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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – House Divided

The silence of Malfoy Manor was never comfortable.

Its corridors echoed with the kind of quiet that made Harry feel like a trespasser in his own life — each step on the polished floorboards too loud, each breath a reminder that he didn’t truly belong. The summer air outside was hot and dry, but inside, the Manor was cool and still, as though the walls themselves disapproved of warmth.

Harry had been back for two weeks, but no one had spoken of what happened in the Forbidden Forest. He didn’t mention Quirrell’s corpse or the unicorn’s blood, nor the way Voldemort’s voice had rasped in the dark.

Lucius hadn’t said a word to him longer than necessary. Narcissa’s clipped greetings were polite but lacked warmth. Draco, when he visited from the south wing, was different too — quieter, watchful, sometimes looking at Harry as if he didn’t know him at all.

That night, Harry lay awake, the heavy curtains pulled back from the tall windows, letting in the moonlight. Shadows stretched long across the ornate rug, reaching like fingers toward the door.

He heard them again — footsteps, muffled voices beyond the hall. Harry quickly slipped on his invisibility cloak.

He followed the voices until he stood just outside the drawing room.

“…it will open again,” came Lucius’s voice, low and precise.

Narcissa’s followed, clipped with worry. “You promised me, Lucius. Not again — not this soon. He’s just a child.”

“The Dark Lord may not have succeeded with the Stone, but the old blood still calls. The Chamber is a relic of purity. If it opens, it will cleanse.”

Harry’s breath caught.

A rustling of robes. A pause.

“You’re sure Draco will be safe?”

“Of course. He is a pureblood, love—”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s the only way to know if the Dark Lord deserves to come back, or if Harry is the Chosen One.”

“The Chosen One? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? He defeated the Dark Lord as an infant, survived a killing curse — something no one in the history of our kind has ever done. At the age of eleven, he killed a grown man just by touching him. And the Dark Lord fled again.”

Footsteps.

Narcissa was walking toward the door — toward Harry.

She wouldn’t see him. But she would definitely notice if she tripped right over him.

Harry panicked. Froze.

A crash behind the opposite door to the drawing room made him jump out of his skin.

He seized the opportunity, turned, and slipped quickly back toward his room.

“Candlestick fell off the corridor table,” Lucius muttered irritably.

Harry heard Dobby’s faint, trembling voice: “I’m sorry, Master… I must have knocked it over by mistake…”

Then a squeal. High, sharp, unmistakable pain.

Harry closed the door quietly behind him and collapsed onto his bed, heart pounding.

A shrunken head rolled slightly in the corner, its eye sockets glinting oddly in the moonlight.

“The writing’s on the wall,” it croaked. “Blood upon the floor. It begins again. It always begins again.”

Harry knelt beside it. “What did you say?”

The head grinned, mouth full of blackened teeth. “The castle knows. The walls listen. And you — you carry the echo of him.”

Before Harry could press further, the door creaked open.

Dobby stood there.

But not the cheerful, timid Dobby he’d known last year. His eyes were wide and wet, and his ears twitched like antennae searching the air.

“You mustn’t go back, Harry Potter,” he whispered hoarsely. “He’ll try again. The blood — it will not stop this time.”

Harry frowned. “Who? Try what?”

But Dobby backed away, hands wringing violently. “Danger. Danger in the school. Dobby said too much. Dobby always says too much.”

And with a snap, he was gone.

The next morning at breakfast, the air was as stiff as ever.

Silver cutlery scraped against fine China, the only sound filling the cavernous dining room. No one spoke — not until Lucius cleared his throat.

“Narcissa and I need to go to Gringotts today.”

Draco immediately perked up. “Excellent. Can I come?”

“No,” Mr. Malfoy said sharply, not even looking up from his paper.

Draco flinched, caught off guard by the sudden bite in his father's voice.

Narcissa's gaze softened as she looked across the table at her son. “What your father means is — not this time, darling.”

Lucius folded the paper with clinical precision. “You boys are old enough to stay by yourselves for a few hours. If you need anything, summon the house elf.”

He stood, brushing invisible lint from his robes. “Come, Narcissa.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat — just long enough for Harry to notice — then followed.

The moment the doors closed behind them; the sound of Apparition echoed faintly through the manor. Draco rose without a word and turned for the stairs.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore — the silence, the tension, the cold shoulder from the one person who used to be his anchor in this house.

“So, the last eleven years meant nothing to you?”

Draco froze halfway up the steps.

Harry stood behind him, fists clenched at his sides. “Is that it? It’s not like you even talk to me anymore. You won’t even look at me.”

Draco turned, his face pale and drawn. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like? Because I don’t understand, Draco! What changed?”

But Draco didn’t answer.

Harry’s voice broke slightly. “I thought we were—”

He turned away, storming back to his room before he said something worse.

A few moments passed. Then the door to Harry’s room slammed open so hard the hinges rattled.

Draco stood in the frame, trembling, chest rising and falling too quickly.

“What changed?” he spat, then answered his own question. “Father knows about Hermione!”

Harry stared.

Draco stepped inside, voice shaking with a mix of fury and something more fragile underneath. “He told me I’m ruining the family name. I tried to lie, said I was just using her, that she was just... just useful because she’s clever. But he didn’t care. That just made it worse.”

He laughed bitterly. “He said I was ‘following your lead’—said you were a mistake. And then he threatened to remove you from the house if I didn’t obey. Said he’d fix the situation.”

Draco’s voice cracked into a whisper. “What was I supposed to do, Harry?”

Harry stood frozen, throat tight. He’d known Lucius had spoken to Draco — but he hadn’t realized just how cruel, how venomous his words had been.

Slowly, Harry crossed the room, letting the anger fall away like armor dropping to the floor.

“You’re like a brother to me,” Harry said softly. “You always will be.”

He wrapped his arms around Draco, and to his surprise, Draco didn’t push him away. He collapsed against Harry’s shoulder, fists twisted in the back of Harry’s robes, body trembling with everything he hadn’t said until now.

And for a moment, they stood there, two boys trying to carry the weight of legacies they hadn’t asked for.

Harry felt shame rise in his chest. He’d been so caught up in his own fears, his own questions, that he’d completely missed Draco’s unraveling.

Then came the voice.

From the corner, the shrunken head cleared its throat theatrically.

“This is so touching. If I still had working tear ducts, I’d cry.”

Draco groaned against Harry’s shoulder. “Do you ever shut up?”

The head grinned. “Not even if you stuffed me back in a trunk. I’m cursed with excellent timing.”

Harry laughed, and to his relief, Draco did too — just a small sound, but it was real.

They were still in the storm, but for the first time all summer, they weren’t alone in it.

Harry and Draco, after their confrontation, made a silent pact — to pretend, outwardly, that nothing had changed. They laughed in private, studied together in the afternoons, even sparred occasionally in the dueling chamber. But beneath it all, there was something stronger than before — an understanding forged in pain and defiance. Whatever the world said, they wouldn’t let it break them apart.

Harry’s birthday came and went without much mention, besides a small cake Dobby had left on his windowsill. He didn’t care. He hadn’t expected gifts. He didn’t even want them. All he truly wanted was to leave Malfoy Manor behind.

For the first time in months, Harry felt a flicker of anticipation. Despite the horrors of the past year, Hogwarts still felt like something familiar — something normal. He wasn’t even sure anymore which place was safer, the Manor or the castle. But at least at Hogwarts, he didn’t feel like he was under constant surveillance.

When the day came, they traveled the same way as last year — Floo Powder to the Leaky Cauldron. Draco went first, then Harry, then Narcissa. Lucius followed last, brushing ash from his robes with practiced elegance.

Harry refused to go down to the vault again. He made Dobby do it this time, sending the elf with clear instructions: enough gold for his supplies — and something extra. Just in case.

Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts.

The shop was more packed than usual, buzzing with noise and the scent of parchment and ink. A garish banner floated over the main display table, flashing in gold script:

“Meet Gilderoy Lockhart – Author! Adventurer! Five-Time Winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile!”

A stack of glossy books teetered beneath the floating sign. Harry grimaced as he saw the titles: Magical Me, Voyages with Vampires, Gadding with Ghouls, and at least five more — all Lockhart, all mandatory for this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Harry picked one up reluctantly. “Is this bloke serious?”

Draco snorted. “If this is our new professor, I think I’d rather take my chances with another cursed turban.”

As they moved to the counter, a loud commotion near the entrance drew everyone's attention. The Weasley family had arrived — all of them, it seemed. Ron stood a little apart, looking uncomfortable in his too-short robes and slightly scuffed shoes. Harry noticed how he kept glancing toward the corner as if hoping no one would recognize him.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and a smirk curled on his lips. “Well, well… if it isn’t Weasley. Still clinging to the bottom rung, are you?”

Ron turned, face already reddening.

“Proud Hufflepuff now, are you?” Draco said louder, drawing glances from nearby shoppers. “Didn’t realize your family sorted for loyalty and mediocrity.”

Ron’s ears burned bright crimson. “Shove off, Malfoy.”

Draco grinned wider. “Just saying — I guess every family needs a disappointment.”

Before Ron could lunge, Arthur Weasley stepped forward. “That’s enough, Draco.”

But it wasn’t Draco who responded.

Lucius Malfoy, who had arrived just behind them, stepped in like a shadow falling over the room. “Tread carefully, Weasley. It’s no wonder your children end up in odd places. All in Gryffindor, one Hufflepuff — who knows where they’ll place your daughter? No sense of heritage at all.”

Arthur squared his shoulders. “And yours end up in Slytherin — imagine my surprise.”

Lucius smiled thinly. “Say what you like. At least mine don’t associate with Mudbloods.” He made a pointed glance toward Miss Weasley, who was speaking with Hermione and her parents.

The air went still. Several people gasped.

Arthur moved fast — faster than anyone expected. His fist connected with Lucius’s jaw with a solid, echoing crack. Shouts rang out. Narcissa gasped. Molly shrieked. The twins whooped.

Lucius staggered but caught himself, eyes glittering with fury. Wands began to appear — Narcissa had hers half-raised, and Mrs. Weasley yanked hers out of her bag with shaking hands.

But before things escalated further, the shopkeeper, an elderly witch with ink-stained fingers and steely eyes, stepped in with a loud bang of her cane.

“Enough! This is a bookstore, not a dueling pit. Take it outside or drop it.”

Arthur was breathing heavily. Lucius straightened his robes, one corner of his mouth already bruising.

“This isn’t over,” Lucius said quietly, brushing past them.

“No, I imagine it isn’t,” Arthur replied, eyes still burning.

Before Harry could reach the door, a man with a flash camera stepped in front of him. “It’s Harry Potter!”

Before he could blink, Harry was being dragged toward the center of the shop.

The next thing he knew, he was standing beside Gilderoy Lockhart himself — teeth gleaming unnaturally white, turquoise robes blindingly bright.

Flashes burst like fireworks as the photographer snapped picture after picture.

Lockhart draped an arm around Harry’s shoulders as if they were old friends. “Nice big smile, Harry! You and I are about to make front-page news!”

Harry gave the barest twitch of a grin, squinting under the barrage of camera flashes.

“Little did young Mr. Potter know,” Lockhart said loudly, addressing the crowd, “when he stepped in to purchase my humble autobiography, that he’d be walking out with my entire collected works — free of charge!”

Harry blinked. “Wait—”

But the shop clerk had already shoved a full stack of Lockhart’s books into his arms, nearly knocking him off balance. The crowd clapped. Lockhart took a deep bow, grinning like a showman.

Draco made a gagging sound behind him. “Yep, the turban would have been better.”

Harry managed to escape with Draco’s help, stumbling past the onlookers and back toward the corner where Narcissa waited with their purchases. The moment he was free of Lockhart’s spotlight, he dropped the stack onto the counter with a groan.

The tension had eased, if only slightly, but it hung in the air like fog after a storm. Hermione was still quiet. Ron kept glancing over at Draco with murder in his eyes. The Weasley girl, meanwhile, had barely taken her eyes off Harry the entire time — staring as if he were some myth made flesh.

Harry was about to look away when movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

Lucius Malfoy had stepped away from the counter, casually meandering toward the Weasley family. His pale hand reached into young girl’s cauldron, plucking out a secondhand book and examining it with disdain.

“Secondhand,” he murmured, loud enough for the whole shop to hear. “Such a shame. And those robes — are those patches?”

Her face turned scarlet, and she clutched the sides of her cauldron protectively.

Lucius gave a slow, disapproving shake of his head and let the book fall back in. But not before his other hand — unnoticed by all but perhaps one — dropped something small and black among the pages: a thin, worn black book bound in cracked leather, its surface glinting faintly in the light.

He turned without a word and returned to Narcissa’s side.

Harry frowned. Something about the motion — the ease of it — bothered him. But before he could place why, Narcissa called to the boys, “Come along. We’ve spent long enough in this madhouse.”

They exited the shop into the late morning sun. Behind them, the Weasleys were still gathering themselves, and Lockhart’s voice carried faintly from inside the store, now giving a dramatic reading from Magical Me.

As they walked away, Harry glanced sideways at Draco. “Well… that was awful.”

Draco smirked sarcastically. “Speak for yourself. I had a lovely time.”

Harry didn’t answer. Something still gnawed at him — not the fight, not Lockhart, not even the way Hermione had looked so ashamed. Something else. Something small. Something important.

But the feeling passed.

Chapter Text

September the first had finally returned—crisp and grey, brimming with the quiet tension that always preceded the train to Hogwarts. Harry had packed his trunk the night before, unable to sleep with anticipation crackling under his skin. Hedwig’s cage gleamed in the corner, freshly cleaned and lined with straw—Dobby’s doing, of course. The elf had been acting stranger than usual lately, lingering near Harry’s door and giving him tearful, sidelong glances, as though he were about to say something and always lost his nerve at the last second.

The shrunken head perched atop Harry’s wardrobe had been no help at all.

“I’ll not be stuffed in a dark box like a cursed toadstool,” it scoffed when Harry tried coaxing it into the trunk. “Smells like old socks and shame in there. I’ll go in last, thank you very much.”

Harry suspected it just wanted to eavesdrop on the morning bustle a little longer.

He would’ve already changed into his school robes, but Narcissa had insisted on a discreet entrance through King’s Cross Station before they slipped through to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The robes, she claimed, would draw too much attention from Muggles. So Harry loitered in the hallway in neatly pressed trousers and a black turtleneck, feeling oddly formal and impatient.

Lucius was oddly cheerful this morning, which was more disturbing than comforting. He’d hummed—a hummed tune—over his morning tea. Harry had stared at him for a solid minute, unsure whether this was some sort of test.

Draco, mercifully, was too distracted to notice. He was practically shaking with excitement, rattling off Quidditch stats and snide predictions about how the Slytherin team would crush Gryffindor this year.

“This is my season,” he declared with smug certainty. “Flint says I’ve got the best reflexes on the team—might even let me co-captain.”

But it was Narcissa who surprised Harry most.

Just before they were set to leave, she called him into the drawing room with a clipped, “A word, Harry,” that brokered no delay. He followed, heart beginning to pound without knowing why.

Inside, the room was quiet and cold. Sunlight spilled through the high windows, gilding the old carpet and the stern portrait frames with brittle gold. Narcissa stood in the center of the room, arms folded, her polished calm replaced by something rawer—tighter.

All politeness had left her.

“You promised to keep Draco safe last year,” she said sharply.

Harry shifted on his feet. “He’s fine. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

She rolled her eyes—a surprisingly ungraceful gesture. “What about the rumors? That Draco’s been seen befriending a Mudblood?” Her voice curled around the word like it left a bitter taste. “Not all dangers are sharp as a sword’s point, Harry. Some are poisonous. They infect minds, change allegiances. And then those minds infect others.”

Harry’s expression hardened. “So, if I don’t keep Draco in line, do I get kicked out of Malfoy Manor?” he asked flatly.

Something in Narcissa’s face cracked. The severity drained out of her, replaced by something Harry had never seen before: sorrow.

“Don’t pretend I matter that much to you,” Harry said, bitterness bubbling up now. “You’ve never been cruel, but you’ve never treated me like your son.”

Her eyes clouded—glassier than usual, tears shimmering on the edge but refusing to fall.

“It’s more complicated than I could ever explain.”

And then—without warning—she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. The hug was sudden, desperate, unlike her usual poise. Harry stood stiff in her embrace, uncertain whether to recoil or return it.

“Please,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Know that everything I’ve done—everything—was for Draco’s safety. And yours.”

Harry’s resentment faltered, confusion rushing in to fill its place.

He didn’t return the hug—not exactly—but he didn’t pull away either.

Later That Morning –

“Can’t we just Apparate?” Draco asked as he stepped out of the fireplace, brushing soot from the collar of his traveling coat.

Lucius sighed in exasperation, adjusting his cuffs. “You can’t Apparate into Muggle train stations. It’s a security matter—magical and Muggle alike. Ministry regulations.”

Narcissa, examining her gloves in the mirror, added without turning, “And we’re hardly going to risk setting off a magical breach alert. Not when Lucius is still under scrutiny. Besides, blending in is safer.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “So, your idea of ‘blending in’ is stepping out of a wizarding pub and strolling into a Muggle station in peacock-green robes?”

Draco smirked. “She’s toning it down today. Just emerald trim.”

At King's Cross Station

The station thrummed with muted chaos—travelers, luggage, shouting porters. Harry stood just off to the side with Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa, waiting for the signal to cross through the barrier. The Weasleys were not far off, a loud, ginger blur of motion and noise. Judging by the pointed looks exchanged across the platform, the recent altercation between the families had not been forgiven—or forgotten.

Harry drifted behind a pillar, curious, as Fred and George leaned in toward their father.

“—you did remember to de-Charm the car, right, Dad?” Fred whispered.

George added, “Just to be safe?”

Arthur Weasley looked flustered. “Yes, yes, it should blend in perfectly now. Not a single trace of magic left. Probably.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

Behind them, Ron scowled. “Why can’t we just fly the car to Hogwarts?”

Arthur’s head snapped around. “Ronald! I work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—do you have any idea what would happen if someone saw us flying a Ford Anglia to school? Please think, boy!”

Flying car? Harry’s thoughts snagged on the phrase.

As he turned back to Draco to whisper what he’d overheard, he saw the Weasleys funneling one by one into the barrier. The little girl and her mother went first, then the oldest went with his father, then the twins. Ron, jogging to catch up, was just steps away.

Draco, following Harry’s gaze, sneered. “Watch this.”

He flicked his wand and muttered, “Locomotor Mortis.”

Ron’s knees snapped together mid-stride. He pitched forward and landed face-first on the platform with a heavy grunt.

“Oops,” Draco said blandly.

Narcissa gave Draco a pointed look but said nothing, merely looping her arm through his. “Come,” she said coolly. “We don’t want to miss the train.”

Lucius vanished through the barrier with a practiced stride. Draco followed, Narcissa close behind, her cloak trailing emerald silk.

Harry stepped forward at last—but as his trolley touched the bricks, he was thrown back violently, as if the barrier had turned to stone. He crashed to the ground, dazed, the wind knocked from his lungs.

“What the—?”

Ron stumbled beside him, having recovered from the jinx. He rushed the barrier—and bounced off with a painful thud.

A long, stunned silence passed between them.

“They’re gone,” Ron said, voice rising with panic. “The train’s—It’s about to leave!”

Harry stared at the ticking clock overhead, then at the wall. “They’ve gone through. And now I’m stuck with you.”

Ron turned sharply. “Great.”

Harry hesitated. “Your car... it really flies, doesn’t it?”

Ron gave him a look of disbelief. “Yes, but I wouldn’t take you with me.”

Harry crossed his arms. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re attracting a lot of attention. And I’m sure Lucius Malfoy would love to know your dad enchanted a Muggle car. I imagine it’s rather illegal.”

