The Tenth Weasley - CH - 73

The night air was cold and crisp as the castle of Hogwarts lay blanketed in tension and suspicion. The stars blinked faintly above, yet below, three students in a single invisibility cloak crept silently along the shadowed paths. Charlie Potter led the way, his wand gripped tight, flanked by Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley. These three had come to be known among the students as the “mini-marauders,” and despite the looming threat of the Slytherin monster, curfews, or even the headmaster’s wrath, their pursuit of the truth remained unwavering.

“We shouldn’t be out here,” Neville whispered, his breath fogging beneath the enchanted fabric. “If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” Charlie said in a hushed but determined tone. “Hagrid said he had something for us. We’ll just check in and leave.”

Ron nodded but muttered, “I still think we should've brought someone. Maybe Hermione would've—” He stopped himself. Saying her name still stung.

They reached the familiar hut nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The windows glowed warmly. Charlie gave three short knocks, and Hagrid’s booming voice welcomed them inside.

“Evenin’, lads,” Hagrid said with a grin, stepping aside. “Been a while since I had company. Come in, come in.”

As the cloak fell away, the trio entered. The hut smelled of herbs and cooked meat. A kettle whistled from the fire, and Fang thudded his tail in greeting.

“We had to make sure you’re okay,” Charlie said, settling onto a stool.

“Alright as I can be,” Hagrid muttered. “But there’s dark times, boys. You lot heard about the attacks—poor Astoria and Hermione. I tell ya, it ain’t right.”

Ron stared at the table. “That’s why we’re here. We were hoping you knew anything more about the Chamber.”

Before Hagrid could answer, there was a loud knock at the door—hard and insistent.

“Quick! Under the cloak!” Hagrid hissed, panic flaring in his eyes. The boys scrambled, pulling the invisibility cloak over themselves just as the door opened.

Minister Cornelius Fudge stepped in, flanked by two stern-looking Aurors—Kingsley Shacklebolt and Dawlish. Behind them came a sneering Lucius Malfoy, his cane tapping the stone floor with authority, and behind him, Albus Dumbledore with an unreadable expression.

“Hagrid,” Fudge began, looking uncomfortable. “This is a formality. I’m sorry, but we’re here to take you to Azkaban.”

“Azkaban?” Hagrid’s face flushed red. “On what charge?”

“The school’s under attack. The people want answers. And last time the Chamber was opened—well…” Fudge glanced toward Lucius, who offered a smug smile.

“Can’t ignore your history forever, Hagrid,” Lucius said smoothly. “The governors believe removing you will ease concerns. And unfortunately, we also believe Dumbledore’s presence has done little to help. Which is why…” he handed over a scroll. “Twelve out of twelve governors have signed your suspension.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dumbledore said, unfolding the scroll.

“I’m afraid they are,” Fudge said, avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes.

Kingsley approached Hagrid with a solemn expression. “We’ll take you gently.”

Hagrid stood, trembling with frustration. “Fine. But let me say this.” He turned to an empty corner, where the mini-marauders held their breath. “If anyone wanted to find out the truth about the Chamber… they’d follow the spiders. That’s all I’m sayin’. Follow the spiders.”

Ron looked at Neville under the cloak, eyes wide. Neville looked pale.

“And someone… someone needs to feed Fang,” Hagrid added, patting the massive dog before stepping outside.

When the door shut behind them, silence hung like fog. The boys didn’t speak. They watched the fire crackle, Dumbledore lingering behind a moment longer before he, too, turned and walked into the night.

Ron whispered, “Spiders?”

Charlie clenched his jaw. “Then that’s where we start.”

“Are we really doing this?” Neville whispered nervously, clutching his wand with both hands.

“Yes,” Charlie said firmly. “Hagrid said to follow the spiders. There’s got to be a reason.”

“I hate spiders,” Ron muttered, trailing just behind. “Absolutely hate them.”

