Epilogue

There was water dripping from somewhere.

That was the first thing he was aware of as his limbs stirred from slumber, the idle thought slipping in and out of his mind before he could linger on it.

Green eyes opened before his lips managed an intake of breath, their unfocused gaze unsure of the surroundings, dimly recognising the ghoulish light and smell of damp.

But thoughts began to rush back as soon as Harry choked in his first bite of oxygen, lungs burning with the unexpected rush, coughing and heaving as his body returned from magical abyss.

Pins and needles unlike anything he had ever felt raced through him with a vengeance, causing an anguished cry to leave his lips; the sound startling his unaccustomed ears as all of his senses came to life too quickly.

He lay there for a long time, hours perhaps, as the blood pumped around his body once more, heart hammering intensely as if it were attempting to catch up on lost time. It was nauseating, feeling his fingers twitch and leg muscles spasm without any true control over the movement, waiting for things to even out.

When he could finally inhale without serious discomfort, wincing at the dryness of his eyes and mouth, the Gryffindor cautiously tried out his limbs; shoots of white-hot pain jutting up and down his body sporadically, as if protesting the adjustment. Shaky hands eventually pushed himself up into a half-seated position, not trusting his legs to support him yet.

Slightly dizzy, Harry looked around with disbelief; at last able to acknowledge the fact that he was awake. Not just awake, but fully aware and cognisant of what he had been through. Which meant Riddle had failed.

But as he considered the phantom's ill-fated curse, a dark thought passed over him…

How long had he been asleep?

Mildly terrified of the potential longevity, his eyes searched edgily for any sign of Riddle's body. But there was nothing to see. Only Draco Malfoy's wand and a littering of basilisk fangs – one uncomfortably close, standing out as the tool of Tom Riddle's destruction.

Frowning in thought, Harry managed to drag himself up, stumbling as he moved to take the Slytherin wand at his feet. His hands couldn't grip it with any real strength but the desire to leave this place was overwhelming, so he settled for the loose hold and hurried a 'lumos' spell, casting a soft glow around him; somewhat surprised that Malfoy's wand worked so readily.

A touch breathless, he made his way across the chamber, his steps unsteady but mind determined. Tom Riddle was wrong. He wouldn't be here for eternity, He was getting out. Now.

As he passed beyond the entrance, the snake-laden doors closed softly behind him with a low hiss. The eerie sound made him shiver and he pushed on, slowly making his way down the tunnel, grabbing desperately at the rough wall to hold himself up. Fallen rock still marred the passage from Lockhart's long-ago mishap and he fell several times.

But loose stones were the least of his problems, for a real obstacle was waiting for him when he made it to the end.

Distress gripped his mind as he stared up into the darkened pipe that led back to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Not only was the reach up impossibly far and too steep for his weakened body to climb, but if the never-ending dark was anything to go by, the entrance was likely closed on the other end. There's no way Riddle would have left it exposed.

Taking a rattled breath, Harry realised his body was trembling. He understood that he was beginning to be overwhelmed by all that had occurred. No doubt a sleeping curse from someone so powerful wasn't simply shook off. There would be lingering symptoms and perhaps unknown consequences.

The urge to collapse against the wall in defeat was extremely tempting.

But under the growing despair, there was an unmistakable will to fight the notion of giving in. He thought about Riddle and all he had put him through. The boy – monster – had physically, mentally and magically assaulted him, treating him as if he was some sort of toy.

But, of course, that's exactly what Tom had thought. From the moment he had grabbed him in that dusty alcove, pinning Harry to him, clamping a hand over his mouth and holding him as if he was handling a ragdoll, he had shown his disregard for the Gryffindor as anything but his plaything and pawn.

He would have left Harry to eternal damnation down here, trapped in the gloom; forever separated from his friends. And even his parents. All for the sake of feeding Tom's apparent need for immortality.

There was strength in the anger and resentment he felt bubbling inside and Harry clenched his fists unconsciously, some power returning to his fingers as they finally tightened around the wand he held.

He couldn't let Riddle win in any capacity.

Frowning upwards, he called up into the pipe with a hoarse shout.

"Open!"

As raw as his throat was, the parseltongue lilt carried up into the plumbing with surprising ease, effortlessly echoing along the cylindrical passageway until, miraculously, the low groaning sound of a mechanism clicking and something shifting reached him from far above.

He swallowed against a feeling of victory, knowing the more dangerous part was now upon him. It was risky, but staying here was not an option.

Taking a long breath, he raised Malfoy's wand in firmer fingers and stood directly under the pipe, closing his eyes and praying that he wasn't about to launch himself straight into a more permanent head injury.

"Ascendio."