“You’re blackmailing me?” Ron snapped. “My dad could get fired!”

Harry tilted his head. “Maybe he shouldn’t have punched Lucius at Flourish and Blotts, then.”

Ron flushed. “He deserved it!”

A station guard called out, “You two all right over there?”

Harry raised a hand. “Yes, sir! Just leaving now.”

Ron hissed, “Fine! We’ll use the car. But you can’t tell anyone.”

Harry offered a faint smirk. “Deal.”

Above the Countryside

The Ford Anglia soared above green patchwork fields, a quiet hum trailing behind. Every so often, Ron dipped low to spot the gleaming scarlet snake of the Hogwarts Express below.

“There it is again,” Harry said, pointing to the faint plume of steam. “Still on track.”

“Course it is,” Ron muttered, trying to sound confident. Just then the car shimmered—and the invisibility wore off.

“It’s fine. I’m sure no one can see us,” he added unconvincingly.

The sun climbed higher. Birds scattered as the car glided above forest and hill. Even Hedwig had calmed, sulking quietly in her cage.

Then, far ahead, the Black Lake came into view—its glassy surface gleaming dark and ominous.

“That’s it,” Harry said, sitting up straighter. “We’re almost there.”

And then the car gave a sudden, unnatural lurch.

Ron’s hands flew to the wheel. “What was that?”

The engine coughed—a dry, choking stutter—and began rattling violently.

Harry’s stomach dropped. “Tell me this is a normal thing.”

“It’s not a normal thing!” Ron barked, slamming the pedals. “Oh no, nonono—”

The car sputtered, bucked sideways, then spiraled down toward the castle.

Harry braced. “I knew this would happen! This car belongs in a museum!”

“This was your brilliant idea!” Ron screamed.

Below, a hulking, gnarled tree loomed into view.

“What the hell is that—?”

The crash was violent.

The Whomping Willow

The Anglia slammed into the branches with a metallic shriek. The tree groaned, then sprang to life, limbs flailing like furious tentacles.

“GET OUT!” Ron yelled.

Before they could move, the car ejected them and Hedwig’s cage in a screech of metal and fury.

They hit the ground hard—trunks flying, robes torn. The car reversed, roared off into the Forbidden Forest, and vanished.

The tree creaked ominously. Then—stillness.

Ron groaned into the dirt. “I think… I hate that tree.”

Harry coughed. “You think?”

A cold voice cut the air.

“Well, well… what do we have here?”

Snape stood at the edge of the clearing, robes drifting like storm clouds, arms crossed.

“If it isn’t Mr. Potter… and a Weasley. Breaking school rules before term has even started. Flying unauthorized magical vehicles. Damaging school property. Disturbing the Forbidden Forest…”

“We were—” Ron began.

“Quiet.” Snape’s voice cracked like a whip. “You can explain yourselves to the Headmaster. Now.”

They followed.

Snape’s Office

The room was dim, the air thick with herbs and something metallic. Jars lined the shelves, filled with unidentifiable horrors.

Snape slammed down the Daily Prophet.

"ENCHANTED MUGGLE VEHICLE SEEN FLYING OVER LONDON!"

Grainy photos showed the Anglia soaring over rooftops, a Muggle child pointing in awe, a woman fainting near parked cars.

Snape’s lips curled in fury. “You were seen by no less than six Muggles. A farmer in Kent, two Muggle children in Surrey, a bus driver on the M3, and—oh yes—a woman in Chelsea who thought it was the Second Coming.” His voice lowered to a deadly hiss. “Did you not get enough attention last year, Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Snape held up a pale finger.

“And you, Weasley,” he sneered, turning to Ron. “Doesn’t your father work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office? How poetic. His own son breaking half a dozen laws in one afternoon. I do hope you enjoyed your joyride, because you’ve embarrassed your family and endangered the Statute of Secrecy.”

Ron opened his mouth in indignation but froze when two plates and goblets appeared in front of them with a faint crack. The silver plates filled themselves with thick sandwiches, and the goblets brimmed with pumpkin juice.

“Eat,” Snape snapped. “Your guardians will be contacted, and I will return shortly with Professor Sprout and the Headmaster.”

He swept from the room without another word, the door banging shut behind him.

The boys sat in uneasy silence.

Ron immediately began cramming sandwiches into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days. “What d’you think Dumbledore will do?” he mumbled between bites. “Expel us?”

Harry didn’t answer. He’d barely touched his sandwich, the bread going dry and stale in his mouth. He had a feeling expulsion might be the least of their problems.

Minutes dragged by. The clock on the wall ticked loud and slow. At one point, Hedwig gave an indignant hoot from her cage in the corner, but otherwise, the room was quiet—save for Ron’s chewing.

Then the door opened again.

Snape returned, flanked by Professor Sprout and Albus Dumbledore himself. Dumbledore’s robes were a deep midnight blue, his expression unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles. Professor Sprout looked stern and flushed from the sun, dirt still smudged on her gloves from the greenhouses.

“Explain yourselves,” Dumbledore said simply, his voice neither kind nor angry—just completely serious. “At once.”

Harry swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

“It wasn’t planned,” he began. “I swear. I was with the Malfoys—we were all going to the platform like normal—but Ron… he got stuck outside. And I got… well, thrown out.”

“You what?” Professor Sprout exclaimed.

“The barrier didn’t let me through,” Harry said. “Ron was there too. We were the only ones left. The train was about to leave, and—”

“And he blackmailed me,” Ron cut in, looking betrayed. “He said he’d tell my dad about the car unless I flew him to Hogwarts!”

“I reminded you that your dad punching Lucius Malfoy might not be something Mr. Malfoy has forgotten,” Harry countered, frowning. “You agreed!”

“I didn’t agree-agree, I just—”

“Enough,” Dumbledore said, raising a hand. “I believe I understand the sequence of events.”

Snape looked furious but held his tongue.

Dumbledore turned to Harry. “Thrown out by the barrier, you say. That’s… unusual.”

“I thought so too,” Harry muttered.

Dumbledore's eyes lingered on him for a long, thoughtful moment, as if weighing something unseen.

“Well,” he finally said, “this was reckless. Dangerous. Irresponsible. You both broke the law, risked discovery by the Muggle world, and endangered yourselves and others.”

Ron shrank in his seat. Even Harry couldn’t hold Dumbledore’s gaze.

“But…” the old wizard continued, more gently now, “I do believe your intentions were not malicious. Foolish, yes. But not cruel. We shall discuss consequences shortly.”

Snape made a noise like a dry cough of protest.

“Later, Severus,” Dumbledore said firmly. “For now, I believe these boys should be taken to the Great Hall. They’ve missed the feast—though I imagine the whole school has heard about their grand entrance by now.”

Harry groaned.

Sprout sighed and motioned toward the door. “Come on, you two. Let’s get you inside before Peeves starts a betting pool.”

As they were led out, Harry couldn’t help glancing back. Dumbledore stood with his hands folded, watching him—not with anger, but something else. Concern. Curiosity. Maybe even fear.

And Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the year was already off to a very dangerous start.

They trudged through the castle halls behind Professor Sprout, the silence between them thick with everything unsaid. The crash, the whirlwind with Snape, and now Dumbledore’s quiet scrutiny—it all felt unreal. Even now, Harry half-expected to wake up back at Malfoy Manor, the summer stretching on forever.

In the Entrance Hall, Sprout paused before the doors to the Great Hall. The sounds of the feast echoed faintly from beyond—the low hum of student chatter, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of goblets and cutlery.

“You’ll both serve detention for a week,” she said firmly. “Ron, you’ll assist me in the greenhouses with the Mandrakes. Harry… Professor Snape has decided it would be best if you served detention with Professor Lockhart.”

“No house points lost?” Ron asked cautiously, looking shocked.

Sprout pursed her lips. “Would you like there to be?”

The moment the boys stepped into the Hall, a hush fell.

Every head turned.

Then, as if on cue, the whispers began—rippling like wind through tall grass.

Ron turned red to the ears, clutching his bag like a shield. Harry kept his head high, though he could feel the stares crawling up his spine.

Harry went to the Slytherin table. Ron slunk over to Hufflepuff.

“You are legends,” Draco whispered.

“We saw it—well, we saw the tree. And the dent,” Crabbe and Goyle added.

Hermione, from the Ravenclaw table, looked like she wanted to strangle Harry. Her glare could’ve shattered glass.

At the staff table, Snape’s glare drilled into Harry like a hex. But he said nothing.

Because sitting not far from Dumbledore, leaning back with calculated poise, was Lucius Malfoy.

His cold gray eyes met Harry’s from across the hall. He gave the slightest nod. Harry wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he saw the faintest smile.

Harry stiffened.

So he’d been the one to intervene.

Lucius had spoken to Snape—maybe even Dumbledore. Maybe he’d insisted that if Harry was expelled, there’d be consequences. Whatever he’d said, it had worked. Harry was still here.

But at what cost?

He turned back to his plate and picked up his fork. He hadn’t touched his food all evening.

And deep down, Harry knew: this year, everything was going to be different.

Chapter Text

The castle was quieter than usual when Harry stepped out of the Slytherin common room. The early September air was crisp in the stone corridors, and his footsteps echoed as he made his way toward the Great Hall.

Malfoy caught up with him just outside the Grand Staircase.

He sighed and ran a hand through his pale hair. “Look, I waited. I did. But Father was furious, and Mother—she insisted we board the train immediately. Said drawing attention on the platform would only make things worse.”

“Did anyone come looking for me?” Harry muttered.

“I didn’t know what happened until we arrived,” Malfoy said sharply. “No one did. You were just—gone. Father was already at Hogwarts, meeting with some Ministry officials. When we told him you hadn’t come through the barrier, he looked ready to hex the whole platform. I think he suspected sabotage.”

Harry stopped walking.

Malfoy did too. “They couldn’t Apparate, Harry. It’s illegal to do so directly into Hogwarts, and outside the station there were Muggles everywhere.”

Harry stared at him. “Was your dad mad at me?”

Malfoy’s expression hardened—not with anger, but something like confusion. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Father more pleased with you. He was telling the Ministry they should be investigating their own Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, not threatening us. He made you sound like a bloody hero.”

There was a beat of silence.

Harry looked down at the floor, the memory of the Whomping Willow, the crash, the sickening jolt of landing all flashing through his mind.

“…So, your dad pulled strings.”

Malfoy nodded. “He spoke to Snape first, then Dumbledore. Whatever threat he made, it worked. You're still here.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “This year’s off to a great start.”

Malfoy scoffed. “What are you annoyed about? No points lost, you’re not expelled, Father’s thrilled, and you got off with just a week of detention.”

“I guess you’re right,” Harry muttered. “But I’m tired of the attention. I don’t know... I just hoped this year would be normal.”

Draco laughed. “You’re Harry Potter. This is Hogwarts. ‘Normal’ isn’t even on the menu.”

The Great Hall loomed ahead. Voices and clinking cutlery drifted from within, but the corridor felt oddly still.

Without another word, they walked through the doors.

Draco, instead of easing the tension, raised his voice as they entered. “That’s right—I'm with the daredevil himself! Look and be amazed!”

Harry gave him a sideways glare. “Really?”

Draco smirked. “Own it, Potter. Don’t run from it.”

The Slytherin table erupted in cheers, and Harry held his head high—though red was flushing through his cheeks.

As the din of celebration echoed around them, Harry caught Draco scanning the Ravenclaw table. His eyes found Hermione, who immediately buried her face deeper into Voyages with Vampires, pretending she hadn’t seen him.

The first owls of the morning began to swoop in overhead, flapping through the enchanted ceiling sky. They dropped letters and packages to students who had left things behind or were receiving supplies from home.

With no surprise to anyone, a large parcel landed squarely on Neville’s head with a loud thump and a resounding “Owe!” from him.

The room burst into hushed giggles as an exhausted-looking owl spiraled downward and collapsed in a heap at the Hufflepuff table, directly in front of Ron. His siblings—Fred, George, and Percy—immediately gathered around him, eyes wide.

Ron reached for the bright red envelope tied to the owl’s leg, hands trembling.

From across the room, someone shouted, “Look—Weasley’s got a Howler!”

Several students leaned forward in anticipation. Ron looked as though he wanted to disappear.

He hesitated a second too long.

The envelope burst into flames and sprang open, stretching into the shape of a wide, angry mouth. A deafening female voice exploded through the hall, echoing off every stone wall.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice, full of maternal wrath, silenced the entire Great Hall.

“HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR! What were you thinking?! You could have been killed! Killed, Ronald! And Harry too! Not that that stopped you from behaving like a complete lunatic!”

Gasps and laughter rippled through the students.

“A flying car! In broad daylight! Over Muggle towns! The entire Ministry knows! You’ve broken half a dozen laws! Your father is being investigated at work! There’s talk of a full inquiry! DO YOU EVEN CARE WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO HIM?!”

Ron’s face had gone pale, except for the burning red tips of his ears.

“He works so hard, Ronald—to support this family—and now thanks to you, he’s in trouble with the Ministry! The car wasn’t even working properly, and you thought it would be fun to crash it into a tree?! At Hogwarts?! What if you’d died—or worse, gotten expelled?!”

The Gryffindor table sat frozen in horrified amusement. Percy was mortified. Fred and George had turned pink trying not to laugh aloud.

“And poor Ginny—her first year, and already half the school is talking about you! Do you want to humiliate this family, Ronald? Because if that was the goal, well done! Absolutely well done!”

Several first-years at the Hufflepuff table stared open-mouthed. The Howler raged on.

“You will march to Professor Sprout’s office every single day of that detention and thank her for showing mercy. And don’t think for one second that you’ll be receiving anything by owl for the rest of the term—not a single sweet, not a crumb! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”

With one final fiery hiss, the letter dissolved into smoke and ash.

The silence that followed was total.

Then a second-year snorted. The dam broke. Laughter, whispers, and applause followed like a wave.

Ron slowly lowered his hands from his ears, looking like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Draco leaned toward Harry with a smirk. “And that, Potter, is why I don’t open post in public.”

Right on cue, another owl descended from the enchanted ceiling—sleek, silver-feathered, and unmistakably regal. It dropped a pristine envelope with wax seals and embossed green lettering directly in front of Harry.

Harry stared at it. The crest of the Malfoy family gleamed against the parchment.

He glanced sideways at Draco. “Is this…?”

Draco's eyebrows shot up, but then he smirked. “I take it back. Open it. Now.”

Harry hesitated. His heart began to pound. He’d half expected this moment since waking up—maybe even dreaded it. A letter from Lucius Malfoy could mean anything: icy reprimands, veiled threats, or worse—a decree that he was no longer welcome at the Manor. That he’d ruined the family's name by flying to school in a stolen car.

But as he unfolded the parchment and read the elegant, precise script inside, his eyes widened.

Harry,
We are pleased to hear you arrived at Hogwarts safely. While your method of arrival was… unconventional and far from ideal, it certainly left an impression.

Guts, if nothing else, you have in abundance.

In fact, you may have unintentionally done me a favor. There’s been a great deal of fuss at the Ministry over the incident, and certain parties have revealed their own incompetence in the aftermath. Well done.

As a token of appreciation—and to ensure Slytherin House remains appropriately represented on the pitch—I’ve arranged for the entire Slytherin Quidditch team to be fitted with the newest model of broomstick: the Nimbus 2001.

Enjoy your term. And do try not to crash into any more trees.
—Lucius Malfoy

Harry blinked at the parchment, then slowly handed it to Draco, who read it once, then twice.

Both boys sat frozen in stunned silence.

“My dad rewards you for stealing a car,” Draco finally said, voice laced with awe and disbelief. “My father once hexed my broomstick to hover upside down because I forgot to polish it.”

Harry swallowed. “I thought he’d say I couldn’t stay at the Manor anymore. Or that I’d disgraced Slytherin. Or both.”

Draco looked at him, brows still raised. “Instead, he calls you bold, manipulates the Ministry fallout to his advantage, and buys the team new brooms. Merlin’s beard, Potter, you’ve been adopted.”

Harry let out a breath, part laugh, part shock. “I still have a week of detention.”

“Detention and a fleet of Nimbus 2001s,” Draco corrected. “You may have just become the most popular student in Slytherin. Congratulations, daredevil.”

Harry looked down at the parchment again. Lucius’s approval felt dangerous somehow, but it was warm in a twisted way—reward for cunning and boldness. Not moral rightness, but effectiveness. And maybe that scared him more than a Howler ever could.

Still, it was better than being disowned.

“Guess I’ll… try not to make a habit of it,” he muttered.

Draco smirked. “Too late. You’ve set a precedent.”

Most of the Slytherin second-years left the Great Hall in high spirits, their emerald and silver ties catching the morning sun as they swaggered through the courtyard on their way to Greenhouse One. The sound of their polished shoes echoed off the flagstones, blending with the hum of excitement that rippled through the group like electric current. Laughter burst out here and there, sharp and smug, and the air practically shimmered with their collective pride.

“Did you see his face when the howler exploded open?”

“I thought he was going to combust!”

“Malfoy’s dad actually bought the team Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones! All of them—every single one!”

“Potter crashes a flying car and gets rewarded. That’s got to be a first in Hogwarts history!”

It was as if the Slytherins were carried by an invisible wind of superiority, their postures a little straighter, their steps a little bolder. They were a wall of confidence and privilege, impossible to ignore. Ravenclaws shot them narrowed glances over the rims of their textbooks. Hufflepuffs whispered with wide eyes, some giggling behind gloved hands. Gryffindors said nothing, but the tension in their shoulders spoke volumes.

Ron his freckled face was blotchy red, and his fists were balled tight at his sides as he stormed behind them, ears practically steaming. His entire body was a fuse waiting to be lit, and he looked seconds away from exploding when they rounded the corner.

And there, at the entrance to the greenhouses, stood Professor Sprout, arms folded over her ample chest, lips pressed into a thin line. Beside her, of course, was Gilderoy Lockhart. His turquoise robes shimmered in the morning light, and his golden curls gleamed like they had been buffed to perfection. One gloved hand gestured flamboyantly while the other held a battered copy of Wand Work with Wild Weeds, which he seemed determined to quote from.

“Ah, no worries, Professor Sprout!” he declared, voice rich with artificial charm. “I was just explaining the finer points of handling violent magical flora. The Whomping Willow may have a mind of its own, but with the right incantation and a firm tone—well, Chapter Six, if you’d like more detail. One of my better sellers, I think!”

Sprout’s muddy gloves clenched slightly. Her cheeks, usually rosy with good cheer, were flushed with barely contained irritation.

“Yes, thank you, Professor Lockhart,” she said through gritted teeth. “I believe I’m quite capable of managing my own greenhouse.”

Lockhart let out a booming laugh as though she had just made a delightful joke. “Quite right, quite right! I’ll leave you to it, then. Mandrakes today, are they? Delightful little darlings. Second-years, enjoy!”

The Slytherins filed past into the greenhouse, still smirking from their earlier conversation. As Harry passed Lockhart, he felt a warm, manicured hand clasp his shoulder.

“Harry, a moment, if you don’t mind. Privately.”

Harry paused, casting a quick glance at Draco, who raised an eyebrow but moved on with the others.

Lockhart waited until the last student had disappeared inside before turning to Harry with a rehearsed sigh and a knowing half-smile.

“Harry… Harry…” he said, as though they were old comrades-in-arms. “Now, I understand the pressure you’re under. Oh yes—enchanted train barriers, flying cars, owls in the Great Hall. You’ve had quite the dramatic start to the year, haven’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Lockhart raised a finger delicately.

