CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and Fawkes took flight again in
a whirl of gold and scarlet.
“Phoenix tears . . .” said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry’s arm.
“Of course . . . healing powers . . . I forgot . . .”
He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no difference. In fact,
I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter . . . you and
me. . . .”
He raised the wand —
Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and
something fell into Harry’s lap — the diary.
For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared
at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had
meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor
next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.
There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of
the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry’s hands, flooding the
floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and
then —
He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a clatter and
there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still
oozing from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling
hole right through it.
Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head was spinning
as though he’d just traveled miles by Floo powder. Slowly, he gath-
ered together his wand and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug,
retrieved the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk’s mouth.
Then came a faint moan from the end of the Chamber. Ginny
was stirring. As Harry hurried toward her, she sat up. Her bemused
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