HP and the Parseltongue Chronicles - Chapter - 9

The platform at King’s Cross Station buzzed with excitement as students and their families bustled about, bidding their farewells and loading trunks onto the Hogwarts Express. Harry, dressed in casual Muggle clothes, arrived with Sirius and Remus by his side. The sight of the crimson train brought a wave of nostalgia; he had spent most of the summer preparing for this very moment.

“Make sure to write,” Sirius said, gripping Harry’s shoulder. “And don’t cause too much trouble... unless it’s worth it.”

Remus rolled his eyes but smiled. “Stay focused, Harry. You’ve got a big year ahead of you.”

Harry grinned and nodded. “I will.”

Fred and George Weasley, carrying their trunks and joking loudly, appeared from the crowd and waved at Harry. Behind them, Neville Longbottom struggled with his belongings, his grandmother fussing over him. The sight of his friends lifted Harry’s spirits.

“See you at Christmas,” Sirius said, ruffling Harry’s hair before stepping back.

“Take care,” Remus added.

Harry waved as he joined his friends, their laughter and chatter making the weight of the previous year seem lighter.

Harry, Fred, George, and Neville boarded the train, quickly finding a compartment where other members of the Stars Club were already gathered. Hermione Granger, Daphne Greengrass, Susan Bones, and Theodore Nott greeted them warmly.

“Excited for this year?” Hermione asked, already pulling out a book to read for the journey.

“Excited doesn’t cover it,” Fred said, flopping onto a seat. “We’ve got so much planned this year.”

“We’re going to have to step up our game, though,” Blaise added. “The classes are supposed to be tougher.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Daphne said, smirking. “I’m ready for a challenge.”

As the train chugged out of the station, the group discussed their summer adventures and shared their plans for the upcoming term. Harry told them about his visit to the Grangers and the auction success, carefully avoiding any mention of the dark journal.

Upon arrival at Hogsmeade Station, the students disembarked, the cool evening air filled with the scent of pine from the nearby forest. As second years, Harry and his friends no longer needed to cross the Black Lake by boat. Instead, they headed for the thestral-drawn carriages waiting to take them to the castle.

“Do you see them?” Neville asked quietly as they approached the carriages.

Harry nodded, spotting the skeletal, winged horses for the first time. The memory of witnessing Qurell’s death the previous year made them visible to him. “Yeah, I see them.”

The group climbed into one of the carriages, its wooden interior creaking slightly.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Tracy, who had joined them.

“They are,” Harry agreed, though their eerie appearance unsettled him slightly.

The carriage ride to Hogwarts was filled with laughter and anticipation. The looming silhouette of the castle against the twilight sky felt like a warm welcome.

The Great Hall was as magnificent as ever, its enchanted ceiling reflecting the starry night outside. Harry and his friends took their seats at their respective house tables, eagerly awaiting the Sorting Ceremony.

Professor McGonagall entered, leading a line of nervous first years. The Sorting Hat sat on its stool, looking as ancient and wise as ever.

“Do you remember how nervous we were last year?” Neville whispered to Harry.

“Like it was yesterday,” Harry replied with a grin.

The Sorting Hat burst into song, its rhyming verses detailing the qualities of each house. Then, one by one, the first years stepped forward to be sorted.

The Stars Club members clapped loudly for each new member sorted into their respective houses, especially those they recognized from their families or summer gatherings.

“Another Gryffindor!” Fred cheered as a small boy named Timothy Green joined their table.

“And a Slytherin,” Hermoine said as a girl named Clara Finch was sorted into Slytherin house.

By the end of the ceremony, the house tables were buzzing with excitement as the new term officially began.

As the feast began, Harry glanced around at his friends, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. They had come so far since the beginning of the last year. With a new year at Hogwarts ahead of them, and challenges sure to arise, Harry couldn’t help but feel ready.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin sat in the dimly lit study of Highgarden, the journal of Tom Riddle resting ominously on the table between them. The worn black leather cover seemed to pulse faintly, as though aware of their scrutiny.

“Harry’s instincts were spot on,” Sirius muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “This thing isn’t just dark—it’s dangerous. And now that he’s back at Hogwarts, it’s up to us to figure out what exactly we’re dealing with.”

Remus nodded, his expression grim. “We’ve tried everything we know. The enchantments on this journal are unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. It’s time to take it to the experts.”

Over the following weeks, Sirius and Remus reached out to various contacts—some reputable, others less so. The Black family’s extensive network of dealers, collectors, and practitioners of dark magic proved invaluable, but even those well-versed in ancient artifacts couldn’t unravel the secrets of the journal.