“Let me finish. I’ve been there. The attention, the whispering, the looks—it can be intoxicating.” His eyes took on a dreamy look as if recalling a fond memory. “But let me offer a word of advice, from one famous wizard to another—don’t seek the spotlight, Harry. It finds you, whether you want it or not.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” Harry started.

“Oh, of course not,” Lockhart said quickly, pressing a hand to his heart. “But fame… fame is a burden. One must handle it with grace. It’s not about showing off—it’s about inspiring.” He gave Harry a dazzling wink. “Now chin up. I’ll be watching your progress with great interest.”

He gave Harry’s shoulder a final squeeze before ushering himself away from the greenhouse.

Inside, the air was heavy with the tang of damp earth, dragon dung fertilizer, and the pungent sweetness of flowering vines. Rows of potting tables stretched the length of the greenhouse, each one lined with thick, clay pots and small signs labeled Mandragora.

Professor Sprout stood beside a crate filled with squirming green plants. Their leaves were thick and glossy, and their stems trembled slightly, as though alive.

“Right,” she called, donning a pair of padded earmuffs. “Mandrakes! These are still young, but don’t let that fool you—their cries are dangerous. Put on your earmuffs—properly, mind—and no taking them off unless I say so.”

Harry fumbled with the heavy earmuffs, muffling all sound until the greenhouse fell into a silent, humming haze. Across the table, Draco adjusted his with an elegant flick and smirked at Neville, who was already struggling to get his over his ears.

Sprout gave a firm nod, then reached into a pot and yanked out a Mandrake.

It was a pale, muddy root shaped disturbingly like a baby. Its tiny fists flailed in silent protest, and its mouth was wide open in a scream that none of them could hear. Dirt flew as it writhed, and Sprout quickly stuffed it into a larger pot, covering it with fresh compost.

The students set to work. It was messy, back-breaking labor. The Mandrakes didn’t want to be replanted and squirmed violently. Dirt flew everywhere—under fingernails, into robes, even splattering onto nearby students. By the time class ended, Harry was streaked in soil, and his arms ached.

He had just yanked off his earmuffs when he heard an eager voice pipe up.

“Harry Potter!”

A small boy with sandy hair and wide eyes stood nearby, a camera bouncing against his chest.

“I’m Colin Creevey!” he beamed. “First year—Gryffindor—I’ve read all about you! About You-Know-Who, and the Philosopher’s Stone, and the car thing was brilliant! Could I—could I have a picture? Maybe an autograph too?”

Harry blinked. “Er—”

But before he could finish, Lockhart swooped in like a peacock in motion.

“Ah, Mr. Creevey!” he trilled. “Let’s not overwhelm the poor boy. Fame can be quite exhausting, can’t it, Harry?”

Colin looked crestfallen. “But I—”

“No no, perfectly understandable,” Lockhart said smoothly, sliding an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “But Harry mustn’t let it go to his head. I admire the humility, Harry, I do, but mimicking me isn’t necessary. Your time in the spotlight will come naturally.”

Harry tried to step away, but Lockhart tightened his grip just slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he added with a wink. “We’ll have you signing glossy portraits by Christmas.”

That afternoon, Defense Against the Dark Arts felt more like a museum exhibit than a classroom. The walls were plastered with moving portraits of Lockhart in heroic poses—slaying trolls, riding dragons, smiling under a sunbeam with his hair glinting like gold.

Each desk held a pristine copy of Magical Me, the cover glinting with enchanted foil and Lockhart’s perfect grin.

Lockhart entered with a theatrical swirl of turquoise velvet. His smile was as fixed as ever, and his voice rang with practiced delight.

“Welcome! Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts! I am Gilderoy Lockhart—Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award—but I don’t like to talk about that.”

No one had asked him to.

Draco leaned toward Harry and whispered, “Do you think he sleeps with a mirror?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Pop quiz!” Lockhart chirped, handing out scrolls. “Just a little something to see how well you’ve read my books.”

The first question read: What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?

The second: What is his ideal birthday gift?

The third: In Gadding with Ghouls, how did Lockhart subdue a Hungarian ghoul with only a musical comb and his irresistible charm?

Harry stared at the parchment like it had personally insulted him.

When the quizzes were over, Lockhart clapped his hands and yanked a velvet cloth off a cage.

Inside fluttered bright blue creatures no taller than a foot, with cruel little faces and sharp, glinting teeth.

“Cornish Pixies!” Lockhart announced.

He opened the cage.

All hell broke loose.

Pixies shot through the air like missiles, shrieking with glee. One snatched Neville’s wand. Another yanked Seamus’s bag open and hurled its contents across the room. Ink bottles exploded. A pixie grabbed Neville by the ears and hoisted him into the air, where he flailed and shrieked until he got tangled in the chandelier.

“PESKIPIKSI PESTERNOMI!” Lockhart bellowed.

Nothing happened.

The pixies stole his hat and rammed it over his eyes.

“Well! Er—excellent hands-on opportunity!” he stammered, edging toward the door. “Do carry on!”

And with that, he fled, leaving the class to fend for themselves.

Draco glanced at Harry with a wild grin.

“Best class ever.”

Chapter Text

The chill of the dungeons still clung to their robes as the Slytherin second-years poured from the Great Hall like a victorious army. Their voices rose in arrogant laughter, echoing off the stone walls, their green-and-silver scarves snapping like banners in the wind.

The newly gifted Nimbus 2001s—sleek, black-handled symbols of wealth and bloodline—had transformed their walk into a parade of superiority.

“Did you see Wood’s face? Looked like he’d swallowed a Bludger.”

“I heard the Gryffindors can’t even scrape together ten working Cleansweeps.”

“They’ll need brooms and prayers to beat us.”

Harry drifted in their midst, silent. Ron’s howler still echoed in his mind—screaming accusations, explosive fury. And then Lucius Malfoy’s smug gift. Applause. Cheers. A reward for the crime. The new broomstick over his shoulder felt heavier with each step. He couldn’t explain the guilt in his chest—how it writhed like something alive.

They spilled into the courtyard, shadows long beneath the overcast sky. Slytherins were boasting louder now, drawing the stares of other houses. Ravenclaws glanced over their books. Hufflepuffs whispered behind hands. Gryffindors scowled. And among them stood Ron, storm-eyed and trembling, jaw clenched like he was chewing glass.

Then he moved.

Ron stormed forward, wand drawn, voice raised. “Bully your way on the team one year—now Daddy’s bought you in the next, Malfoy?”

Draco’s expression didn’t even flicker. He merely smirked and tossed his hair back with the lazy confidence of someone born untouchable. “Careful, Weasley. If you keep shrieking like that, someone might mistake you for your mother.”

A ripple of laughter, sharp and cruel, spread through the group.

Hermione had been walking by, arms tightly crossed, trying to vanish into herself. She wasn’t part of the argument—hadn’t said a word—but Theodore Nott turned, venom curling in his voice.

“Look who’s lurking. Figures it all started with your lot—your family always did cozy up to Mudbloods.” He spat the word like it burned his mouth. “Maybe next time pick better company.”

The courtyard went still. The word hung there, heavy and noxious, a curse that darkened the air.

Hermione froze. Her face drained of all color. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Only her eyes moved—darting toward Draco.

Harry turned toward his friend, silently willing him to say something. Anything.

Draco’s lips trembled. His hands curled at his sides. But he looked away. His jaw locked. He said nothing.

And in that silence, something shattered.

Hermione’s face crumpled. Her breath hitched. She didn’t cry, not yet—but her whole body shook.

“You’ll pay for that,” Ron growled, stepping forward, wand raised. “Eat slugs!”

The spell backfired instantly—his wand sparked violently, and with a choked scream, Ron doubled over. He began retching violently, thick slugs spilling from his mouth in slick, wet piles.

The Slytherins howled with laughter. Even Nott grinned, triumphant.

But Hermione wasn’t watching Ron.

Her eyes stayed locked on Draco.

Then she turned and ran.

No one noticed Harry slip away—too busy laughing at Ron’s humiliation. He moved quickly, quietly, ducking through the side corridor she had disappeared into, boots echoing faintly on the stone. He found her crumpled in the shadows near a stone column, her back against the wall, face buried in her hands.

“Hermione—” he started, but faltered.

She didn’t look up. Her shoulders shook with quiet, furious sobs.

Then came footsteps. Draco’s.

He hesitated at the corner, pale, unreadable. When he stepped into view, she looked up. Her cheeks were wet. Her eyes red.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice raw. “Come to say it yourself?”

Draco didn’t speak at first. He stared at the floor, his mouth working uselessly.

“I didn’t say it,” he finally whispered.

“But you didn’t stop it,” she said. Her voice cracked, but her gaze was steady. “You just let it happen.”

His hands clenched into fists. “I didn’t know he was going to—”

“Oh, spare me,” she snapped. “You’ve all said it. You just wait for someone else to do the dirty work. And then you pretend your hands are clean.”

Draco flinched. “I’m not like them.”

Hermione laughed bitterly. “No? Then why do you sound just like them when it matters most?”

“I wanted to say something,” he said. His voice was barely audible now. “But you don’t understand—if I had—my father—he told me if I so much as looked at you like a friend, he’d throw Potter out of the manor. He’d disown me.”

Hermione’s voice dropped into a whisper. “So that’s it? Your silence is worth more than your soul?”

He looked up, and for the first time, his mask slipped. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. His face twisted with something that looked like shame.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something. I’m sorry I let them—”

She stepped toward him. “Are you sorry for knowing me?” Her voice was shaking. “Sorry I’m a Mudblood? Sorry I’m not pure enough to be seen with you?”

“No,” he said, and the word trembled as it left him. “I’m sorry for being me.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind rushed through the corridor, cold and sharp. From far off, they could still hear laughter and shouting.

“I didn’t choose to be born this way,” Hermione whispered. “And you didn’t choose your father.”

“I wish I had,” Draco said. His voice cracked. “Because then I’d choose something else. I’d choose different blood. Different everything.”

Hermione stared at him, as if searching for the lie—and finding none. Her eyes softened, but the pain didn’t leave them.

He reached out and gently took her hand.

His fingers trembled.

So did hers.

A single tear slid down Draco’s cheek. “I don’t know how to be better. But I want to.”

They stood like that, hand in hand, suspended between shadows and secrets. Neither moved to close the space between them, but neither let go.

From the courtyard, someone called Draco’s name.

He stepped away slowly, reluctantly, letting her hand fall from his. Their fingers lingered until the last possible second.

Then he was gone.

And Hermione was left in the quiet, eyes wide, heart breaking, and just the smallest ember of something else flickering beneath it all—hope, or ruin.

She couldn’t tell.

Later that evening, the castle was unnaturally quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed in too tightly, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Shadows clung to the corridors, stretched long and lean under flickering torchlight, the stone floor cold even through his shoes.

Harry’s footsteps echoed hollowly as he made his way to Lockhart’s office, the chill of the day still gnawing at him. But it wasn’t the air that unsettled him—it was the afterimage of Hermione’s face when she ran, eyes shimmering with betrayal. It was the silence in Draco’s throat, the way he reached out for her and still walked away.

That moment—it hadn’t left Harry. It looped in his mind like a curse.

He hated how his chest tightened when he thought of her crying. He hated the strange twinge of jealousy when he remembered Draco’s hand in hers. But most of all, he hated that he didn’t know who he was angry with. Draco, for hesitating? Himself, for feeling like something precious had slipped through his fingers? Or Hermione—for looking at Draco like he mattered?

The torch outside Lockhart’s office sputtered weakly as he knocked and stepped inside.

The room was nauseating.

Every inch was plastered with moving portraits of Lockhart—grinning, winking, hair always windswept just so. The air reeked of some flowery cologne, like someone had drowned a meadow in perfume and set it on fire.

“Ah, Harry, there you are!” Lockhart greeted him with a dazzling smile that nearly caused physical pain. “No better way to serve one’s punishment than engaging in a bit of humble correspondence with my fans. Builds character. Refines the soul.”

He handed Harry a stack of luridly decorated envelopes and a quill with a fluffy purple plume. “Copy out my standard response. I’ve modeled it after my speech to the International Confederation of Wizards, just after the Wagga Wagga Werewolf Incident—a triumph, I might add!”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and sat. The parchment was sticky with leftover perfume. The ink smelled faintly of violets.

Lockhart continued speaking. “Of course, they begged me to stay. Australia was so dreary without me. But I had to return to England—public demand, you see. You wouldn't believe how persistent my readers can be. One fan sent me a lock of her hair once, spelled to sing. Kept me up all night.”

Hours passed.

Lockhart talked.

And talked.

And talked.

Harry’s hand ached. His head throbbed. The words blurred into meaningless loops—My dear Miss Croxley, thank you for your continued admiration... —until all he could smell was violets and vanity and the bitter sting of fatigue.

And then—

Kill...

The voice wasn’t Lockhart’s.

It sliced through the room like a blade of ice. Wet. Guttural. Ancient.

Let me rip... tear... kill...

Harry’s quill dropped from his fingers. The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.

Lockhart droned on behind him, completely oblivious. “…Of course, trolls are terribly misunderstood. I’ve always said a bit of firm eye contact and proper posture—”

So close now… I smell them… let me taste…

The words slithered into his ears, burrowed into his skull, down his spine.

But it wasn’t just a voice. It was a hunger.

Harry felt it inside him—calling, pulling, like something vile and ancient had reached through the stone to grip his soul with icy fingers. He wasn’t just hearing it—he was feeling it. He could taste it in the back of his throat, like rust and rot. He could see it, too—blood on marble, something dragging itself just beyond the edge of sight, leaving a black trail behind.

A shiver danced up his spine. Not fear—something worse.

Excitement.

It felt good, in a way that frightened him. That whisper, promising destruction—it felt like truth. Like instinct. Like freedom.

Harry stood so quickly he knocked over the ink pot. It bled across the parchment like oil, dark and glistening.

“Did—did you hear that?” he asked. His voice was too loud, cracked, breath catching in his throat.

Lockhart turned, blinking with theatrical concern. “Hear what? Oh dear, not another fainting spell, is it? You really must improve your constitution, Harry. Strong bones make a strong wizard, I always say!”

Harry didn’t reply. His eyes darted to the door, to the walls, to the empty corners of the office where shadows twisted like they were alive. The voice had stopped.

But the feeling hadn’t.

Something had touched him. Some part of the castle that should never have been awake had turned its eyes toward him.

And it knew his name.

Chapter Text

October brought rain—and a welcome distraction.

The downpour soaked the Hogwarts grounds, turning the Quidditch pitch into a slurry of mud and puddles, but the Slytherin team didn’t slow. If anything, they flew faster, carving through the sky as streaks of green and silver, laughing in the face of the storm. Their new Nimbus 2001s cut the air with perfect precision, and even Flint’s barked commands were hard to hear over the wind and thunder.

Flint made sure the entire school knew when Slytherin was practicing. He liked the idea of other teams watching—he wanted them to feel intimidated, outmatched, crushed before a single whistle blew.

By the time practice ended, the players were dripping wet and caked in mud. They didn’t care. They dismounted with cocky grins, slick with rain and streaked with filth—brown, black, and glorious.

“We look like we wrestled trolls,” Draco said with a smirk as they marched toward the castle. “No one's going to mistake us for dainty little Ravenclaws, that’s for sure.”

Harry snorted, wiping mud from his goggles. “You look like a swamp ghost.”

Draco flipped his soaked hair and laughed. “And yet I still manage to look better than you.”

They were still laughing as they clomped through the entrance hall, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind them. It wasn’t long before the corridor ahead twisted with a familiar, pearly glow.

Nearly Headless Nick floated just around the corner, unusually agitated, tugging at his frilly collar.

“I told you I have connections,” he was saying in a hoarse whisper. “You know I do! If I can get the Headless Hunt to reconsider my application, you’ll regret it—”

The Bloody Baron drifted by like a silent shadow, his eyes empty and glinting, his robes stained with spectral blood. He didn’t reply.

Harry and Draco slowed their pace.

“What’s a Headless Hunt?” Harry whispered.

“Probably something Nick got rejected from,” Draco muttered.

Nearly Headless Nick sighed, then turned—and spotted them.

“Oh! Boys!” His tone changed instantly. “Lovely to see you! Excellent flying earlier, Mr. Malfoy—very... aggressive. And Potter! You’ve got a knack for balance, I must say.”

“Thanks,” Harry said awkwardly.

Draco tilted his head. “What were you two talking about? Some kind of party?”

Nick brightened. “Ah! Yes! My party, in fact. My Deathday Party is coming up—October thirty-first, if you can believe it! Been dead for five hundred years. Quite the milestone, you understand.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “A Deathday party?”

“Indeed!” Nick beamed. “It’s a gathering of the dearly departed. Food for the living, decor for the dead, music... well, moaning. But it’s an occasion!”

Draco’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Can we come?”

Nick looked startled—then delighted. “Would you? I’d be honored! I rarely have living guests. It’s in the dungeon corridor at midnight. Wear something... somber.”

Draco nudged Harry. “We should go. Think about it—secret party, ghosts, and it’s not like we’ll be stuck at the Halloween feast sitting across from Hufflepuffs.”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“And I can invite Granger.”

Harry raised a brow. “She’ll be thrilled.”

But before Draco could reply, a grating voice sliced through the air like a rusty hinge.

“What is the meaning of this filth?!”

Argus Filch came skittering down the hallway, his stringy hair plastered to his face with sweat, his eyes bugging out. Behind him, Mrs. Norris crept with a predator’s patience, tail twitching.

“Mud,” Filch spat. “Everywhere. Trailing filth through my corridors! Look at it! LOOK AT IT!”

Draco groaned. “We were practicing, you squinting gremlin.”

Harry elbowed him—not helpfully.

Filch’s nostrils flared. “I’ll be scrubbing the floors for hours, but you don’t care about that, do you?”

Harry frowned. “Why not ask the house-elves to help? Or use magic yourself?”

Filch’s eyes widened in rage. “Both of you—come to my office. Now.”

Nearly Headless Nick watched solemnly as the boys marched forward.

They were herded down a narrow staircase into Filch’s musty, dim office. It smelled like cat pee and mold. A filing cabinet rattled as he slammed the door behind them. Papers were stacked haphazardly, most of them labeled PUNISHMENTS: HISTORICAL and CHAIN IDEAS (DUNGEON).

Harry glanced at a folder titled Whipping Recipes and tried not to gag.

Filch was muttering under his breath, seething.

“Students, mud, no respect, ruin everything... And now they tell me to use house-elves—as if I can’t do my job!”

Harry blinked. “I never said you can’t. I just thought there would be an easier way.”

Filch went pale. “Oh, it’s so easy!” He was about to start on a rant when a thunderous crash came from above.

“Damn you, Peeves!” Filch screamed. “I’ll have you banished from the castle this time!”

Draco giggled under his breath. “That guy has problems.” He started snooping through Filch’s desk. “I would too, if I were a Squib! Look—it’s Kwikspell, a correspondence course for beginners!”

Filch slammed open the door. “Damn Peeves! I’ve told Dumbledore he needs to go!” He was talking more to himself than the boys. Then he spotted the pamphlet in Draco’s hand and screamed in murderous rage. “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?!”

“I—”

“OUT!” he barked, pushing them toward the door. “GET OUT! And if I find so much as one boot mark near my stairs again, you’ll be scrubbing chamber pots until Christmas!”

Draco was still carrying the torn pamphlet. “Check this out. I think Filch was filling this out.”

KWIKSPELL: A Correspondence Course for the Magically Limited!

Now YOU Can Learn Spells at Home! Impress Friends! Confound Your Enemies! Overcome the Curse of Being Non-Magical!

Lesson 1: Lighting a Match—The Magical Way!

Lesson 2: How to Hold a Wand Without Looking Stupid

Lesson 3: Dueling Basics (For When You Need to Flee)

*Includes Personalized Certificate (If You Pass)!