The sudden jolt was terrifying, his body unsteady as the magic pushed him higher and higher, feet and shoulders grazing the pipe's lining at some of the rougher patches. He knew it was a spell usually reserved for underwater, but he didn't have Falkes this time...

The rush was dizzyingly fast and he could soon see flickering light looming closer.

He urged the incantation to keep working, until he finally reached the top, his body thrown through the open gap in the sinks, crashing to the tiled floor of the bathroom before he thought to consider a cushioning charm. His chest made the initial impact, a sickening snap from inside signalling his landing.

Letting out a short and guttural scream, he gingerly rolled over onto his back, pain flaring from his ribs. Wheezy breaths left him in succession, his lungs in torment.

But even as he lay there, body aching in utter agony, he couldn't help but relish his freedom.

He had gotten away.

Of course, the question of how, or why, he had awoken remained. Riddle said the curse was tied to his magic, but he had seemed so confident that Harry would be lost to his fate even when the basilisk fang had spelled out his own end. Perhaps it simply arrogance? Lord Voldemort did seem to type to think his magic would surpass any boundary.

Taking in small gulps of air that didn't antagonise his aching lungs as much, he allowed himself a moment. He didn't think he had the strength to get up again, but he needed to find Dumbledore.

However, before he had any real time to chance moving, Moaning Myrtle herself flew straight through the wall between the brackets of two lit torches, her silvery form shining in the night-time hours.

Muttering quietly to herself amongst bitter sniffles, she suddenly stopped mid-air. Wide eyes took one look at Harry's bruised, deathly-pale body and she began to scream.

"MURDER! MURDER IN THE GIRLS' BATHROOM!"

She had zoomed through the door before Harry could raise a hand to warn her that he was very much alive, her wailing still audible in the exterior corridor.

Blinking in bewilderment, he decided to rest for a bit – turning to stare up at the ceiling. Maybe it was just as well Myrtle was so dramatic; help would come to him instead. Which was just as well, for he could now taste blood at the back of his mouth. Hardly a good sign.

It couldn't have been more than a minute before several figures burst through the doors – far too quickly to be a mere reaction to Myrtle's alarm. Harry turned his head to the side wearily to see a horrified McGonagall, an intensely pale Snape and an alert Dumbledore standing before him. He let the relief wash over him.

It wasn't just thankfulness for the arrival of aid – but also at the simple fact that none looked as if they had aged a day. Time sat funny in Harry's head. He felt as though one hundred years could have passed just as easily. So to see the proof that it hadn't was balm for his anxious mind and he drank in the sight.

Dumbledore made it to him first, surprisingly agile for his age, sweeping down on Harry in a mass of purple robes, his wand tracing over his prone figure in specific figures and movements. When he seemed satisfied, his eyes turned kind.

"Harry, my boy. Can you hear me?"

"Y-yeah, professor," he rasped.

The wizard's wise face blanched at the slight gurgle underlying his student's words, but Harry pushed himself to speak. He needed to know.

"How long…? Was, was I gone?"

If Dumbledore was surprised by the question, it didn't show.

"Hours, Harry. Severus reported what had happened in the corridor. Once we informed Mr Weasley and Miss Granger of your disappearance and Riddle's suspected involvement, they returned with a very determined Ginny Weasley – who had the foresight to recognise where a shade of young Tom might take you."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed toward the sinks for a moment.

"We were on our way here when Myrtle must have discovered you. But no more of that now, you need the hospital wing. You are badly hurt."

Harry didn't argue.

He allowed himself to be magically lifted and placed on a make-shift stretcher.

It was all so strange. His enchanted sleep had felt much longer than a few mere hours. But the curse must have been broken from the moment Riddle was vanquished. Meaning Harry had only suffered the beginnings of the spell.

He shivered at the thought of how deep he could have gone under, had its caster survived.

"Wait, sir," he said very softly, catching a glimpse of the sinks – the sight disturbing him from his inner musings. Dumbledore halted, as did the other two professors.

"Close," Harry murmured, the hissing sound falling from his lips with surprising ease. He couldn't explain why, but he didn't want to leave the Chamber exposed like that.

An uneven sigh left him and he turned away, only to meet the disturbed eyes of his Potion's professor. Snape's black orbs were fixed on Harry, as if he had never truly seen him before.

As they moved, Dumbledore's words were serious.

"Do we need to be on the lookout for Tom?"

Harry shook his head slowly.

No, Tom Riddle was gone, he was sure of it.

And perhaps that should have been of more comfort; openly acknowledging the other's defeat.

But lying there, his mind in a whirl and body seriously damaged, Harry couldn't help but concede that Tom was merely a precursor to the fight against the more frightening form of Lord Voldemort.

And if a phantom of the boy could do this much to him, who knew what the wizard he had become was capable of.

End