“Every single one of them says the same thing,” Sirius said one evening, slamming a report onto the table. “It’s dark magic. Unprecedented. But no one can tell us what it is.”

Remus sighed, rubbing his temples. “And the journal’s ability to write back only complicates things. Whatever magic is in there, it’s sentient.”

“Harry mentioned that it reminded him of the Marauder’s Map,” Sirius said, pacing the room. “But this is different. The map has our personalities imprinted on it—it’s playful, harmless. This… this thing feels alive.”

After exhausting all other avenues, Sirius finally conceded to Remus’s suggestion. “Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands. “We’ll take it to Gringotts. Goblins are experts in magical artifacts, and if anyone can figure this out, it’s them.”

Remus smirked. “Finally listening to reason, are we?”

“Don’t get smug, Moony,” Sirius shot back. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The grand marble hall of Gringotts was as imposing as ever, its high ceilings echoing with the sound of goblin claws clicking against polished floors. Sirius and Remus approached the nearest goblin, who regarded them with sharp, calculating eyes.

“We need a private consultation,” Sirius said, placing the journal on the counter. The goblin’s gaze flicked to the book, and his expression darkened.

“This way,” he said curtly, leading them to a private chamber deep within the bank.

The room was stark, its stone walls and single torch giving it an air of secrecy. Greenhorn entered, his sharp features neutral as he examined the journal. His eyes widened with a mixture of horror and rage. He stumbled back, screaming something unintelligible in Gobbledegook, and his outburst echoed through the grand halls of Gringotts.

Almost instantly, the sound of armored feet filled the chamber as goblin guards stormed in, their sharp weapons drawn and pointed directly at Sirius and Remus.

“What is this outrage?” Sirius barked, raising his hands defensively, though his wand was subtly clutched in his sleeve.

Greenhorn, his face contorted with a sneer, pointed a clawed finger at Sirius. “Black! Where did you find the audacity to bring such a dark piece of magic into the sacred halls of Gringotts? Are you trying to curse us all?”

Remus stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We didn’t know what this journal was. That’s why we brought it here—for your expertise.”

Greenhorn hissed, clearly unimpressed. “Ignorance is no excuse! This... thing reeks of dark magic, magic that threatens the very fabric of balance in our world!”

Before Sirius or Remus could respond, Greenhorn snapped his fingers, and the guards closed in, surrounding them. “You will come with me. The Goblin King must hear of this.”

Sirius and Remus were led through a series of winding tunnels and grand halls, the imposing architecture of Gringotts never failing to remind them of the goblins’ dominance in their domain. Finally, they arrived in an enormous chamber adorned with gold and silver. At its center sat the Goblin King, Ragnar, on a throne carved from obsidian and inlaid with precious gems.

Ragnar was a formidable figure, his sharp features marked by deep lines of wisdom and authority. His piercing eyes locked onto the journal, which Greenhorn placed reverently on a pedestal before him.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion, Greenhorn?” Ragnar demanded, his voice deep and gravelly.

Sirius stepped forward, his usual arrogance tempered by the gravity of the situation. “Your Majesty, we found this journal. It has dark properties, and we thought Gringotts was the safest place to identify and secure it.”

Ragnar leaned forward, his gaze never leaving the journal. “Do you even understand what you have brought here?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Remus interjected. “We need to understand its nature.”

Ragnar’s expression darkened. He motioned for Greenhorn, who whispered into his ear. The Goblin King’s eyes narrowed as he processed the information.

“This,” Ragnar began, his voice heavy with disdain, “is not just a cursed object. It is a Horcrux—a vessel containing a fragment of a dark wizard’s soul.”

Both Sirius and Remus stiffened even though they had never heard of Horcruxes before.

Ragnar’s eyes burned with contempt. “The magic reeks of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. Only a wizard as depraved as he would stoop to splitting his soul to achieve immortality.”

As Ragnar's words echoed in the grand chamber of Gringotts, a palpable silence filled the room. Remus, unable to shake the growing sense of dread, stepped forward cautiously, his voice laced with concern.

“What if the Dark Lord made more than one of these... Horcruxes?” he asked, his gaze fixed on Ragnar. “What if he scattered them across the world? Would that make him truly immortal?”

Ragnar leaned back on his obsidian throne, his sharp eyes gleaming with disdainful amusement. A slow smile spread across his face, revealing his pointy, razor-like teeth. The sight sent a shiver down Sirius and Remus’s spines.

“You wizards,” Ragnar began, his voice carrying an air of contempt, “always think the same. Immortality, power—these are the toys of mortals who do not understand the cost.” He leaned forward, his long fingers tapping on the edge of his throne. “There are things in this world that are sacred, dangerous, and forbidden for a reason. Yet, in your quest for immortality, you tamper with magic that even the oldest creatures fear.”