Draco snorted. “Says here they’ll send you a fake wand for ‘training purposes.’ It’s literally hollow plastic.”

Harry’s stomach twisted a bit. “Imagine being stuck in this place, surrounded by kids who can do magic, and you can’t.”

Draco gave a low hum. “No wonder he hates us.”

He raised an eyebrow. “He’s a Squib, isn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. That explains... a lot.”

Nearly Headless Nick burst through a wall in front of them, making both boys jump. Their nerves were already fried from Filch’s office.

“Did it work?” Nick asked.

“What, nearly giving us a heart attack?”

“No,” laughed Nick. “I convinced Peeves to drop the Vanishing Cabinet over his office. Really wasn’t that difficult.”

Harry laughed. “In a manner of speaking, it worked.”

“Good. I can’t have my living guests be in detention instead of at my party. You two best get out of here.”

Without a second telling, the boys were off.

Halloween Night

The walls of the dungeon corridor dripped with moisture, torch sconces unlit. Pale blue flames hovered in place of real fire, casting everything in a sickly shimmer. A string quartet of ghostly monks played slow, discordant music that didn’t seem to come from their instruments, but rather through the stone itself.

Candles hovered above long banquet tables, their flames cold and smokeless. The food was all rotten—grey cakes writhing with maggots, bloodless hams shriveled like old fruit, cheese furred with mold so thick it curled at the edges. A large tombstone-shaped cake bore the words:

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON DEATHDAY CELEBRATION: 500 YEARS UNDEAD (HEAD STILL MOSTLY ATTACHED)

Nick glided toward them, wearing a transparent velvet cloak over his ghostly ruff. “So pleased you could make it!” he said, his voice echoing faintly in the chilled air. “So few living ever come. Means quite a lot to me.”

Draco elbowed Harry gently. “Told you this would be more fun than pumpkin juice and a Hufflepuff conga line.”

A thick crowd of ghosts floated and bobbed across the room. Moaning Myrtle sat near the rusted organ, sulking through her watery eyes. The Fat Friar was speaking cheerfully with a knight whose helmet kept falling through his transparent head. The Bloody Baron, as usual, lingered silently in the corner, the other ghosts giving him wide berth.

Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore—leader of the Headless Hunt—was juggling his own head while loudly mocking Nick.

“Still clinging to that last bit of neck, eh Nicholas? Keep up the optimism, might lose it any day now!”

Nick winced. “Ghastly man,” he muttered. “He only came to make fun of me.”

At the back of the chamber, Hermione stood against the wall, wrapped in a soft black cloak that made her look older than twelve. Her hair was tamed into a loose braid, her expression cautious but curious.

Draco walked toward her, hands in his pockets. “You came.”

She crossed her arms. “I said I would.”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t think you'd wear black,” he said, slightly amused. “It suits you.”

Hermione glanced around. “This is... deeply unpleasant. That cake over there just groaned at me.”

Draco chuckled. “Nick says that’s the entertainment.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.

Harry wandered off, watching a ghostly dog try to fetch a leg bone that kept phasing through its jaws. A small cluster of Hogwarts ghosts was arguing about the latest portraits to be hung in the staffroom. One of them, a flapper girl ghost with a feather boa, floated beside Harry.

“You’ve got good energy,” she said with a wink. “You ever considered dying young and fabulous?”

Harry blinked. “Er—not really.”

She laughed and spun away in a spiral of fog.

Near a side wall, he noticed a small table covered in parchment—flyers, it seemed.

Suddenly, Harry froze.

Kill…

It was back.

The voice.

Louder. Closer.

Let me rip… let me tear… let me kill…

It coiled out of the stones, slithered behind his ears, crawled down his spine.

I smell their blood... so warm... so weak...

The chill of the room deepened. All the ghosts faded from Harry’s awareness. His breath caught.

He staggered toward a wall slick with damp, pressing a hand to it.

Something behind it… something waiting.

It wanted out.

It wanted to feed.

For some reason, Harry couldn’t stop smiling. He stood there, eyes glazed with a strange ecstasy.

Hermione touched Harry’s shoulder. “You all right?”

Harry finally snapped out of it.

Draco looked concerned. “We’ve been calling your name for ages.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Okay… I need to tell you something.”

Chapter Text

All three stepped into the hallway outside the party. The dungeon corridor stretched before them, lifeless and cold, the ghostly lights behind them fading into silence.

Harry stood still, struggling to find the words. His eyes had lost their usual fire—what replaced it was something dimmer, clouded.

“I’ve been hearing things,” he finally said. “A voice.”

Draco and Hermione froze.

“Wait—what?” Hermione asked. “Since when?”

“Since the first night I had detention with Professor Lockhart. And again, just now. At the party.” Harry’s voice dropped, almost ashamed. “It keeps talking about... killing. Ripping. Smelling blood.”

Hermione stared. “You’re just telling us this now?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Harry snapped. “That I’m hearing voices no one else can hear—talking about murder?”

Draco and Hermione looked at him in unison. “YES!”

Harry laughed once—bitter, breathless. “You both think I’m crazy. I sound crazy.”

Hermione stepped closer, her voice urgent. “Whose voice, is it? Who does it want to kill?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard it before.”

Just then, Harry stiffened. The voice had returned.

"I have waited too long. It is time to kill."

Harry turned, eyes wide and wild. “It’s back. It’s going to kill!”

He broke into a run.

“Great!” Draco shouted. “So why are we following it? Dammit, Harry—come back!”

The voice howled in Harry’s mind, a lullaby of madness:

Time to rip... time to kill... time to purge...

They tore through the corridor, torches flickering wildly in their wake. Harry pressed close to the wall, as if trying to hear something crawling beneath the stone. The air grew colder. Then he turned a corner—and froze.

Hermione and Draco slammed to a halt beside him.

Scrawled across the stone wall, tall and jagged in smeared, dripping letters:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

The words gleamed wetly in the torchlight, a sickly sheen glistening like oil. Blood ran in lazy rivulets from the wall, collecting in dark puddles on the stone floor. The iron stink of it overwhelmed the corridor, thick and cloying.

Below the message, suspended by her tail from a torch bracket, hung Mrs. Norris.

She was limp, yet not entirely still. Her eyes were open wide, bloodshot and frozen in an expression of abject terror. Clots of crimson ringed the corners, streaking down her face. Her mouth was stretched into a silent yowl, locked mid-scream.

A crust of frost lined her whiskers. Her tiny frame twitched once in the candlelight—then stilled.

The pooling blood below the message reached her paws like an offering.
Harry saw now—it was her blood. It had flowed from her eyes, trailing down her face in crimson streams.

That was what had been used to write the message on the wall.

Hermione covered her mouth, staggering backward. “Oh my god...”

Draco’s voice had lost all its usual bravado. “Who—who could do this?”

The corridor remained deathly still.

Somewhere deep within the walls, a hiss echoed faintly.

And Harry knew—it wasn’t over.

They could hear footsteps approaching.

Draco turned sharply to Hermione. "You need to leave. Now."

“I don’t understand, I—”

“I’ll explain later, I promise. Go!”

Hermione hesitated only a second longer before fleeing into the shadows, panic in her eyes.

The Halloween feast must have ended—students began to pour into the hallways and corridors. It wasn’t long before the screams started. Gasps echoed through the cold stone.

A Hufflepuff girl, her yellow tie soaked with spilled pumpkin juice, pointed a trembling finger. “You’re monsters!”

More students crowded the corridor, shouting for teachers, for help, for anyone. Panic bloomed like a virus.

Harry opened his mouth to explain—but nothing came. What could he possibly say?

Then the professors arrived. And with them, Argus Filch.

“Move out of my way!” he shouted, shoving through the students. “Which one of you lot decided to play a delightful Halloween prank—”

He stopped. His eyes landed on Mrs. Norris, then slowly shifted to the two boys.

His face twisted. “What have you done to her?” he screamed. “What have you done?! You found out what I am, and you Slytherin scum don’t think I belong here! I’ll kill you!”

He lunged at Draco with a wild, feral look.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Filch dropped to the ground with a sickening thud, his body stiff as a board.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry’s wand flew from his hand and landed neatly in Professor McGonagall’s grasp.

Her eyes blazed behind her glasses. “What is going on here?”

And then, just as suddenly, the fury drained from her face.

Dumbledore had arrived.

He moved slowly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. Commanding.

“Close off this corridor. Remove the students.” He pointed at Harry and Draco. “Except you two.”

Lockhart stepped forward with a dramatic flair. “Headmaster! We can use my classroom—it’s closest.”

Dumbledore gave him a brief nod. “Very well. Come with me.”

Lockhart’s classroom was decorated in lavender silks and framed photographs of himself striking exaggerated heroic poses. A giant heart-shaped mirror hovered behind his desk.

Dumbledore seemed unfazed by the absurdity of it all. He conjured two chairs with a wave of his wand. Harry and Draco sat, both tense and silent.

Lockhart hovered awkwardly. “If you’d like me to handle the questioning, I have plenty of experience with traumatic youth incidents—”

“No,” Dumbledore said simply.

Lockhart deflated slightly and busied himself arranging his robes.

Professor McGonagall stood beside the headmaster, arms folded, her gaze like sharpened steel.

Dumbledore turned to the boys. “Start from the beginning.”

Draco spoke quickly—too quickly. “We left the party early. We were heading back to the dorms when we saw the message. Mrs. Norris was already there.”

“And no one else was with you?” McGonagall asked.

Draco shook his head. “No. Just us.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to Harry. “Did you hear anything unusual?”

Harry hesitated. His chest ached with guilt. He looked at Draco, who gave a subtle shake of the head.

“No,” Harry lied. “Just the screams after we found her.”

Dumbledore studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Then he rose. “Very well. You are not to discuss this with anyone. Not yet.”

Lockhart cleared his throat. “Should I… perhaps issue a press statement?”

McGonagall shot him a glare so severe he withered into silence.

Dumbledore looked at the boys once more. His gaze lingered, not unkind, but piercing—as though searching for a crack in their silence.

“You may return to your dorms,” he said quietly. “But I must ask—” he paused, the candlelight glinting off his half-moon spectacles—“is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Pressure tightened in Harry's chest like a vice. The words clawed at the back of his throat, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a flat, “No.”

Dumbledore watched him for a moment longer. Then he simply nodded.

The walk back to the dungeons was silent at first. The torches hissed and sputtered along the walls, casting long, twitching shadows across the stone. The atmosphere in the castle had shifted—something invisible but oppressive, like a thunderstorm about to break.

Finally, Harry turned to Draco. “Why did you tell Hermione to leave?”

Draco didn’t look at him. “Do you honestly never listen to my father when we're home?”

Harry blinked.

Draco continued, quieter now. “The Chamber of Secrets is thought to be a legend. They say Salazar Slytherin built it himself, hidden beneath the castle. They say he left a monster inside… sealed away until his heir returned to purge the school of those who don’t belong.”

“Purge?” Harry repeated, stopping in his tracks. “That’s… that’s what the voice said.” His breath hitched. “That exact word.”

Draco stopped too, turning toward him, his expression grave. “The last thing my father needs to hear is that we were found at the scene of a murder—with Hermione. Use your head, Harry. Everyone in the school is going to be talking about this. Our parents will know by morning.”

And Draco wasn’t wrong.

By the time they reached the common room, the whispers had already taken hold.

Two Slytherin boys…
A cat, hanging by its tail…
A message written in blood…

The dormitory felt colder than usual. The lamps burned low, and the shadows seemed longer. Harry waited until the others had drifted off—some still whispering behind curtains—then crept out of bed, crossing the stone floor to the old cupboard in the far corner.

He unlatched the door.

The shrunken head inside opened one lazy eye.

“Ah. The boy returns,” it croaked. “And by the look of you, something unpleasant has crawled into your ears.”

Harry knelt. “I need to talk to you. It’s serious. Something… happened.”

The head nodded. “You don’t say.”

Harry told it everything. The voice. The blood. Mrs. Norris. The writing on the wall. Every word.

When he finished, the head didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then it whispered, “The Chamber…”

“You’ve heard of it?” Harry asked.

“Heard of it?” the head rasped. “Boy, that tale is older than half the ghosts in this castle. They say Salazar Slytherin—your House founder, if you’ll recall—grew disgusted with Muggle-borns sullying his legacy. So he created a hidden chamber, one only his heir could open. Inside it waits a monster.”

“What kind of monster?”

“No one knows,” the head said grimly. “Only that when it wakes, it will begin the cleansing. Death. Terror. A purge of the unworthy.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

The head leaned forward slightly, as much as it could. “But the Chamber was never found. Most say it’s a myth. A bedtime story for bitter purebloods.”

“Do you think it’s open now?” Harry asked.

The head gave a gruesome smile.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to a rustling noise above him.

His eyes blinked open groggily—and were immediately met with a crude, hand-painted banner hanging over his bed. It was strung between two bedposts using wand-wax and enchanted string, letters dripping green ink like venom:

"THE HEIR HAS RETURNED."

He groaned and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

Not even sunrise, and already the castle was working overtime to drive him insane.

He hadn’t even put on his robes yet, and he was already dreading the day.

When he finally stepped out of the dormitory and into the Slytherin common room, he was met by a small crowd of housemates who had clearly been waiting for him.

Blaise Zabini leaned lazily against the fireplace, smirking.

“Ah, there he is—the boy, the myth, the legend! The Heir of Slytherin!” he declared theatrically.

Pansy Parkinson clapped mockingly. “All hail our Dark Prince!”

“Do we bow?” Theodore Nott asked dryly.

“Only if he starts speaking Parseltongue,” drawled Daphne Greengrass.

“Or breathing fire,” Millicent Bulstrode added, eyeing Harry with a strange mixture of awe and suspicion.

Tracy Davis giggled behind her hand. “He is kind of cute when he’s terrifying.”

Even Astoria Greengrass, who rarely spoke to older students, was perched on the back of a chair, watching him with quiet fascination.

Harry blinked at the group. Half the room was grinning like they'd just met the savior of the serpent bloodline, and the other half looked one surprise away from offering him a sacrifice.

He turned to Draco with a thoroughly unamused look.

Draco raised his hands in mock innocence. “What? Don’t look at me—I had nothing to do with this.”

Harry sighed and stepped forward, his voice steady. “I’m not the Heir of Slytherin. And I didn’t kill the cat.”

The room erupted with laughter.

Even Crabbe and Goyle chuckled like someone had just explained a joke to them—twice.

Harry tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult. The attention was both overwhelming and… odd. He was used to being watched, yes. Whispers followed him like a second shadow. But this was something else entirely.

Admiration?

It was unnerving.

Harry shrugged it off, gave Draco a look, and said flatly, “Let’s go eat.”

Blaise, of course, wasted no time. He stepped aside with a grand flourish and bellowed, “The Heir is hungry! Make way, peasants—let him gain sustenance!”

The common room burst into fresh laughter as Harry pushed past, muttering under his breath. Draco trailed behind him with an amused smirk.

As they made their way through the dungeon corridors, Harry finally snapped, “Why aren’t you the Heir? You were standing right there next to me.”

Draco scoffed. “Me? Versus the Boy Who Lived? Please. You’re everyone’s first choice for secret mass murderer.”

Harry rolled his eyes and quickened his pace.

The moment they entered the Great Hall, the mood shifted like someone had sucked all the warmth out of the air.

Hushed silence fell across the four long tables. Conversations froze mid-word. A fork clattered to the floor.

All eyes turned to Harry.

Even the professors had stopped eating. McGonagall’s gaze was stern, Snape’s unreadable, and Lockhart gave an awkward wave that Harry very deliberately ignored.

Several first-years scrambled to get out of their way—one Hufflepuff tripped and nearly face-planted into his porridge. A pair of Ravenclaws whispered feverishly as Harry passed, eyes wide with fear.

Draco leaned closer and muttered under his breath, “Well, that’s subtle.”

Harry didn’t respond. He simply took a seat and stared down at his plate.

Today was going to be a long day.

And the fact that he had Lockhart’s class only made it worse.

By mid-morning, it felt like the entire school had decided Harry was either a psychopath or a prophet.

Rumors spread like cursed fire. Some said they’d seen Harry whispering to walls. Others claimed he’d hexed Mrs. Norris in a jealous rage after she scratched his boots. A group of fourth-year girls swore on their wands that his eyes had glowed red in the torchlight.

A few younger students began making detours around corridors Harry usually walked down.

Even the portraits stared longer than usual.

By the time Defense Against the Dark Arts rolled around, Harry’s patience had worn thin. He shoved open the classroom door with Draco behind him and took a seat at the back.

Lockhart beamed at him the moment he walked in. “Ah, Mr. Potter! Front and center, please!”

Harry did not move.

Lockhart’s smile wavered but held. “No need to be shy, my boy. After such a dramatic Halloween night, the school is positively buzzing with your name!”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Harry muttered.

Lockhart clapped his hands. “Today’s lesson: The Nundu and Other Breath-Stealers!” He flicked his wand, and a stack of lurid illustrations burst onto the desks—hulking beasts with massive fangs, eyes like hot coals, and sickly green mists curling from their jaws.

“Let’s be honest,” Lockhart continued, pacing theatrically, “few wizards survive an encounter with a Nundu. Its breath is said to bring death as silent as sleep—and twice as permanent.”

Draco whispered, “Please tell me we’re learning how to fight one with a bottle of cologne and a diary entry.”

“Worse,” Harry murmured. “He’s going to tell us how he already did.”

Sure enough, Lockhart launched into a wildly improbable tale about tracking a Nundu through the jungles of Uganda with only a silver mirror, a wet handkerchief, and a team of skilled local hunters who, conveniently, never survived to confirm the details.

Harry stared down at the image on his desk. The creature’s gaping maw dripped with thick vapor, its eyes hollow and shining.

Time to rip… time to kill…

The voice slithered through Harry’s skull again, faint but unmistakable.

His stomach clenched.

He turned slightly and caught Draco watching him—not suspiciously, but with something else in his eyes. Worry, maybe.

For once, Harry thought, he might be the one who needs to run.

Harry was pulled back to the present by Lockhart’s voice—high, nasal, and grating.

“You okay, Harry? I bet it’s just nerves.”

Before Harry could reply, Lockhart was off again, beaming as he adjusted his absurdly bright turquoise robes.

“First Quidditch match of the season, and against Gryffindor no less! Don’t you worry, Harry—I’ve always been an exceptional flyer myself. Perhaps I could give you a few private lessons sometime. What a treat, right?”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt and tuned him out again.

The next morning, the Slytherin dormitory buzzed with excitement. Flint’s booming voice echoed through the rooms as he barked orders and gave last-minute advice.

Harry sat up in bed, bleary-eyed. Across from him, Draco was lacing his boots and muttering under his breath.

“Don’t worry,” Draco said when he noticed Harry stirring. “Flint’s already picked you to start. Figures the rest of the school is too scared of the Heir of Slytherin to put up much of a fight.”

Harry groaned. “That’s not reassuring.”

Flint had, in fact, insisted Harry take the first shift as Seeker, claiming the mere sight of him sent other teams into a frenzy. Draco, who rotated in as backup Seeke, would remain grounded until needed.

The stands were already packed when the Slytherin team marched onto the pitch in gleaming green robes. The sky above was gunmetal grey, and the air buzzed with anticipation.

The lineup was familiar: Flint as Captain and Chaser, alongside Adrian and Graham. Lucian and Cassius—both still brutish and barely coordinated—served as Beaters, with Miles Bletchley guarding the goal. Harry, broom in hand, nodded to Draco as he jogged to the bench.

“Don’t die,” Draco said dryly.

Harry smirked. “I’ll try not to.”

Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieked, and they were off.