With the cover of the invisibility cloak left behind in Hagrid’s hut, the trio were exposed to every sound the forest had to offer. The trees grew taller and more twisted as they walked deeper, and the moon barely filtered through the dense canopy above. Sounds of snapping twigs, hooting creatures, and distant growls filled the air.

“There!” Charlie pointed.

The trail ended near an opening between two massive trees. Hundreds of spiders gathered at the base of a hollow path, disappearing into a dark crevice between the roots. Without hesitation, Charlie ducked inside.

The air inside the grove was thick and stale. The space widened into a natural chamber formed by arching tree roots. And there, at the center, rested an enormous spider, the size of a small car. His massive hairy legs twitched with age, and his milky-white eyes fixed on them with unsettling calm.

“You followed the trail,” the spider rasped. “Few do that and return alive.”

“Are… are you Aragog?” Neville stammered.

“I am,” the beast answered. “You come from Hagrid, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “He told us to find you. We… we’re trying to stop what’s happening at Hogwarts.”

The enormous spider shifted. “Then you seek the creature that dwells within the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Do you know what it is?” Charlie asked quickly. “Is it you? Were you the one Hagrid hid fifty years ago?”

Aragog let out a long hiss that echoed through the nest. All around them, smaller spiders began crawling into view, forming a living wall of glistening black limbs and glowing eyes.

“I was never the monster from the chamber,” Aragog said, voice as old as the forest itself. “Hagrid found me as a hatchling in a faraway land. He raised me. Protected me. When the girl died, they blamed him. But it was not I who killed her.”

“Then what was it?” Ron whispered.

“I do not know its name,” Aragog replied. “But I know that all spiders fear it. Even now, when it walks, we flee. It is ancient, and it speaks the language of serpents.”

Charlie’s heart sank. “Parseltongue,” he whispered.

“And now,” Aragog continued, his tone dropping to something colder, “my children are hungry. I cannot deny them fresh meat.”

The trio tensed. From every direction, the skittering sound grew louder. The forest floor began to shift as dozens—no, hundreds—of Aragog’s children crawled forward, mandibles clicking in anticipation.

“Run!” Charlie shouted.

They turned as the spiders lunged. Charlie sent a blasting hex into the mass, sending several smaller spiders flying backward. Ron cast a shield spell that barely held against the sheer number, while Neville fired spells in every direction.

Ron cursed under his breath, flinging a jinx at a leaping spider. “This is insane! They’re everywhere!”

Charlie shot bluebell flames into the path, trying to buy space. “We’re gonna die here.”

Neville’s voice cracked, “I—I never even kissed a girl!”

The spiders surged closer.

Then—a blast of fire lit the sky.

A roaring wall of flame exploded into the clearing, sweeping between the trio and their attackers. Spiders shrieked, flailing back from the heat. In the center of the chaos, on a battered broomstick, hovered Harry Weasley.

“Grab on!” he shouted over the roar.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. He lunged for the broom. Neville and Ron followed suit, scrambling awkwardly to clutch whatever they could of the handle or each other. The broom groaned under the weight, jerking and bucking like a wild hippogriff, but Harry wrestled it toward the treetops, sweat streaming down his face.

The forest blurred beneath them.

Harry didn’t speak. His jaw was clenched, eyes locked on the distant gap in the trees. Spiders launched from below, some even managing to reach them, but Harry kept casting wandless flares and burst-fire hexes, until the monsters screamed in retreat.

They crash-landed just beyond the tree line, rolling over the damp grass beside Hagrid’s hut.

“Ow,” Ron groaned, clutching his shoulder.

Neville threw up into a pumpkin patch.

Charlie sat up, wide-eyed and gasping. “How... how did you even know we were there?”

Harry stood, brushing dirt off his cloak. “Let’s start with a ‘thank you,’” he said dryly. “Then I’ll tell you that you’re not the only ones trying to figure out who the Heir of Slytherin is.”

