, sealed, and sold.

By the end of the second day, the Basilisk was fully gone—every fang, every drop of venom, every organ accounted for. The only piece remaining was the skeleton proudly displayed in the manor.

When the dust settled, Charlie and Harry sat beside the Weasley pond with a large satchel filled with financial ledgers and receipts.

Harry looked at the figures.

“We could build ten Weasley Manors with this,” he whispered.

Charlie leaned back, smiling. “And still have enough left over for a private Quidditch stadium.”

“Let’s build that,” Fred called from a distance.

“Two stadiums!” George added.

But Harry shook his head and grew serious. “I want to share this. Our family—they’ve given me everything.”

Charlie held up a hand. “Harry. Stop. We don’t need it. Dad’s doing better now. Because of your business mind we now own several restaurants and bakery in muggle world. Everyone's gringotts account have large amount of money already.”

“But—”

“No,” Charlie said, cutting him off gently. “This Basilisk was yours. You killed it. You earned every Knut.”

Harry looked down. “Then take a share. At least a commission.”

Charlie chuckled. “Fine. A small one. For my trouble.”

He held up his hand to show a modest percentage written on his own ledger.

Harry smiled and nodded.

And just like that, the fortune of a forgotten monster became the foundation for a future Harry could shape himself—free from pity, full of power, and backed by gold that no one could steal from him.