The match began brutally. Gryffindor’s team—led by Angelina Johnson, with Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet as Chasers—was fast, but Slytherin was faster. Flint barreled down the pitch like a charging bull, passed to Adrian, who feinted a shot, then spun and launched it through the right hoop. Bletchley’s cheers echoed as the scoreboard shifted: Slytherin 10 – Gryffindor 0.

Harry flew above the chaos, eyes scanning for the Snitch. Below, Lucian and Cassius wreaked havoc with their bats, sending Bludgers spinning toward Gryffindor with reckless glee.

Ron Weasley’s voice rang through the stadium: “And that’s another Quaffle to Slytherin—Flint scores again! He may be a troll in disguise, but Merlin’s beard, he can fly!”

The game continued for a while, both teams exchanging goals and hammering for control.

Then it happened.

One of the Bludgers veered off course and began tailing Harry. He dodged once, twice, diving and swerving—but the Bludger stayed locked on.

“Bloody hell!” Harry muttered. The thing wasn’t just wild—it was targeting him.

He rocketed upward, hoping to shake it with altitude. The Bludger followed, smashing through a Ravenclaw banner and narrowly missing his head.

“Harry, DOWN!” Flint bellowed from across the pitch.

Too late.

The Bludger slammed into Harry’s arm with bone-shattering force. Pain exploded up his shoulder, and he spiraled downward, one hand clutching his broom.

The Snitch zipped past his face.

Lee Jordan attempted to intercept it—but Harry, through the pain, had an idea. He couldn’t stop the Bludger, but he could direct it. He veered into Lee’s path, forcing the other boy to swerve away with a string of curses.

Gritting his teeth, Harry reached out—and caught the Snitch.

The stadium erupted in cheers and screams.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle. Final score: Slytherin 170 – Gryffindor 40.

Harry’s vision blurred as he dropped to the ground. Draco was already running to meet him.

“Idiot,” Draco snapped, voice tight with worry. “You really don’t know how to lose, do you?”

But the Bludger didn’t stop. It reeled down, slammed into the ground, and bounced back into the air with terrifying force.

It leveled at Harry’s face.

A thunderous explosion rang out. The Bludger disintegrated midair.

When the smoke cleared, a single wizard stood on the pitch with his wand raised. It was Snape—expression unreadable, eyes sharp. Slowly, he lowered his wand and tucked it away.

Harry, cradling his arm, grinned through the pain. “Winning hurts.”

Flint thumped him on the back, beaming. “You’re a bloody menace, Potter. I love it.”

Lockhart came bustling over. “Poor boy, in a state of shock! Don’t worry—I can fix that in a mere moment.”

“Please... anyone but him,” Harry groaned.

“Nonsense!” Lockhart flourished his wand. “Bracchio Emendo!”

To Harry’s surprise, the pain vanished. For a moment, he felt hopeful—until he tried to stand.

He collapsed instantly.

Lying flat on his back, he lifted his arm—and watched it flop like a boneless fish.

“Where are my bones?” he demanded.

“Well,” Lockhart said cheerfully, “that can sometimes happen.”

Harry lay there in disbelief. He really did hate Lockhart.

Chapter Text

Harry was taken straight to the hospital wing, cradling his rubbery arm, and was met with the unimpressed scowl of Madam Pomfrey.

“Why weren’t you brought to me at once?” she snapped, marching toward him like a general toward a wounded soldier. “I can mend broken bones in my sleep—ask Neville and Draco, they can attest to that! But regrowing bones? Honestly!”

Harry blinked at her, his limp arm flopping pathetically at his side. “You think this is what I wanted?” he asked in disbelief. “Wait—can you actually fix this?”

“Of course I can,” she huffed, clearly offended. “But you’re in for one nasty night, Potter. Unfortunately, there’s precious little I can do about the pain.”

Already, curious students were forming just beyond the ward, whispering and pressing to see through the glass. Colin Creevey had somehow slipped in, his camera already flashing.

“Absolutely not!” Pomfrey barked. “No visitors!” She stormed over and began shooing them out like a flock of pigeons, Colin protesting as she slammed the door behind him.

Turning back, she produced a tall, steaming glass filled with a murky, bone-colored liquid. “Skele-Gro,” she said firmly. “All of it.”

Harry took a cautious sip and immediately choked, coughing violently as the burning liquid hit the back of his throat like acid. The taste was somewhere between rusty nails and old socks.

He laid back in bed, sipping and sputtering through it as best he could, until finally the pain and exhaustion dragged him under.

When Harry awoke, his arm throbbed like something alive was growing inside it—stretching, twisting, forcing the flesh aside with little regard for comfort. He groaned and shifted slightly, and that’s when he noticed a cold, damp sensation across his forehead.

Opening his eyes, he recoiled in alarm. Inches from his face, Dobby the house-elf crouched on his bedside table, gently patting Harry’s head with a damp cloth. His huge green eyes blinked innocently.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Harry croaked.

Dobby straightened, ears twitching. “Harry Potter should not have come back to Hogwarts! Dobby warned you, sir! Why didn’t you go home when you missed the train?”

Harry struggled upright, wincing as needles of pain danced through his regenerating bones. “Wait—it was you! The barrier at King’s Cross—that was your doing?”

Dobby dropped his head, ears wilting. “Yes, Master Potter. Dobby never thought you would return another way. Dobby hoped you would be expelled, and safe. When I found out how you came back—oh, the dinner I burned at the Manor! Did I get flogged? Yes! But it would’ve been worth it if you were safe.”

The little elf now sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking himself slowly back and forth, as if trying to soothe an invisible wound.

“You nearly got me killed by a damn tree!” Harry snapped. “Trying to keep me safe got me nearly flattened!”

Dobby began to sob—quiet, pitiful hiccups that made Harry’s anger dissolve in his chest like sugar in tea. He couldn’t stay mad. Not at this.

“What do you think Lucius would do if he found out you were here now?” Harry muttered, softening despite himself. “If I could, I’d set you free right now. Get you away from him.”

“No!” Dobby cried, scrambling to his knees. “Master Potter mustn’t! Being at the Manor lets Dobby hear things. It helps me protect you! Dobby thought the Bludger would frighten you enough to send you home—safe!”

Harry stared. “Wait. Your Bludger? You nearly killed me! Again!”

Dobby quailed, nodding miserably. “Dobby is sorry, Master Potter! Dobby never meant harm—just fear! You can’t die like that girl did the last time…”

Harry froze. “Wait—again? You said again. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?”

Dobby clamped his hands over his mouth, but it was too late.

Harry seized his arm, pain flaring. “Someone died? Who was it? Tell me!”

“I don’t know, Master Potter… I don’t know,” Dobby whimpered, his eyes wide and glassy, as if peering into horrors long past. “Dark times are coming to Hogwarts… darker than before. Dobby remembers what it was like—when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ruled. Fear clung in the air, like mold. People vanished. Children screamed in the night. There was no light… no laughter... only silence, and death.”

Harry stared, chilled by the house-elf’s sudden solemnity.

“But then you came,” Dobby whispered. “You… you were the glimmer. The flicker of hope. You cannot stay, Master Potter. You must leave. Leave before that hope is extinguished.”

“Go where?” Harry said bitterly. “And do what? What about Draco? What about Hermione? This is my home too. I’m not running.”

Dobby’s ears twitched. The resolve in Harry’s voice made the elf flinch as if struck.

“I must go,” he said quickly, voice rising in panic.

“No,” Harry growled, grabbing hold of his thin arm. “You know more. Tell me what’s happening.”

But before he could stop him, Dobby’s eyes squeezed shut. With a sharp crack, he vanished, leaving behind a faint scent of soot and a small scorch mark on the floor.

Footsteps echoed beyond the corridor—quick, urgent, wrong.

Despite the dull agony pulsing through his arm, Harry flung himself backward onto the bed and clamped his eyes shut, breathing shallowly. The voices grew clearer. Dumbledore. McGonagall. Something was wrong.

He risked a crack of one eye.

Dumbledore entered first, his expression dark, face lined with deep, weary sorrow. Behind him floated the rigid body of a student—levitating stiffly in the air like a broken puppet.

They placed the boy gently on a bed not far from Harry’s.

“Please fetch Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said softly. “I fear we will need her skill.”

McGonagall nodded, eyes wide, and disappeared—returning moments later with Madam Pomfrey in tow. One look at the boy and the matron gasped.

“Sweet Merlin’s bones—what happened?”

“Another attack,” Dumbledore said, voice low and grim. “Minerva found him collapsed on the front steps. He had sweets in his bag… chocolate frogs, fizzing whizbees… We believe he was on his way to visit Harry.”

Harry’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. Colin.

He dared a glance. What lay in the next bed barely resembled the excitable boy with the camera. His limbs were rigid and stone-grey, but worse—black, tar-like goo seeped from his empty eye sockets, staining the sheets beneath his unmoving head. His mouth was open in a silent scream.

Harry dropped his gaze again, bile rising in his throat.

“Do you think he managed to capture a picture of his attacker?” McGonagall whispered.

“I was about to see,” Dumbledore murmured. There was a rustle of hands and the faint sound of the camera strap being unfastened.

Then—pop.

A harsh, acidic smell stung the air—sulfur and burned plastic. The sound of hissing filled the room.

“It’s melted,” Pomfrey said, horrified. “The film… the lens... it’s all ruined. And his eyes—is that blood? I’ve never seen wounds like this.”

“What does it mean?” McGonagall asked, her voice shaking.

Dumbledore took a long, grim breath. “It means… the Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Again.”

There was a frozen silence.

“That’s impossible,” McGonagall whispered. “By who? So—the Heir of Slytherin has returned?”

Dumbledore’s answer was colder than the dungeon walls.

“Who… is not nearly as important… as how.”

Harry kept still beneath the covers, muscles aching, eyes squeezed shut. Their voices—so calm and composed in class—were filled now with fear and disbelief.

If even Dumbledore was uncertain, if they were afraid… then Harry was utterly terrified.

Early that morning, Harry was finally cleared to leave the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey, still muttering bitterly about Lockhart’s incompetence and “growing bones the hard way,” handed him a small pouch of bitter-smelling salve and shooed him out before the next wave of gawkers arrived.

He paused at the edge of the room, eyes drifting to the far bed now shrouded behind thick, gauzy privacy curtains. Pale light from the high windows filtered through the fabric, casting strange shapes within. He didn’t need to ask who was behind the veil.

The image of Colin Creevey’s frozen scream, the black ichor leaking from his eyes, was seared into Harry’s memory. His stomach turned. He tore his gaze away and exited as fast as his legs would carry him.

The corridors were quiet—eerily so. The stone underfoot felt colder than usual, and his footsteps echoed in an unnatural rhythm, like someone—or something—walked just behind. A few students wandered past in sleepy clusters on their way to the Great Hall. They looked at Harry, but their expressions were blank with morning haze. The news hadn’t spread yet.

But it would.

Harry didn’t want to be there when it did. He needed to get back—back to the only place that felt remotely safe. The only person who might understand.

He needed Draco.

He took a shortcut through a narrow side passage that reeked faintly of mildew and old potion ingredients. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch as he passed, and more than once he thought he heard whispers in the stone. He pushed the thought down and kept walking.

As he reached the mouth of the Slytherin common room, the entrance opened before he could even mutter the password.

Draco stepped into the corridor, his face unusually pale, his expression caught between guilt and relief.

“I was just coming to find you,” he said quickly. “Pomfrey wouldn’t let anyone in yesterday—I tried—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Harry cut in, voice low and urgent. “We need to talk. Now.”

Draco blinked. “Okay. Let’s go to the Great Hall. We can—”

“No. Not out there.” Harry’s voice sharpened. “We need privacy. And we need the shrunken head.”

Draco opened his mouth to ask why—but Harry was already striding into the common room. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting green and gold light across the dungeon walls. Harry crossed the room in seconds, knelt by the mantel, and pulled the velvet pouch from behind the loose stone.

The shrunken head groaned awake with a wet, rasping yawn. “By the rot of Morgana’s toes, can’t a dead elf sleep?”

“We need answers,” Harry muttered. “Now.”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted in alarm. “What happened?”

“You’ll see.”

Without another word, Harry led the way through the winding dungeon passages, deeper than most students ever ventured, until they found an abandoned classroom near the edge of the Potions corridor. Dust coated every surface. The air was thick with the scent of forgotten ingredients and decay.

Harry slammed the door shut behind them.

“Speak,” he said to the head, placing it atop the cracked professor’s desk like an offering.

It smiled. “Well now… this must be serious.”

“You know of the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry said, his voice taut with urgency. “I know you know more than you’re letting on.”

He launched into everything—everything Dobby had told him in the hospital wing. The barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The rogue Bludger that nearly shattered his arm. Dobby’s terrified confession that a girl had died the last time the Chamber was opened. The way Colin had been found, eyes blackened and oozing, his camera melted shut in his hands. And finally, Dumbledore’s whispered confirmation.

By the time Harry finished, the room had grown noticeably colder. The shrunken head’s face twitched with mischief. He was now fixed on Harry with something close to dread.

Draco stepped back from the desk, pale. “My father will murder Dobby when I tell him.”

“You can’t,” Harry snapped. “As mad as it sounds, Dobby’s the only reason I know anything at all. He risked everything to warn me.”

He turned on the shrunken head, his gaze hard. “What do you know? No riddles. No clever commentary. Tell us the truth.”

The head gave a tired sigh, the dry seams in its lips cracking faintly as it spoke. “Sadly, I know only fragments… but enough to make your blood curdle if you let it. Yes, the Chamber was opened once before. It’s true a girl died. Don’t ask her name—I never cared to learn it. She screamed and bled like all the rest when the time came, and by then, I was still hanging above the counter at Borgin and Burkes, watching wretches haggle over cursed trinkets.”

Harry’s skin prickled.

“It was chaos,” the head continued, its voice rasping. “Whispers in every shadow. Rumors of students vanishing from their dormitories. One never returned. The Ministry stormed the castle. They needed a scapegoat, and they found one. A boy, awkward and too fond of monsters for his own good. Hagrid.”

“Hagrid?” Harry repeated, stunned. “The Hagrid? The groundskeeper?”

The head nodded slowly, its stitched eyelids creaking as it blinked. “Yes. He was caught with a monstrous creature in the dungeons. Claimed it was harmless. The Ministry disagreed. Expelled. Wand broken. Case closed. Except… the killings stopped after he left. That was good enough for them.”

Draco frowned. “So… he wasn’t the Heir?”

“No one ever proved it either way,” the head said softly. “Only that the castle stopped bleeding—for a time.”

Harry leaned in. “But you said that’s all you know—that you can tell us. What does that mean?”

The shrunken head paused. Its leathery mouth curled downward, as if trying to force words through some invisible barrier.

“Dobby isn’t the only elf who hears what goes on in the manor,” the head said carefully. “But I, too, am bound. Your father, Draco—he placed a charm on me years ago, back when I was… livelier. I can’t speak freely of what I overhear between him and your mother. The enchantment knots my tongue the moment I try.”

Draco paled further. “That sounds like him.”

“Indeed,” the head muttered bitterly. “Lucius Malfoy doesn’t like to be overheard. Not by the living… and not by the dead.”

A cold silence fell over the room.

Harry swallowed. “But you do know something, don’t you? Even if you can’t say it.”

The head tilted slightly, gaze flicking toward Draco. “You’re both clever. Put the pieces together before it’s too late.”

Just then, a chill wind stirred the dust on the floor, though the door remained tightly shut. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, a low creak echoed down the corridor, like the castle itself groaned in warning.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9, The Dueling Club

When Harry returned to the Slytherin common room, it was clear the word about Colin Creevey had spread.

The air, once filled with smug laughter and casual jabs, now hung heavy with a strange new weight—reverence, unease, fear. The emerald-green fire crackled in its grate, casting spidery shadows that crawled across the damp stone walls like restless specters. Conversations halted the moment Harry stepped inside, replaced by stiff backs and darting glances. No one dared to meet his eyes for more than a second or two, as though proximity alone might summon something dreadful.

Pansy Parkinson stepped forward from a corner, her usual sneer withered into something more tentative. She reached out and touched Harry’s arm—hesitantly, reverently, as if afraid he might burn her.

“I’ll be staying for Christmas,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “And I hope... I hope you will too.”

Her cheeks turned scarlet, and she spun on her heel, fleeing toward the girls’ dormitory like a girl who had dared brush the hem of a prophecy.

Behind him, Draco started to giggle.

Harry turned his head slowly, shooting him a look that could have frozen lava. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

Draco bit his lip, visibly struggling, until a smug grin broke through. “Just... remind me to write Pansy a thank-you note.”

From inside the bag slung over Harry’s shoulder came a muffled, irritated voice.

“As charming as it is listening to teenage courtship rituals from the depths of a ruddy sack,” the shrunken head snarled, “I would greatly prefer not to suffocate in lint and wand polish. Kindly return me to the air before I say something profoundly regrettable.”

Harry sighed and dropped the bag on a nearby table. “Fine. But if you start reciting limericks again, I’m hexing you into silence.”

The head huffed. “My poetry is a gift, Potter. One this grim little dungeon barely deserves.”

Harry waited until the common room had emptied. Then he turned to Draco.

“Don’t start with that look,” Draco said dryly. “I know that look. That means we’re about to do something incredibly stupid.”

“What would you prefer?” Harry lowered his voice to an icy whisper. “For this thing to possibly get Granger?”

All humor drained from Draco’s face like blood from a corpse. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s pick tables near her during Potions class.”

Later that day, the duo slipped into Potions just as Snape swept into the dungeon like a thundercloud made flesh, his robes whispering threats behind him.

The room felt colder than usual—deeper somehow, more cavern than classroom. The torchlight flickered against damp stones, painting jaundiced halos over rows of tired faces. Shelves lined with bottles of beetle eyes, serpent bile, and powdered bone leered silently down at them like relics of old crimes. A sour, coppery scent hung in the air, sharp enough to sting.

Draco gave Harry a small nod and steered toward the table behind Hermione, who was already setting up her ingredients with mechanical precision. Harry followed silently, sliding into place beside him. The cauldron hit the bench with a soft metallic thud that seemed louder than it should have.

Hermione turned, raising an eyebrow. “What are you two doing?”

“Being subtle,” Harry muttered.

Draco leaned closer. “Failing at it brilliantly.”

Snape’s voice sliced through the room like a curse. “Today, we will be attempting a Sleeping Draught. If brewed correctly, it should render a person unconscious within sixty seconds. If brewed poorly...” He let the pause linger, like poison in a chalice. “Instructions are on the board. Begin.”

Cauldrons hissed to life with flaring wandlight. The class bustled with a fevered, frantic energy—scraping glass, clinking spoons, the rustle of parchment, the muted groans of boiling potions. Every sound felt louder than it should, as if the room itself were listening.

As Harry sliced his valerian root, he leaned toward Hermione. “We need to talk. Library. Tonight.”

She didn’t look up. “About what?”

“The chamber. The attack. The Malfoys house elf.”

Her knife paused mid-slice. Just a breath too long. “You’re serious?”

“Always,” Draco murmured, stirring his mixture clockwise, eyes fixed on the surface of the darkening potion.

Hermione scanned the room with sharp, wary eyes, making sure Snape was at a safe distance before answering. “After dinner. Seven o’clock. Second floor.”

Harry nodded, returning to his work. His hands moved automatically—grinding sopophorous beans into a dusty gray powder, dripping wormwood extract with the care of a surgeon. Steam curled upward from his cauldron in soft, ghostly tendrils.

Snape drifted between desks like smoke, his presence smothering. He stopped behind Seamus, who had added too much valerian.

“Do you intend to poison someone, Mr. Finnigan?”

Seamus turned pale. “N-no, sir.”