Ragnar leaned back in his ornate throne, his sharp eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. “The creation of a Horcrux,” he continued, “was never intended to grant immortality. It was an invention of the Egyptian wizards, developed for a far more practical and desperate purpose. Warriors who were sent on suicidal missions or into unwinnable battles would create Horcruxes to ensure their souls remained anchored to this world, even if their bodies perished. With their souls bound to a Horcrux, they could be resurrected with the help of another—a costly but effective strategy.”

Sirius furrowed his brow, his curiosity piqued. “Then why is it considered so dark if it wasn’t meant for immortality?”

Ragnar's expression darkened. “Because it comes with a price. The side effect of creating a Horcrux is that the creator loses half of their natural lifespan. Do you understand what that means, wizard? A natural lifespan is determined the moment a soul is born. It is tied to the very essence of existence, governed by soul magic. For a wizard ordered into a suicide mission, losing half their lifespan in exchange for a chance to return was a worthwhile trade. But for those who sought to cheat death? It was a fool's gamble.”

Remus looked thoughtful, leaning forward. “But Voldemort wasn’t creating Horcruxes for a single mission. He was trying to make himself immortal.”

Ragnar let out a disdainful chuckle. “Herpo the Foul, a dark wizard of ancient Greece, was the first to attempt using Horcruxes for immortality. He thought himself clever, splitting his soul repeatedly to stave off death. But it didn’t work. If it had, Herpo the Foul would still be walking this earth today, and dark wizards would be tossing Horcruxes into the deepest seas. No, splitting the soul through such dark magic doesn’t grant true immortality. It fractures the essence, corrupting it irreparably. And the more you split your soul, the more unnatural your existence becomes. Voldemort didn’t escape this fate. If anything, his foolish attempts have ensured his soul is now a shattered mockery of what it once was.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his face grim. “So, you’re saying that Voldemort might have made himself weaker in the process?”

Ragnar nodded. “Indeed. He is powerful, yes, but he is no immortal god. By creating Horcruxes, he cut his natural lifespan in half for each one. His desperation to cheat death has likely ensured his existence will be short, even if he clings to it unnaturally.”

Remus leaned closer, his voice filled with urgency. “But what does that mean for us? For Harry? If Voldemort isn’t immortal, does that mean he can still be defeated?”

Ragnar leaned forward, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light in the Gringotts chamber. His voice carried a mix of disdain and dark amusement as he addressed Sirius and Remus. “You wizards, always so shortsighted when it comes to the consequences of meddling with soul magic. But let me make this clear—Voldemort is no immortal deity, and you don't even have to exert yourself too much to see him fall.”

Sirius frowned, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean, Ragnar? You said these Horcruxes tether his soul to the world. Isn't that a problem for us?”

Ragnar sneered, baring his sharp teeth. “It’s true that a Horcrux tethers a fragment of the soul to this realm, but let’s examine the math, shall we? If I am correct—and I usually am—Voldemort would have made more than one Horcrux. Let’s say he split his soul once. Half of his natural lifespan is gone. If he did it again, he’s down to a quarter of it. And so on.”

Remus’s brow furrowed. “So, the more Horcruxes he makes, the shorter his lifespan becomes?”

“Precisely,” Ragnar confirmed with a nod. “If Voldemort was alive and in his full body today, he would have been in his sixties. Now, wizards—even the most powerful—rarely live past 160. Assuming he’s already halved and quartered his lifespan, do the math. Voldemort might die naturally by the time he reaches 80, and that’s being optimistic.”

Sirius looked stunned. “So, what you’re saying is...he’s essentially killing himself with his own greed for immortality?”

Ragnar chuckled, his pointy teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Exactly. His obsession with defying death has only ensured he will meet it sooner. Now, here’s the kicker—destroying this diary, if it is indeed the first Horcrux, will not only weaken his soul further but also reduce his remaining lifespan. The connection of soul magic is intricate. Each Horcrux is tied to the creator’s essence. If the soul fragments tethered to the Horcruxes are destroyed, the natural lifespan of the creator diminishes further.”

Remus leaned forward, his voice tense. “But what happens to the other Horcruxes if Voldemort dies naturally before they are destroyed?”

Ragnar's expression turned solemn. “When Voldemort dies, his soul will no longer be tethered to this realm. The fragments in the Horcruxes will follow, collapsing into the void where they belong. Soul magic connects all pieces of the essence together—when the anchor is gone, the fragments cannot survive.”