Ron was staring at him like he’d never seen him before. “But... you... You saved us.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just glanced at them once, eyes unreadable, then turned and walked back toward the dungeons.

Neville wiped his mouth and croaked, “We owe him... our lives.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “Yeah. We do.”

Ron said nothing. He looked down at the ground and muttered something.

The forest was quiet behind them, but the weight of what had just happened sat heavy in their bones. A debt had been made that night—one not easily forgotten.


The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt more oppressive. Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the occasional shuffle of nervous footsteps. Even the portraits watched quietly, their painted eyes wary and mistrusting. Since the latest attacks, the castle had transformed from a place of learning into a place of dread—and for Harry Weasley, isolation had become his constant companion.

So, when Ron, Charlie, and Neville approached him outside the Potions classroom, Harry’s first instinct was suspicion. He had grown used to narrowed eyes and whispered curses. The moment they intercepted him, the other Slytherins who had been trailing behind Harry cleared off without a word, like shadows slinking away from a rising flame.

“What do you want?” Harry asked coolly, his voice sharp but controlled.

“We need to talk,” Charlie said quickly, glancing around. “Somewhere quiet.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “After all the things your House said about me, you're lucky I don't hex you on sight.”

Neville looked guilty. “We’re sorry. We didn’t stop…”

Ron interrupted. “You saved our lives.”

There was a moment of silence. Charlie stepped forward and handed Harry a folded piece of parchment, its edges torn. “Hermione had this when she was found petrified. It’s a page—torn out of a book, probably from the library.”

Harry took it with a frown and opened it. His eyes scanned the yellowed scrap. His breath caught.

"Of all known magical creatures, the Basilisk, also known as the King of Serpents, is one of the most dangerous. Instantly lethal to any who meet its gaze, this creature can grow to a length of fifty feet. The only known defense is to avoid eye contact. Basilisks are born from a chicken’s egg hatched beneath a toad, and can live for hundreds of years. Spiders flee before it. The crowing of a rooster is fatal to it."

Underneath the passage, scribbled in Hermione's handwriting, were the words:

“Pipes.”

Harry stared at it in stunned silence. “So that’s why no one’s died... Justin, Colin, even Nearly Headless Nick—they didn’t look directly into its eyes. Hermione must’ve figured it out right before it attacked.”

“And Astoria too,” Charlie said softly.

Harry swallowed hard and gave a small nod. “This… makes sense. The attacks, the strange voices I heard… it’s a Basilisk. A Parseltongue creature. That’s why only I could hear it.”

Ron looked troubled. “But then why did it attack Astoria and Hermione? They’re both pure-bloods.”

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Harry said. “The Basilisk doesn’t choose its victims. It’s sent.”

Charlie leaned in. “We think we know where the entrance to the Chamber is.”

Harry raised his head sharply. “You do?”

“We're not sure,” Neville said, “but Charlie’s been piecing it together.”

Charlie looked grim. “It’s in the second-floor girls' bathroom.”

Harry let out a breath. “That explains everything. The place is always avoided, and no one ever noticed a thing. If the Basilisk lives in the plumbing... that’s where it must come out.”

“But we can’t go in there,” Ron said, his voice strained. “If it’s really a Basilisk, we’d be dead the moment we saw its eyes.”

Neville nodded slowly. “And we’re not Parselmouths. We couldn’t open the entrance anyway.”

The three boys stared at Harry, and he understood without them needing to say it.

“I am,” Harry muttered. “I could open it.”

“You don’t have to,” Charlie said, eyes searching his face. “But we can’t just wait for someone else to die.”

Harry folded the parchment and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at the three of them—once enemies, now unexpectedly comrades.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. Then, more quietly: “And... thanks.”

As the bell rang, the four parted ways, but something had shifted. Harry no longer walked alone.

And somewhere deep beneath the castle, the Basilisk stirred once more.