“Fix it. Or I’ll show you the difference firsthand.”

Harry lowered his head to hide the twitch of a smirk. He cast another glance toward Hermione. Her posture was too straight. Her fingers moved too carefully.

“She’s scared,” he whispered.

“Everyone is,” Draco replied, voice low. “That’s the problem.”

Hermione’s eyes met theirs for the briefest moment. There was no irritation. No pride. Just a silent flicker of gratitude.

6:45 p.m. arrived cloaked in thick, candlelit gloom. The library was quieter than a crypt, the silence laced with tension sharp enough to snap. Between the ancient shelves and iron staircases, students moved like ghosts—watchful, whispering, wary.

The boys entered quietly. Or tried to.

Harry’s presence cut through the stillness like a scream. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-word. Even Madam Pince’s eyes narrowed like a hunting owl.

“Subtle,” Draco muttered, raising a book as a makeshift shield.

“I tried,” Harry whispered back. “Apparently, I’m infamous now.”

The idea that the library might be empty had been laughably naive. Every table was crammed with jittery students flipping through texts with titles like Monsters of the Deep, Dark Beasts and Where They Feed, Spells for Surviving Magical Attacks.

Draco led the way up the spiral staircase to the upper level. Their footsteps made no sound, but Harry could feel every glance trailing them like claws across his back. At last, they saw her.

In a shadowed corner beneath a warped iron window, Hermione sat surrounded by towering stacks of books. She didn’t look up as they approached. She didn’t have to.

Neville Longbottom sat across from her, his expression sober, pale and pinched like he hadn’t slept in days. But it was Hermione who commanded the space. Her presence filled it like armor.

Books were piled high in front of her—titles faded with age, their leather spines gleaming dully in the candlelight. The Nature of Ancient Magics, Advanced Wand Work: A History, Wards and Curses of the Founders.

Draco dropped into the chair with his back to her. Harry followed.

Draco leaned over and whispered, “Who’s sitting here?”

“No one,” Hermione replied from behind her fortress. “I filled the table with seventh-year material and told everyone it was reserved for N.E.W.T. prep.”

Harry blinked. “Brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Draco muttered. “If we were trying to hide in a war zone. This place is packed.”

Silence settled over them, broken only by the low buzz of fearful whispers from below. Somewhere, a book hit the floor. The sharp slap of paper and wood made all four of them flinch.

Then Hermione spoke.

“Let’s get to it. I already told Neville what I know. What more do you actually know?”

Harry recounted everything. Every flicker of unease, every whispered warning. The barrier at the platform. Dobby’s mutterings. The bludger. Colin’s frozen body and leaking eyes. Dumbledore’s confirmation that this was not new. That it had happened before. That someone had died.

He finished with the shrunken head’s knowledge—about Hagrid, about the first time the Chamber was opened, about the girl who had died and the blame placed on a half-giant who may have been innocent.

No one spoke.

The candlelight flickered. Their shadows stretched along the table like silent accusations.

Finally, Hermione’s voice broke the stillness.

“So,” she said coolly, counting on her fingers. “Dobby knew the Chamber would open. You’re hearing a voice no one else can. Mrs. Norris is dead. Colin was petrified. Dumbledore confirmed this has all happened before. Hagrid was blamed. And someone died the last time.”

She let the silence settle.

“The question is: who died? And when?”

Far below, a page fluttered somewhere, soft and distant like wings in a tomb.

Neville cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we be looking for a monster?”

Draco snorted. “Do you have any idea how many magical creatures exist? No one’s catalogued them all. But sure, Longbottom—go ahead.”

Neville flushed but grabbed the nearest tome and began flipping with determined care.

Hermione ignored Draco entirely. Her voice was brisk and unyielding.

“It’s settled. I’ll stay here and find out who the girl was. Neville—research anything tied to petrification, blood magic, or death. You two—” she jabbed a finger at Harry and Draco, “try not to get expelled. Stay out of trouble.”

But the look she gave them said what she couldn’t.

Don’t die.

“Not getting into trouble is the hardest part,” Harry muttered as they slipped from the upper floor of the library into the shadows of the corridor below.

Draco, trailing close behind, scoffed. “You’re like a magnet for disaster. Honestly, I don’t know why she keeps putting faith in you.”

“Because I don’t run when things get hard.”

“Touché.”

They descended the stairs in silence, boots whispering against cold stone. But the quiet didn’t last. A murmuring crowd had gathered near the library entrance, a tight knot of students jostling for space around the battered noticeboard.

“What now?” Draco grumbled, voice sharp with dread.

Pushing through elbows and robes, they reached the parchment skewered to the board. The ink shimmered in bold, curling script like a challenge:

DUELING CLUB!
Learn how to defend yourself—AND look good doing it!
Hosted by Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin (Third Class), Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award.
Tomorrow night in the Great Hall. Bring your wands. No protective gear required!

Harry and Draco exchanged a long look.

“Well,” Draco drawled, “I guess ‘stay out of trouble’ lasted all of five minutes.”

Harry didn’t respond. His eyes lingered on the words defend yourself, as if they were pulsing with some private meaning. He didn’t trust Lockhart to teach a Flobberworm how to slither, but with the castle pressing in tighter with every whisper and shadow, the idea of a dueling club sank into his bones like inevitability.

“You think it’s worth going?” he asked quietly.

Draco shrugged. “If Lockhart’s running it? Probably not. But if someone useful shows up…”

Their eyes met. Agreement passed silently between them.

“We go,” Harry said.

The next day passed like a sickness spreading.

Colin’s condition—now more rumor than fact—had infected the school. Some students whispered about curses and monsters. Others claimed it was all an elaborate prank. A group of first-years swore they saw Peeves skulking near the corridor with a bucket of blood.

By dinnertime, the Great Hall buzzed with barely-contained anxiety. Even the floating candles above seemed dimmer, flickering as though smothered by the growing tension.

And yet, Lockhart’s announcement rang louder than fear.

“Tonight!” he bellowed, smile as radiant as ever. “Come prepared to learn the secrets of defense from yours truly! You’ll leave that room safer, stronger, and with significantly better posture!”

“Sounds like a massacre waiting to happen,” Draco muttered.

Harry didn’t disagree.

That night arrived like a drawn blade.

The Great Hall had been stripped of its long tables. A narrow dueling platform now stretched across the stone floor, lit by torches that cast tall, wavering shadows. The setup felt more like a gallows than a classroom.

Students crowded the walls, wide-eyed and murmuring. Tension soaked through the crowd, thicker than the stone beneath their feet.

Harry and Draco slipped through the mass, positioning themselves near the front. Their robes hung heavy, their expressions unreadable.

“This is either going to be brilliant,” Draco muttered, “or fatal.”

At that moment, Lockhart bounded onto the platform, robes of blinding peacock-blue swirling dramatically behind him.

“Welcome!” he trilled. “To Hogwarts’ first-ever Dueling Club hosted by a celebrity!”

A few polite claps followed, mostly from younger students—and, for some unknown reason, Lavender Brown.

Lockhart flashed his famous grin. “No need to be shy! I myself have faced a dozen dark wizards—some armed with nothing but a bad attitude and a rusty comb! But tonight,” he added, raising a hand with flair, “I will not be dueling alone!”

From the shadows came a voice like oil poured over ice.

“Unfortunately.”

Snape glided into view like death incarnate, black robes whispering behind him. His sneer cut through the air with surgical precision. “I offered to supervise this circus. The Headmaster agreed—provided I keep the fatalities to a minimum.”

Lockhart laughed and clapped him on the back. “Excellent sense of humor, Severus!”

Snape didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Lockhart cleared his throat. “Now, for a brief demonstration in proper dueling technique! Just a bit of friendly sport between two seasoned professionals!”

Students instinctively began backing away.

“Wands at the ready!” Lockhart called brightly.

Snape’s head tilted, eyes glinting. “With pleasure.”

“One... two... three—”

“Expelliarmus!” Snape hissed.

Lockhart flew backward like a rag doll fired from a cannon, crashing to the stone floor in a burst of glittering dust. His wand skittered under a bench. His smile stayed in place, frozen and horrified.

“Perfect disarming spell,” he wheezed. “Just as I was about to demonstrate.”

Uneasy laughter rippled through the crowd.

Snape gave a razor-thin smile. “Perhaps now you’d like to pair the students.”

Lockhart stumbled to his feet, still glittering. “Er—yes! Volunteers!”

Chaos broke loose.

Students were sorted haphazardly. Harry was paired with Justin Finch-Fletchley, who looked as if he’d rather duel a Hungarian Horntail. Draco, strangely, wasn’t assigned anyone. Snape pulled him aside with a quiet word and placed him on standby.

Harry took the dueling platform opposite Justin. The Hufflepuff’s knuckles were white around his wand.

“Don’t take it personally if I hex you,” Harry said lowly. “I’m tired.”

Justin gave a nervous laugh.

“Wands at the ready!” Lockhart called. “Cast your spell after I count to three!”

“One—two—three!”

“Rictusempra!” Harry shouted.

“Expelliarmus!” Justin returned.

Silver light burst from Harry’s wand and slammed into Justin’s ribs. He collapsed in a fit of helpless laughter, his wand flipping through the air like a falling star.

“Oops,” Harry muttered, stepping off the platform.

Snape’s voice cracked across the hall. “Stop! Potter—return.”

The room fell silent.

“Let’s have a demonstration, shall we?” Snape said. “Mr. Malfoy—up.”

Draco’s smile curled like smoke. He was ready.

Harry returned to the platform. Across from him, Draco stretched his arms and twirled his wand with a casual menace.

“No funny business,” Harry said.

“No promises,” Draco replied.

“Begin!” snapped Snape.

“Serpensortia!” Draco shouted.

A thick, black snake burst from his wand, landing with a sickening thud on the platform. It slithered forward, eyes gleaming, fangs glinting.

Harry stepped back instinctively, wand raised—

And then it hit him.

The voice.

Yes… strike… bite… sink the fangs...

It wasn’t a sound. It was inside him.

His mouth moved, words forming in a language not his own. Foreign. Inhuman.

The snake froze, then slowly turned and bowed its head. It hissed softly, then turned away from Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had frozen in place nearby, paralyzed with terror.

Snape reacted instantly, wand raised. A silent curse flashed through the air. The snake writhed once, then shriveled into nothing.

Silence fell like ash.

The crowd stared at Harry. No one spoke.

“What—what is he doing?” someone whispered.

Lockhart looked like he might be sick. Even Snape’s expression cracked with something like disbelief.

“Harry?” Justin stammered. “Were—were you talking to it?”

“I—what?” Harry blinked, disoriented.

“You were speaking Parseltongue,” came Hermione’s voice. She’d forced her way through the crowd, pale and shaking. “You were speaking snake language, Harry.”

Justin stepped back, face hardening with fury. “I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be any good after being raised by his family. You planned this—you summon a snake, and he uses dark magic to control it!”

Harry couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The crowd looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. Even Draco’s smirk had vanished.

Justin stormed off, several students trailing behind him.

Draco grabbed Harry’s arm, voice urgent. “We need to talk. Now.”

Harry left with Draco and the rest of the Slytherins. His feet felt numb. The floor swayed. His head was swimming with voices—some his own.

And some not.

Chapter Text

Draco dragged Harry into the empty Slytherin common room, his grip iron-tight and his expression thunderous. The emerald fire hissed in the grate, casting long, angry shadows across the cold stone walls as he began to pace.

“You know, Harry,” Draco snapped, voice taut with frustration, “I know you don’t tell me everything—but this? This you should’ve told me!”

Harry stared at him, stunned. “Tell you what? I didn’t do anything!”

“You didn’t do anything?” Draco spun on him, eyes flashing. “You talked to a damn snake, Harry! You’re a Parselmouth, and you never thought to mention—oh, I don’t know—‘By the way, I speak snake’?”

“I didn’t know I could!” Harry shot back, his own voice rising with disbelief. “I didn’t even realize I was speaking another language until Hermione said something. I wouldn’t have known at all if you hadn’t summoned that snake in the first place! Wait—where did you even learn that spell?”

Draco froze mid-step. His mouth opened slightly, and then he said, “Snape whispered it to me. Told me it would give me the upper hand—but that you’d be fine.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. “Wait. That was Snape’s idea? He had to suspect. But why now? What is he up to?”

“Oh, stop fixating on Snape, Harry!” Draco groaned, waving a hand. “Last year should’ve proved he just hates you. He’s not a murderer.”

Then, just as abruptly, Draco’s tone shifted from anger to something gleeful, almost admiring. His eyes lit up with boyish wonder. “But more importantly—you can talk to snakes! Do you have any idea how rare that is? I still can’t believe you never knew!”

But Harry didn’t respond right away.

He sank slowly onto the nearest armchair, the old leather creaking beneath him. The fire crackled and spat behind the grate, throwing green-tinted light across the sharp angles of Draco’s face. Harry stared into the flames, the serpent-like flickers dancing behind his eyes.

Snape.

He could still see the professor’s cold stare as the snake slithered toward Justin… still hear the calm precision in Snape’s voice when he cast the vanishing spell. No surprise. No fear. Just... confirmation. As if he had been waiting for it.

He knew.

And if Snape knew, had planned for it—why now? Why reveal this in front of the entire school? Was he testing Harry? Proving something to Dumbledore? Or had he simply wanted to watch him fall?

Harry’s jaw clenched. He’d spent last year suspicious of Snape, only to be proven wrong in the end. But now... now it felt different. Calculated. Cold. Almost like setting a trap.

“You’re fixating again,” Draco muttered, flopping into the chair opposite him.

“Maybe,” Harry said softly. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at me. Like I’m something... wrong. Something dangerous.”

“Well,” Draco said with a half-smirk, “you do speak snake.”

Harry didn’t smile.

It hadn’t taken long after the dueling club for the whispers to start. Parseltongue. Slytherin’s gift. The mark of a dark wizard. Students backed away in corridors, lowering their voices the moment he stepped into earshot. No one cared about the truth—only what they saw. And what they saw was Harry standing before a snake, speaking in a tongue no one else could understand.

The school had already made up its mind.

To them, Harry wasn’t just in Slytherin anymore. He was Slytherin. The heir. The shadow in the hallway. The monster behind the glass.

And worst of all… a part of him wasn’t sure they were wrong.

The next morning, Harry rose early—earlier than he had in weeks.

He skipped breakfast, his stomach twisted tight with nerves. A part of him knew it was pointless, but he had to try. He had to find Justin Finch-Fletchley and explain what had really happened. Maybe if Justin saw how rattled Harry was, how scared he felt… maybe then he’d believe him.

The corridors were quiet at first. Morning light filtered in through tall, arched windows, pale and cold. But as the hour passed, students trickled into the halls, and the whispers returned like a tide—Parseltongue… heir of Slytherin… dark wizard… Malfoy’s pet snake…

Harry kept his head up and walked faster.

He checked every hallway near the Hufflepuff common room. The Great Hall. Even lingered by the Herbology greenhouses. But there was no sign of Justin.

By midmorning, he wandered to the library. It was still early enough that Madam Pince hadn’t yet started prowling, and students were clustered at tables under dim candlelight. Harry scanned the rows for any sign of Justin—but froze as he caught sight of a group of Hufflepuffs hunched around a long table near the back.

They didn’t see him.

He was too far in the shadows. Hidden by towering shelves of dusty encyclopedias and stained herbology journals. But he heard them.

"...he directed the snake straight at Justin," one boy was saying.

“Of course he did,” came a sharp voice—familiar and unmistakable. Ron Weasley. “And then he spoke to it. Like, actually spoke to it. In snake language. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”

“Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing—” said Hannah Abbott, weakly.

“Oh, come off it, Hannah,” Ron cut her off. “He’s been raised by the Malfoys. Don’t pretend that doesn’t mean something. Lucius Malfoy’s practically Voldemort’s lapdog.”

“Shh—don’t say his name!” someone whispered.

But Ron was only getting started. “Everyone’s so quick to say poor Harry Potter, but think about it. The Dark Lord tried to kill him as a baby—why? Because he didn’t want competition. Because he knew something about him. And now look. He’s in Slytherin. He can talk to snakes. He shows up wherever something horrible happens. Mrs. Norris, Colin—what if he’s not the target?”

The table went quiet.

“What if he’s the one doing it?” Ron said flatly.

Harry stood still, heart hammering in his chest. He should’ve turned away. He should’ve walked out. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“Dumbledore’s just letting it happen,” Ron continued. “Because he still thinks Harry’s some kind of hero. But what if he’s wrong? What if we’re all wrong?”

A heavy silence followed.

Then someone whispered, “Do you think he really is… the heir?”

And Ron didn’t say no.

Harry’s hand curled into a fist against the bookshelf.

He cleared his throat—loudly.

The Hufflepuff table jumped. Heads snapped in his direction. A few paled. One girl shrank behind a stack of books. But it was Ron who stiffened first, face paling before twisting into something colder—more defensive.

“Well,” Harry said, voice low and taut. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Ron straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. “If you weren’t sneaking around, maybe we wouldn’t have to whisper.”

“Sneaking?” Harry took a step forward. “I’ve been looking for Justin. Thought maybe I could explain what happened. But clearly,” he glanced at the others, “you’ve all made up your minds.”

“I don’t need to make anything up,” Ron shot back, rising to his feet. “You speak Parseltongue. You’re in Slytherin. You were raised by the bloody Malfoys! What do you expect people to think?”

Harry laughed once, bitter and humorless. “You mean you. You expect people to think I’m evil. Because it’s easier for you than believing I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No one asked Draco to summon a snake at a dueling club!” Ron snapped. “You looked like you were enjoying it—”

“I didn’t even know I was speaking Parseltongue until someone told me!”

Ron’s face twisted. “That’s convenient.”

“Convenient?” Harry stepped even closer, fury vibrating in every word. “I’ve done everything I can to protect people. I’ve been hexed, cursed, nearly killed—and I never once asked for thanks. But I will not apologize for something I didn’t do.”

The table behind Ron was silent now, every Hufflepuff frozen, watching.

“I never liked you,” Harry hissed. “You think you are better than the rest of Slytherins. But you’re just as bad. Maybe worse.”

Ron scoffed, “You’ve changed. You’re not the same as you were last year.”

Harry’s voice dropped to a near whisper, laced with venom. “Yeah. Maybe I’ve stopped trying so hard to be something I’m not.”

He turned on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Ron demanded.

Harry didn’t stop walking.

“I’m tired,” he said over his shoulder, “of being nice when everyone wants me to be a monster.”

He paused at the edge of the aisle, casting a shadow that swallowed half the table behind him.

“I’ll show you all the monster you want me to be.”

Then he vanished between the shelves, leaving silence—and a growing chill—in his wake.

Harry stormed from the library, shoulders tight and jaw clenched, vision tunneling with fury. Bookshelves blurred past him in smudges of shadow and candlelight, his boots striking the stone with sharp, echoing force. The silence behind him wasn't just empty—it felt accusing.

“Harry!” a deep, gravelly voice called just as he turned the corridor.

Hagrid.

Harry didn’t stop in time and collided hard with the half-giant’s side, bouncing off solid muscle and staggering a step back.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Hagrid blinked down at him, frown deepening beneath his wild beard. “Yeh alright? Yeh look like yeh just walked outta a duel with a cave troll.”

Harry gave a jerky shrug, eyes shadowed. “Just tired.”

But Hagrid didn’t budge. “I was headin’ ter the Headmaster, actually. Somethin’ strange’s happened again—two more of me roosters, dead.”

Harry blinked. “Again?”

“Yeah,” Hagrid said, rubbing a massive hand over his face. “Third time now. Same way as the others—throats slashed clean, no feathers scattered, no blood trail. Like they were just... silenced.”

