After spending the night at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Hodge came downstairs and saw a familiar tall, thin figure sitting on the living room sofa.
"Lucky I managed to slip away from hiring new faculty, or I'd have missed a big piece of news." Dumbledore smiled, his silver-white hair and beard swaying with the newspaper in his hand. Hodge glanced quickly—the Ministry of Magic's spokesperson was gesturing passionately, fists raised, while someone behind held a massive sign.
"The Secrecy Law is no longer secret?" Hodge asked in surprise.
Dumbledore spoke softly, his voice tinged with weariness. "In the past, wizards and Muggles weren't exactly divided by a clear line, but they didn't cross paths much. The International Statute of Secrecy was enough to plug most leaks... but not anymore."
Mutants, Hodge thought, a chill running through him.
His attention shifted. "Faculty hiring? Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, right? Harry told me Professor Lupin isn't continuing."
"And Care of Magical Creatures," Dumbledore said. "Professor Kettleburn has finally decided to retire, to spend more time with his remaining little rascals."
"The new replacement is—"
"It's Hagrid. He's agreed to take on the teaching role alongside his duties as gamekeeper." Dumbledore looked up toward the stairs as Hodge heard footsteps. A few seconds later, Harry and Ron appeared at the stairwell, bleary-eyed in their pajamas.
Ron noticed first. He tugged Harry's arm, nearly yanking him off balance. Harry followed Ron's pointing finger and snapped awake.
"Change clothes," he muttered, tossing the words downstairs before vanishing with Ron around the corner.
When they returned, Kreacher had already served hot tea, deftly offering Hodge syrup, milk, and lemon leaves. Harry and Ron barely noticed. As the house-elf bowed and shuffled off, the two boys sneaked furtive glances at Hodge.
"Come on, show it," Ron urged.
"What?" Hodge asked, stifling a laugh.
Ron didn't answer. Eyes wide, he carefully pulled a long, thin object from his pocket—it looked like a leather sheath, with a white oak handle peeking out, clearly carved by hand.
Hodge froze for a second.
Like drawing a dagger, Ron slid the basilisk fang from its sheath, waved it twice in the air, and set it on the table, staring at Hodge and Dumbledore with eager anticipation.
Hodge reached out, wrist flicking lightly. A locket appeared from thin air.
Dumbledore's expression grew grave. He took the locket from Hodge, examining it closely. After a long moment, he exhaled and set it down.
"How do you feel, Harry?" he asked softly.
"Me? Uh—" Harry blinked, staring at the locket. "It's like it's alive."
"Alive?" Ron echoed, puzzled. He lifted the chain to peer closer, but the locket began to tremble faintly.
He yelped, dropping it. The locket clattered onto the table, knocking over a teacup, and lay still in the amber tea. But when Harry's eyes landed on the glittering snake-shaped mark inlaid with green gems, the room spun. The locket rustled again, the sound sharp, like insects scrabbling inside.
Was Harry affecting it? Last time, the reaction hadn't been this strong...
Hodge fell into thought.
Dumbledore's voice was low. "Harry, can you open it?"
"Me?" Harry started to say no, but his gaze caught the snake-shaped S. A spark hit him—Parseltongue. He could use Parseltongue. Wait, Voldemort was a Parselmouth, and so was he... The thought flashed by.
"I'll try," he said, swallowing nervously.
"Here." Ron shoved the basilisk fang dagger into Harry's hand.
"...One... two... three... open."
Harry had experience opening the Chamber. As he hissed the final syllable, the locket's tiny gold lid snapped open. Behind two small glass windows, a pair of living eyes blinked—black, bright, and eerily familiar. Harry instinctively knew they belonged to a young Voldemort, before he became Voldemort.
A plume of black mist surged out, coalescing into a ghostly figure, rooted to the glass windows behind.
A tall, black-haired boy, about fifteen or sixteen. His eyes matched the pair behind the glass exactly. Hodge was stunned—he'd seen Riddle in the diary, but this was different. This boy... he looked almost like Harry.
If anyone in the room was more shocked than the rest, it was Harry himself.
He stared at what could have been himself in two or three years—taller, messier hair, sharper features. Everything matched, except for the lightning scar on his forehead. No—wait. The eyes were different. Harry looked closer. They weren't green. They glowed with a faint, malevolent red. Voldemort's eyes.
"Harry Potter... I feel it... I am you, and you are me," the strange shadow from the locket said.
Harry didn't understand.
"Do it, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly.
"Is he talking to me?" Harry instinctively raised the fang dagger. But the shadow grew taller, more like Harry, until it was like looking in a mirror.
"How perfect, how fitting. I hear the voice of my own kind..."
"Harry." Dumbledore's tone sharpened.
Harry stopped hesitating. His right hand slashed down. The shadow vanished. He lunged forward, driving the fang through the locket's glass window. The locket burned hot; his scar throbbed in sync.
Crack.
Hodge heard glass shatter, then the hiss of the fang corroding the locket's fabric lining. Harry gripped the dagger with one hand, clutching his forehead with the other, staggering. Dumbledore caught him.
"Are you all right, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, searching his eyes.
Harry shook his head, the world spinning. After a few seconds, he steadied, looked at the locket, and pulled the fang free. A wisp of black smoke curled upward.
Sirius's voice echoed from downstairs. He strode through the hall into the living room, letters in hand.
"Hogwarts book lists are here," he said. "Perfect timing—we're heading to Diagon Alley for dragon blood."