THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN
He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on the spot where the serpent’s
fang had pierced him.
He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark shadow moved
in front of him.
“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above him. “Dead.
Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you see what he’s doing, Pot-
ter? He’s crying.”
Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus. Thick,
pearly tears were trickling down the glossy feathers.
“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your
time. I’m in no hurry.”
Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to be spinning.
“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s distant voice.
“Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated
at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back
with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry. . . . She bought you
twelve years of borrowed time . . . but Lord Voldemort got you in
the end, as you knew he must. . . .”
If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad.
Even the pain was leaving him. . . .
But was this dying? Instead of going black, the Chamber seemed
to be coming back into focus. Harry gave his head a little shake and
there was Fawkes, still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly
patch of tears was shining all around the wound — except that there
was no wound —
“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get away from
him — I said, get away —”
Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s wand at
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