Harry’s stomach gave a quiet twist. “That’s awful.”

“Aren’t you supposed ter be in class?”

“Herbology was canceled. I’m sorry, Hagrid. Really. But I’ve got to get to Transfiguration.”

Hagrid looked at him for a moment longer, something unreadable in his gaze, then nodded. “Alright, Harry. But if yeh hear anythin’...”

“I’ll let you know,” Harry said, already walking.

But the moment he turned the next corner, the air changed.

Stillness.

Not just quiet—dead quiet. As though something had drawn a veil over the corridor. The torches on the walls flickered weakly, their light jaundiced and sickly, casting long, unnatural shadows that jittered across the stone floor like twitching limbs.

Harry slowed.

A smell hung in the air—metallic and wet. Like rust. Like old blood.

And then he saw it.

A smear of something black and tar-like dragged low along the base of the far wall, glistening in the flickering light like an oil slick.

Just beneath the nearest torch, floating stiff as a puppet on invisible strings, was Nearly Headless Nick. His ghostly form—usually ethereal and shifting—was now disturbingly solid, his expression frozen in a soundless scream. His head hung halfway off his neck, tilted grotesquely, his eyes blank with frozen horror. A sheen of frost webbed across his surface, crackling faintly in the silence.

And beneath him, sprawled on the cold stone floor, lay Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Arms twisted at unnatural angles. His mouth slightly open as if mid-sentence. And his eyes—

Wide. Vacant.

But unlike Colin’s stone-cold stare, Justin’s irises were ink-black, leaking thick trails of clotted fluid that dragged down his cheeks like tears of tar. It stained his face in long, gleaming lines, pooling beneath his ears, congealing into small dark puddles.

Harry stumbled back a step, the breath caught in his throat.

There was no sound. Not the buzz of distant conversation, not the creak of the torches—nothing but the wet, dripping silence and the awful, glistening black leaking from Justin’s eyes.

And Harry knew.

No one would believe he just happened upon this.

Not when it was always him. Not when they were already afraid. Not when the whispers had already named him the monster in the dark.

Not this time.

Not again.

Harry stood frozen. The silence around him seemed alive—breathing, watching. The air was too still, too thick, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.

Then a shriek tore through the quiet.

“Ohhhh, what do we have here?” came a gleeful, sing-song voice that bounced off the stone like a chime of breaking glass.

Peeves burst through the ceiling above Harry in a swirl of chaos—grinning, upside-down, trailing confetti and inky black smoke like an unhinged comet. He stopped midair, eyes bulging as he took in the scene below.

“DEAD BOY! DEAD BOY! DEAD AGAIN, OH DEARIE ME!” he howled, flipping upright and cackling so hard he began to spin. “Blood and ghosts and our Parselmouth prince caught at the scene!”

“Peeves—shut up!” Harry shouted, his voice ragged, but the poltergeist only shrieked louder.

“Potty Harry strikes again! Slithering where he doesn’t belong, whispering to snakes in the dark!” Peeves dove low, nearly grazing Harry’s hair. “He’s done it, yes he has, just like the last one—more blood in the eyes, what a lovely signature!”

Then he vanished, rocketing through the wall and echoing down the castle corridors, his shrieking chant already gaining momentum: “Caught again! Caught again! Potter's killed another friend!”

Seconds later, thunderous footsteps pounded from both directions. The hallway filled with frantic voices and scraping shoes.

The first to arrive was Professor McGonagall, her wand drawn, expression sharp with urgency—until she saw what lay before Harry. Her face drained of color.

Behind her, the crowd swelled with students pouring in from every corner of the castle. Faces flushed with fear. Some curious. Some excited. Many horrified.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through them.

“Is that—?”

“It’s Justin!”

“Look at his eyes—Merlin, there’s blood—!”

Ron’s voice sliced through the crowd like a blade.

“I KNEW it!” he shouted, forcing his way to the front. His eyes locked on Harry, wild and accusing. “He did it! I told you all—he was raised by Malfoys! He's one of them! He can talk to snakes—now look what’s happened!”

“Mr. Weasley!” McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip, and the crowd fell into abrupt silence.

She turned slowly to Harry. “Don’t say a word,” she said, quiet but firm. “Just come with me.”

Behind her, a spell lifted Justin’s rigid body into the air like a marionette cut from its strings. Nearly Headless Nick floated above him, still locked in his frozen expression of shock, his ghostly form trailing motes of ice-blue mist. The scent of rot and iron hung in their wake.

McGonagall didn’t look back as she began walking, and Harry followed. The eyes of the crowd clung to him like thorns, pricking with each step. No one said anything. They didn’t need to.

The silence said it all.

They passed under archways and torchlit halls, each turn a familiar path suddenly made foreign. Shadows dragged too long on the floor. The portraits turned their faces or pretended to sleep.

They came at last to the stone gargoyle.

“Lemon drop,” McGonagall muttered.

The statue twisted aside, revealing the spiral staircase behind it. Harry stepped on, the stairs moving him upward in a slow, inevitable spin.

The Headmaster’s office was warm—but not welcoming.

Candles floated above, unmoving. Gleaming silver instruments ticked and spun on high shelves, but their rhythmic sounds felt mechanical, lifeless. Bird, perched near the fire, turned away from Harry.

And waiting inside were two men.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his gaze steady, but Indecipherable. The lines around his mouth were deeper than usual.

Snape stood near the fireplace, arms folded, half-shrouded in shadow. His black eyes didn’t blink. They studied Harry like a patient spider watching a fly inch into its web.

“Please,” Dumbledore said gently. “Sit, Harry.”

Harry didn’t.

The heat in the room made his skin crawl. His throat was dry. He had nothing left to say.

And somewhere beneath it all, he felt it—that cold, dark thing coiling inside him, tighter with every fearful glance. With every accusation.

They all wanted a monster.

Maybe it was time he gave them one.

Chapter Text

Snape stood by the fire, arms folded, his silhouette cloaked in black like a judge poised to deliver a sentence. Shadows from the flames cut harsh lines across his face, sharpening the disdain etched there—a look so familiar it had once made Harry feel small, like a child dragged before an executioner.

But not this time.

Harry raised his chin, meeting that hooked-nose glare with unblinking defiance. There was no retreat in him now, no shrinking back. His stare was sharp, deliberate—a silent warning: I’m done being looked down on.

Snape’s lip curled, but his voice came smooth, soaked in venom.

“How is it, Potter,” he said slowly, “that you are always in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Harry’s reply was flat, dry, edged like glass. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just lucky.”

Snape’s nostrils flared.

“This is a laughing matter to you?” he snapped, stepping forward. “You think sarcasm will get you through this?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Everything else just gets me blamed anyway.”

Behind the desk, Dumbledore sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even look surprised. He simply watched—quiet, calculating—like a man studying a chessboard, deciding whether the pawn before him would survive long enough to become something far more dangerous.

Harry felt that gaze. It wasn’t indifferent. It wasn’t compassionate, either. It was… measuring. Waiting.

“I’m tired of it,” Harry said suddenly, his voice cracking louder than he intended. “Tired of everyone looking at me like I’m cursed. Like I’m dangerous. The whispers, the stares—the way people flinch when I walk by.”

“Oh,” Snape drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching, “the woes of a child celebrity. It must be unbearable, having the world know your name.”

Harry’s eyes burned.

“No—not just talking,” he snapped. “People actually trying to kill me. Have you already forgotten last year? Or were you too busy standing in the shadows, hoping they’d succeed?”

For a fraction of a second, Snape’s expression faltered—then hardened again.

“Wasn’t it you,” he said softly, dangerously, “who went willingly into the Forbidden Forest? Who crept into the third-floor corridor against every rule this school has?”

Harry’s hand shot out, finger stabbing toward Dumbledore like an accusation. “Wasn’t it him,” he shouted, “who hired a servant of Voldemort in the first place?!”

Snape went rigid. Even Dumbledore’s composure cracked.

But Harry wasn’t finished.

“It was him,” Harry continued, his voice ringing against the stone walls, “who knew the exact moment my parents died. It was him who took me from their home—dumped me on the Dursleys’ doorstep like a package no one wanted. Like I was nothing.”

Snape’s robes swept forward as he advanced, voice a low, dangerous snarl. “Mind your tongue, Potter, or I will—”

“No!” Harry roared, surging to his feet so fast his chair screeched backward and nearly toppled. “You think I attacked Justin and Nick? Then prove it! Stop circling me like wolves—say what you’re really thinking!”

His fists clenched, his breath came sharp and uneven, and beneath his skin magic sparked like an exposed wire. The air itself seemed to thicken, heat rippling as if the fire in the grate had begun to crawl across the walls.

Snape’s hand twitched toward his wand. His face darkened, furious, predatory—ready to strike.

And then—

Whooomph!

A shrill, piercing cry ripped through the tension, followed by an explosion of golden fire. Light consumed the room, flooding every corner, spilling shadows over stone like liquid gold.

The heat was immediate, searing yet alive, sparks raining down like falling stars.

the bird burned.

For a suspended, breathless moment, all sound vanished except the hiss and crackle of flames. The majestic bird writhed once, then collapsed in a heap of glowing ash—a death so radiant, so sudden, it silenced even Snape.

Harry blinked, stunned by the sudden blaze, and threw his hands up instinctively.

“Oh, come on! There’s no way you can blame me for that—I wasn’t even looking at the bird!”

To his surprise, Dumbledore chuckled—a soft, almost amused sound that seemed strangely out of place in the tension-thick room.

“No, Harry,” the Headmaster said, his voice calm yet carrying weight. “I am quite certain you did not cause this. That bird is called Fawkes, and Fawkes is a phoenix.”

He moved toward the smoking perch with deliberate slowness, the flames now fading into a quiet glow. “They are creatures of fire and rebirth. When their bodies grow frail, they choose their own end—bursting into flame, only to be born anew from the ashes.”

Harry’s eyes followed as Dumbledore knelt beside the smoldering heap. A faint stir, a twitch of fragile movement—and from the gray ash, a small, featherless creature emerged, slick and pink, its oversized eyes blinking wetly in the firelight.

The sight froze Harry in place. For a fleeting moment, the storm inside him stilled. The weight of suspicion, the anger burning through his veins—it all quieted at the fragile miracle struggling to lift its tiny head.

Then Snape’s voice sliced through the hush, low and venomous.

“No one would believe you capable of killing a phoenix, Potter,” he said, each word heavy with contempt. “Just strong enough to petrify a ghost, perhaps?”

The fragile calm inside Harry shattered. He turned slowly, meeting Snape’s eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was cool, almost mocking.

“Wow,” he said softly. “Almost a compliment.”

Snape’s sneer deepened, but before the tension could ignite again, the office door slammed open with a thunderous BANG.

Hagrid barreled inside, his massive frame filling the doorway like a wall of flesh and wild hair. His face was flushed, sweat beading beneath his tangled beard. In one enormous fist, he clutched a dead rooster by its limp neck, feathers drifting to the floor like pale snow.

“He’s innocent!” Hagrid roared, his booming voice shaking the air. “I saw ’im! I was with ’im outside the library jus’ before they found Nick an’ Justin. Harry didn’t ’ave the time—he couldn’t’ve done it!”

The words hit Harry harder than expected.

Snape grimaced at the interruption, his lip curling in open disgust. But Harry—Harry just stood there, stunned into silence.

He’d never been particularly fond of Hagrid—not like others were—but in that moment, with the half-giant’s broad shoulders squared in the doorway and his voice ringing with unshakable certainty, Harry felt something unfamiliar.

It felt like being believed.

Like someone, for once, saw him—not the whispers, not the rumors, not the monster they all wanted him to be.

For the first time all day, something inside Harry loosened, just slightly.

It was… nice. Nice not being blamed for something he hadn’t done.

He turned, ready to leave the room, but Dumbledore’s voice stopped him. Quiet. Even. Unyielding.

“Not just yet.”

Harry froze mid-step.

“I do not believe you had a hand in any of these attacks, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes fixed on him with piercing steadiness. “But I must ask…” His words slowed, each one deliberate. “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

The question seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

Snape’s gaze flicked sharply toward Harry—dark, accusing, eager to see him falter.

Harry felt that stare, felt the weight of both men pressing down on him. One judging, one waiting.

And something inside him hardened.

He lifted his chin. Met their eyes—both of them.

“No,” he said flatly. “There’s nothing.”

The lie burned like acid, bitter and hot on his tongue, but he forced it down.

Let Snape glare. Let Dumbledore calculate. Let them both think they’d cornered him.

He wasn’t their pawn.

Not anymore.
Before Harry could make it back to the dungeons, Hermione and Draco intercepted him on the stone steps that led out to the castle grounds. They didn’t speak at first. Their footsteps echoed alongside his, silent shadows trailing him as if words might snap the fragile thread holding him together.

They didn’t stop until they reached a grove of frost-brittle trees at the edge of the grounds—low, skeletal branches woven together like a cage. The place felt cut off from the castle, from the world. Quiet. Hidden.

Harry told them everything, his words clipped and sharp like broken glass. The interrogation. Dumbledore’s question. His refusal to answer.

Hermione folded her arms tight across her chest as though holding herself together. Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line, her eyes shadowed.

“You should’ve said something,” she whispered, her voice trembling with restrained urgency. “You should’ve told Dumbledore about the voices. About everything.”

Harry’s breath fogged the air. “I don’t owe him anything,” he said flatly. His voice sounded strange even to himself—older, heavier, like something inside him had cracked and hardened. “He knew last year. He knew and he let it happen. He lets a lot of things happen.”

Hermione sat down carefully on a cold, moss-slick stone, her movements cautious, almost deliberate—as though Harry himself had become dangerous ground. “That doesn’t mean you should lie to him.”

Draco leaned against a half-toppled wall, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. “It was a smart lie,” he said at last, tone cool but edged. “The more they think you’re dangerous, the harder they’ll try to control you. Better to keep them guessing.”

Hermione spun toward him. “That’s not helpful, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “You think they’ll forgive him if he plays nice? If he tries to explain himself to Justin—or anyone? Don’t be stupid. They want a villain. They already picked their side.”

“I don’t want forgiveness,” Harry cut in, his voice rising. “I just want to be left alone. But they won’t. They watch. They whisper. They wait—like they’re hoping I’ll lose control just so they can say, See? We knew it.”

His pacing quickened, frost crunching beneath his boots like brittle bones. “Maybe I should lose control. Maybe I’m tired of being good just to make everyone else comfortable. If they all want a monster so badly—fine. Let them have one.”

“Harry…” Hermione’s voice cracked like thin ice.

But he didn’t stop. “You saw their faces at the Dueling Club. You saw what they wanted to believe.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence itself was an answer.

Draco shifted, his usual mask slipping for just a moment. “They’re scared,” he said quietly. “They don’t understand you.”

“They don’t want to.”

The grove went still. The wind didn’t even stir. The trees loomed overhead like blackened ribs, and the cold pressed closer, heavy and suffocating.

Then—

From Draco’s satchel came a rasping voice, tearing through the silence like parchment ripped in two.

“Wanna know what I think?” it croaked. “But first—get me outta this stinking bag!”

Draco startled, glancing down as though he’d forgotten the weight he carried. “I—sorry. I forgot you were even in there.”

Harry’s brow lifted. “You brought him?” He reached without hesitation, dragging the shrunken head out into the dim light.

The thing dangled in his grip, its leathery lips curling into a cracked grin. “Couldn’t leave me behind, could he? Smart boy. You need someone who’ll tell you the truth.”

Its clouded eyes glinted with a cruel kind of cheer. “Let ‘em call you a monster. Monsters live longer. Monsters bite back. Monsters don’t get eaten.”

“Shut up,” Hermione snapped, recoiling as though the head’s words had fangs.

The head snickered, its voice dry and cutting. “Don’t act like I’m wrong, girly. This castle’s turning on him, and you’re both fools if you think he’s walking out of this clean. You—” it turned, its dead gaze locking on Harry—“you’ve got teeth, boy. Don’t let ’em rot just because you’re too busy pretending to be noble.”

Harry stared down at it. Said nothing.

But he didn’t put it back in the bag, either.

As macabre as it was, he reached out and gently took the shrunken head from Draco. Its leathery skin felt unnaturally warm in his palm, as though it had been waiting for him. In that moment, Harry felt a strange contradiction—utterly alone, yet holding the only company that seemed to understand him without question. The head didn’t flinch. It didn’t accuse. It didn’t look at him like he was something to be feared or fixed.

And Harry—tired, cornered, and raw—found comfort in that.

Weeks dragged on, heavy and airless, inching the students closer to Christmas break. Most of them seemed desperate to leave, scrambling for permission slips home. But when word spread that Harry would be staying at Hogwarts over the holiday, the whispers sharpened. It was as though his very presence chained them here.

By then, what had begun as quiet murmurs after the interrogation had swelled into something sharper, something that slashed at him in every corridor. Eyes followed him like drawn knives. Some students flinched visibly when he passed, pressing themselves flat to the walls. Others hissed “Parseltongue” under their breath, their fingers twitching out nervous, childish warding signs they half-remembered from fairy tales meant to keep dark things away.

Even the portraits joined in. They leaned from their frames as he walked, their faded, oil-painted faces whispering low. The cracks in their varnish seemed to stretch wider when they stared too long.

A few of the Slytherins didn’t turn their backs on him—but they didn’t step closer either. They kept their distance with the same deliberate caution one might use with a fire: useful, dangerous, and never truly safe. Draco especially walked a tightrope—his inherited suspicion of everyone clashing with the unspoken alliance he held with Harry. He stayed near, but guarded, his smirks carefully constructed masks rather than invitations.

Hermione, in class, watched Harry with eyes that held worry but also something else—something sharper, heavier. Maybe fear.

Even Neville, who never looked away, gave Harry a wide berth in public. Harry knew why. Neville was maintaining appearances, pretending—like everyone else—that caution was the only sensible thing to have around him now.

And yet… Harry felt something shift inside himself too. It was subtle at first, but undeniable. Something darker. Louder.

He didn’t bother to explain himself anymore. Didn’t waste energy trying to make anyone comfortable. When people recoiled, he didn’t flinch or slow his stride.

He was done twisting himself into a shape they could accept.

This world had already decided what he was.

Let them whisper.

Let them stare.

Let them fear him.

Maybe they should.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure if it was paranoia. Maybe he was imagining it—seeing things that weren’t there, reading too much into shadows and sideways glances. But it felt heavier than coincidence.

He kept noticing the youngest Weasley. Ginny, he thought her name was. Small, pale, always hovering just out of reach like a smudge in the corner of his vision. She darted through corridors like a frightened bird, and whenever their eyes met—even for a second—she’d flinch, clutch her books tighter, and stare hard at the floor as she scurried away.

It wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t even the kind of fear Harry had grown used to—the wary stares, the muttered spells behind his back, the classmates who whispered “Parseltongue” like a curse. No, Ginny’s fear was deeper. Older. It clung to her like damp mist.

But it was Ron who unsettled him most.

Harry would be walking alone, turning a corridor or passing beneath the low arches near the Great Hall, and there Ron would be. Leaning against a wall. Pretending to tie his shoe. Lurking near classroom doors with no excuse to be there.

Always watching.

Always silent.

At first, Harry had tried to ignore it. Coincidence. Misplaced guilt, maybe, after what happened at the Dueling Club. But it kept happening. Too often. Too precisely. Ron’s eyes followed him—not just with suspicion, but with purpose. As if he were waiting for Harry to do something. As if he already believed Harry would.

Christmas crept over the castle like a hush, softening the corners of its ancient stone with frost and silence. Students left in droves, trunks rattling behind them, voices echoing with excitement and relief. The halls grew emptier by the hour—and Harry couldn’t have been happier.

He’d told Professor Snape early on that he wished to stay for the holidays, and no one had questioned it. Not even Lucius.

He couldn’t see a reason to return to Malfoy Manor. The thought of Lucius’s pale, expectant stare was enough to sour the air. There would be questions now. Too many. About the dueling club. About the whispers. About the Parseltongue. Lucius hadn’t said much in his last letter—but the silence between the lines had been deafening.

Narcissa, ever gracious, had offered a carriage and warm rooms and a roaring fire waiting. But Harry could picture the chill beneath all of it.

So he stayed.

To Narcissa’s dismay, Draco stayed too. He’d lied, of course—boldly, smoothly, with that Malfoy tilt of the chin. Claimed he needed to remain at Hogwarts to "keep a closer eye on the Chamber of Secrets." Said he could be eyes and ears for his father while he was at Hogwarts.

But Harry knew better.

He wasn’t staying for the Chamber.

He was staying for him.

Harry didn’t question it, didn’t name it. Whatever it was between them didn’t need explaining. Draco was the one soul in the castle whose company didn’t feel like a weight, whose presence didn’t itch at the back of Harry’s skull. They didn’t always talk. Often, they didn’t need to. Sometimes, just sitting near the same fire was enough.

To Harry’s misfortune, a handful of students had also chosen to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas.

Crabbe and Goyle, unsurprisingly, remained—more out of habit than choice. Pansy had kept her word and stayed as well, her presence trailing behind Harry like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

The Weasley girl—Ginny, he remembered now—was still at the castle, along with her two older twin brothers, who had an uncanny way of appearing in places they didn’t belong. And of course, there was Ron—the misfit Weasley, the one sorted into Hufflepuff—who kept showing up where he wasn’t wanted. Always watching. Always too close.

Despite Harry’s protests, both Hermione and Neville had chosen to stay, insisting they wouldn’t leave him behind. Hermione tried to pass it off as concern over the Chamber of Secrets, but Harry saw through it. She didn’t trust the school to protect him—and maybe she was right.

A few others dotted the near-empty castle: Luna Lovegood, a first-year Ravenclaw, drifted through the corridors like a half-seen ghost, murmuring about strange energies and whispering walls. Colin Creevey and Justin Finch-Fletchley still lay petrified in the hospital wing. There were a handful of other students, but Harry wasn’t concerned enough to find out who.

It wasn’t a large group—but it was enough to ensure the castle wouldn’t be quiet. And enough, Harry feared, to make it dangerous.

For the most part, the holiday went by without concern. They slept in, wandered the castle at will, and enjoyed a freedom rarely felt during the school term. Neville, Hermione, and Draco could slip away and meet in secret without worrying about rumors making their way back to Lucius’s ears.

That was, until Christmas Eve.

The Great Hall was sparsely filled, what few students had remained gathered at long tables under enchanted icicles and twinkling stars. All except one—Ron Weasley. Harry could spot him from a distance now, even among the shadows. Even during the holiday, Ron somehow managed to be lurking in corridors, always just around the next corner.

Everyone was enjoying their food when Pansy walked right up to Harry. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes focused.

“I can’t wait any longer,” she said, almost breathless. “Can I give you your present now?”

Harry blinked. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s fine. But… can I give you mine?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Before he could say another word, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

He barely had time to register the surprise before a loud commotion erupted behind him. Ginny Weasley had slammed her plate on the table and stormed off, her face blotched red with tears.

Moments later, Ron burst into the Great Hall after her, only to pivot and stomp toward Harry instead.

“What did you do?” Ron shouted, red-faced.

Harry stood, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t do anything, you psychopath!”

“The only thing my sister said was your name. You did something!”

“I’ve had enough of you constantly stalking me around this castle!”

“Yeah, to keep an eye on you! And if you haven’t noticed, no one’s been attacked since I started following you.” He jabbed a finger at Harry’s chest. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

“You know what’s gonna be convenient?” Harry snapped, stepping forward. “When I shove your wand up your ass! Nice place to store it—and hey, it’ll keep it warm for you!”

Gasps and snickers rippled through the few students nearby.

Before Ron could lunge or say anything else, Draco stepped in and grabbed Harry by the arm, calmly but firmly pulling him back.

“What?” Harry barked, yanking slightly. “He started it!”

“Yes, yes he did,” Draco said smoothly, voice low. “But if he winds up attacked next, and the last thing anyone heard you say was something about his wand and his ass… well, that’s going to be a little hard to explain, isn’t it?”

Harry grunted, scowling.

“And honestly, who wants to waste their night in the Great Hall anyway?” Draco added, already turning him toward the door.

As they made to leave, Draco glanced back at Pansy. “He’ll meet you in the common room.”

Pansy’s eyes lit up. “Okay!” she squealed with delight, practically bouncing in place.

Draco muttered, “Merlin help us,” under his breath as they walked out, but Harry could see the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

Harry was ready to complain—about Ron, about everything—but mostly about Pansy. He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing her again so soon after that unexpected kiss.

As they stepped out of the Great Hall, a shrill voice echoed down from the floor above.

“PEEVES! I SWEAR TO MERLIN, I’LL BANISH YOU IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO!”

Harry and Draco froze.

“Was that Filch?” Harry muttered.

“Yep,” Draco said. “Sounds like he's losing what's left of his mind.”

Harry shot him a look. “Great. What am I going to get blamed for now?”

Draco’s face dropped. “If it was that Weasley girl… well, I wouldn’t normally care, but you were just seen yelling at her brother in the Great Hall.”

“No,” Harry snapped, already bolting for the stairs. “I’m not getting blamed for this one!”

“Wait—why are we running toward it?!” Draco shouted after him. “Shouldn’t we be running the other way—like, away?!”

But Harry didn’t stop, and reluctantly, Draco followed.

They came to a halt outside the girls’ bathroom.

Harry stared at the door. He knew this corridor far too well. Just a bit further down was where Mrs. Norris had been found, stiff and lifeless. And this hallway—he avoided it whenever he could. It always gave him a bad feeling.

Filch was there, pacing like a man possessed, mumbling to himself.

“I’ve had enough! How am I supposed to maintain order when that bloody ghost keeps flooding the place? Dumbledore will hear about this!” Then, with a dramatic huff, he stormed off down the corridor.

As soon as he vanished from sight, Harry moved toward the door.

“Let’s check it out.”

Draco stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “The girls’ bathroom? Are you insane? Between murder, monsters, and being the Heir of Slytherin, you want to add pervert to the list too?!”

Harry ignored him and pushed the door open.

“Hey—wait for me!” Draco hissed, following after.

Inside, they found the bathroom dimly lit, the floor gleaming wet under their feet. Water—clear and fresh—was trickling from one of the toilets, flooding the tiles.

In the far corner, hovering above the mess, was the ghost of Moaning Myrtle. Her translucent figure writhed in the air as she wept loudly, head buried in her ghostly hands.

“There. Crying ghost. Flooded toilet. Mystery solved,” Draco said flatly. “Can we go now?”

But Myrtle had spotted them.

Her head snapped up. “You boys shouldn’t be in here!”

Harry raised his hands. “We heard crying and wanted to check if you were okay.”

“LIES!” Myrtle wailed, spinning toward them. “You just came to throw something else at me, didn’t you?!”

Harry took a step forward, hands still raised. “No! We didn’t throw anything—we swear. But... someone did?”

Myrtle sniffled, hovering closer. “Yes! Some horrible student hurled a book right through me! Just—whoosh!—right through the middle of my stomach!”

She pointed to a nearby stall door, half-ajar and dripping water. “It’s still in there! Like I’m just some kind of rubbish bin!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re crying over a book? Myrtle, no offense, but... you’re dead. It’s not like it hurt.”

Myrtle let out a piercing shriek and dove toward him, eyes blazing. “JUST BECAUSE I’M DEAD DOESN’T MEAN I DON’T HAVE FEELINGS, YOU ARROGANT LITTLE—”

Draco yelped and ducked behind Harry, shielding himself with his cloak.

“Okay, okay—he’s sorry!” Harry said quickly. “Really.”

Myrtle hovered backward, crossing her arms. “Hmph. Rude boys.”

Harry turned to the stall and gently pushed the door open with the tip of his shoe.

There, sitting in the flooded water under the toilet, was a worn, waterlogged book. The cover was battered but intact, its pages slightly parted like it had been pried open before being tossed.

Draco leaned over Harry’s shoulder. “Someone threw that at her?”

Harry nodded. “Looks like it.”

“She really needs to toughen up,” Draco muttered.

Myrtle hovered near the ceiling, still grumbling to herself. “I hate it when they do this… always chucking things in here… just because I haunt a bathroom doesn’t mean I’m not a person!”

Harry ignored her for the moment and reached down to lift the book—hesitating only a second before his fingers closed around the soggy cover.

“Eww, you picked it up,” Draco grimaced, recoiling. “That was in the toilet, Potter. You’ll never get the stink off.”

Harry ignored him, turning the book over in his hands. “I want to know why someone wanted to get rid of this so bad…” he murmured, flipping it open.

On the inside cover, in neat, old-fashioned ink, was a name: T. M. Riddle.

Harry frowned. “T.M. Riddle…?”

But before he could say more, a noise echoed from down the corridor—the unmistakable sound of Filch wheezing, snarling, and muttering to himself as he stomped closer.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Not him again—go, go!”

The boys bolted from the bathroom, the book tucked beneath Harry’s robes, their shoes slapping wet tile as they sprinted out the door and vanished into the shadows.

They didn’t dare tempt luck any further that night.

Chapter Text

“Great,” Draco muttered as they made their way back to the Slytherin common room. “We’ve got a disgusting, tattered old book. I bet it’s worth loads.”

Harry didn’t laugh. He kept glancing down at the diary cradled in his arms.
“It’s worth something,” he said quietly. “Whoever had this didn’t just want to throw it away—they were trying to destroy it.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Draco snorted. “You’ll never be able to write in that thing again. It’s soaked, warped, probably smells like Myrtle’s toilet for life.”

Harry didn’t respond. He was too busy staring at the name on the front page.

T. M. Riddle.

There was something about it he couldn’t shake.

By the time they reached the common room, Harry was in disbelief.

He stared down at the diary again, brow furrowed. It was bone dry.

Harry came to a sudden stop, examining it more closely under the low torchlight.

“What’s the hold-up?” Draco asked, irritated.

“It’s dry,” Harry said slowly. “Like… completely dry. Like it was never soaked at all.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “So it’s got a water-repelling charm on it. Big deal.”

“No,” Harry insisted. He shoved the diary toward Draco. “Feel it.”

Draco recoiled at first, clearly remembering where it had been found. “I’m not touching that—”

“Just feel it,” Harry snapped.

With a dramatic sigh, Draco took the book. His expression shifted almost immediately. His eyes widened.

“This—this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “It felt like it’d been drowned five minutes ago. Now it’s like it came off a shelf at Flourish and Blotts.”

They both stared at the diary in silence. The name still glared up at them from the first page:
T. M. Riddle.

Something about it felt wrong.

Before they could sink deeper into thought, the world yanked them back.

Pansy was standing at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, arms crossed and foot tapping. “There you are, Harry. I’ve been waiting forever.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said awkwardly. “We just… took the long way back.”

Draco, still holding the damp-looking but impossibly dry book, stepped between them. “Harry, why don’t you keep Pansy company? I’ve got to check on a few things.”

Harry shot Draco a sharp look—one that clearly said don’t leave me alone with her—but Draco only smirked, gave a lazy wave, and slipped off down the corridor before Harry could protest.

Pansy wasted no time. She hooked her arm around Harry’s and pulled him toward the green-velvet couch near the fire.

“Come sit,” she said sweetly. “We’ve hardly had a proper conversation since… everything.”

With a sigh of resignation, Harry let her guide him down, though his eyes lingered a moment on the spot where Draco had vanished—the strange diary now gone with him.

Christmas morning came with snow blanketing the castle in a heavy silence, muting the usual chaos of Slytherin House. Despite the tension hanging over the school, the common room buzzed with rare cheer as students unwrapped gifts under flickering green firelight.

Harry and Draco sat slightly apart from the others, tearing into their presents with mild interest. Draco received his usual collection of expensive but impersonal gifts from home—leather-bound books, a new set of emerald-trimmed robes, and a vial of imported hair tonic he quickly tossed aside. Harry’s were fewer: a few sweets, some new gloves, and, oddly enough, a thick dark-green jumper with a silver “H” knitted into the front. He didn’t know who had sent it, but it was warm.

Draco glanced sideways at him. “Done playing holiday cheer?”

Harry smirked. “Let’s get out of here.”

They slipped away while the other Slytherins were distracted arguing over the last chocolate cauldron. They wound through the quiet halls, careful to avoid any lurking prefects or Filch, until they reached the hidden alcove behind the tapestry near the unused Charms classroom—one of Hermione’s favorite meeting spots. They’d agreed to meet here before Harry and Ron’s inevitable shouting match.

Hermione and Neville were already there. She sat on the windowsill with her legs curled beneath her, pale morning light catching the curls in her hair. A stack of books sat beside her, naturally. Neville was crouched near the fire, warming his hands.

“You’re late,” Hermione said, though her expression softened as they entered.

“Blame Draco,” Harry muttered, shaking snow from his cloak. “He needed time to brush his hair.”

“Just because you wake up looking like a cursed broom doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer,” Draco replied coolly, brushing invisible lint from his robes.

“Oh, lovely,” came a gravelly voice from above. “Just what I needed to wake up to—bickering children with overinflated egos.”

The shrunken head, now mounted to the wall by a scrap of ribbon someone had tied like a Christmas bow, rolled its eyes dramatically.
“Merry ruddy Christmas.”

“Good morning to you too,” Harry said dryly, sinking onto the floor beside the small fire Hermione had conjured earlier.

Draco sat down beside him and looked at Hermione. “So… what did you get for Christmas? Let me guess—new books, a reading lamp, and a lecture on ethics?”

She smiled faintly. “Among other things. But I figured we’d save the gift exchange for when we weren’t hiding in a freezing corridor like fugitives.”

Neville cleared his throat. “Er… sorry to interrupt, but—uh—why did you bring the shrunken head again?”

Harry reached into his cloak and pulled out the diary they’d found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, setting it carefully on the stone floor between them.

“Well,” he said, his voice low, “maybe we can give each other answers instead.”

Hermione leaned in. Neville shuffled closer. The shrunken head snorted.

“Oh, brilliant,” it muttered. “Just what the holidays needed—a cursed diary and three nosy brats. Joy to the world.”

Draco wasted no time launching into the story, eager to reclaim the spotlight.
“We found it in a flooded bathroom. Moaning Myrtle’s, actually,” he said, brushing a bit of lint off his sleeve like the location itself offended him. “Someone tossed it in there. Or tried to destroy it, more like.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Destroy it? Why would someone try to destroy a book?”

Harry met her gaze. “That’s what I asked. But it wasn’t waterlogged at all when we found it. Soaked one minute, bone dry the next. It’s charmed somehow.”

Draco nodded, voice low. “Not just charmed—shielded. Whatever protection is on this thing, it’s strong. Even the ink inside was gone. Looked like it had been emptied out. Except…”

He opened the cover and tapped the front page.

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes scanning the old, yellowing parchment. Her lips parted slightly as she read the faint, spidery ink:
T. M. Riddle.

“Riddle…” she whispered. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

The shrunken head muttered something from its ribbon perch—undoubtedly a snide remark—but no one paid it any mind.

Hermione’s fingers hovered just above the diary’s edge, half-reverent, half-afraid.
“It doesn’t make sense. If it was just a normal diary, someone might toss it out. But this? Someone wanted it gone. As in destroyed. That kind of magic isn’t casual.”

Harry sat back, watching her expression shift—concern tugging at her mouth, curiosity lighting up her eyes like candle flames. This was Hermione in her element: a book wrapped in mystery, laced with danger, and full of potential answers.

“I don’t like it,” she said at last, voice soft but certain. “But I can’t ignore it either.”

Draco gave her a smug look. “Didn’t think you could. Books are your only weakness.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “Books don’t petrify students, Malfoy. And we’re talking about something someone—someone powerful—went out of their way to erase. This might be more than just a weird magical notebook.”

Harry nodded. “Then we find out what it’s hiding.”

The shrunken head yawned loudly.
“Well, don’t let me stop you lot. Just remember—last time someone went poking into cursed magic, we ended up with a petrified Creevey and half the school wetting their pants.”

Hermione swallowed hard but didn’t look away from the diary.
“Then we’ll be more careful.”

Draco looked at her. “We’d better be.”

And for a moment, none of them spoke—just the soft crackle of magical fire and the distant howl of wind echoing through the stone corridors.

The shrunken head swayed slightly in its ribbon sling, eyes narrowing as it watched them.

“Well, seeing how you’re clearly planning to do something stupid,” it croaked, voice dry as parchment, “you ought to know—I’ve seen that name before. T. M. Riddle.”

All three froze.

“You what?” Draco asked, his voice sharp.

“You didn’t think to mention that?” Hermione's jaw dropped. “Why wouldn’t you say anything earlier?”

The head blinked slowly. “Not much to say. Just some lad, barely out of school. Worked at Borgin and Burkes… oh, must’ve been nearly fifty years ago.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco and Hermione. “Wait… this book is fifty years old?”

Hermione’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So it did belong to someone at Hogwarts. T. M. Riddle must have been a student. If it’s that old…”

“It either belonged to a teacher now,” Draco said thoughtfully, “or passed down to someone who is at Hogwarts now.”

The diary suddenly felt heavier in Harry’s hands.

The shrunken head gave a low chuckle. “Not so eager now, are you?”

“Why was he working at Borgin and Burkes?” Hermione asked quickly, her mind already racing ahead. “That place is full of cursed and dangerous objects—”

“Exactly,” the head interrupted. “And he was good at finding them. Real good. Had a way of knowing things others didn’t. Gave me the creeps, even before he got older and… well.”

“Well what?” Draco pressed, narrowing his eyes.

The head just grinned. “Lets just say he got creeper with time.”

Draco turned to Hermione with a sly smirk. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, already bracing for it.

“Research time,” he said, drawing the words out like a challenge.

Hermione's cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down at the floor, trying to hide the small, involuntary smile tugging at her lips.
“Obviously,” she muttered.

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He knew better than to get between those two when they were like this—flirting through sarcasm and study plans.

The shrunken head cackled from the wall.
“Oh, young love and ancient curses. A classic tale. Just don’t bleed on the book.”

Draco snorted. “No promises.”

Hermione straightened, all traces of embarrassment replaced by focused determination.
“We’ll need the library. And not just the student section—this is older than anything on the general shelves. We’ll need records. Logs. Possibly restricted texts.”

“Brilliant,” Draco said. “Illegal research over Christmas break. I’ve missed this.”

Chapter Text

Despite the altercation with Ron and the discovery of the diary in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, life at Hogwarts had settled into a semblance of normalcy. Even the students seemed to have relaxed around Harry’s presence.

Rumor spread through the corridors that the Mandrakes were nearly mature, soon to be harvested for the revival of those who had been petrified. Once ready, they would be cut open, stewed, and administered—sentient magical beings whose lives were deemed lesser than those of witches and wizards, sacrificed without hesitation. The injustice of it never escaped Harry. The wizarding world was built on hierarchies it refused to acknowledge, and those in power preferred to pretend such cruelty didn’t exist.

Still, most of the school’s attention had shifted toward Valentine’s Day, which loomed closer with every passing day. Harry found it impossible to care about something so frivolous. It wasn’t that he didn’t crave affection—he did—but trust was another matter entirely. How could he ever be certain someone liked him for who he truly was, rather than for the name and status he carried like a curse?

Even Draco and Hermione—despite their constant sniping—had begun working in secret to crack the mystery of T. M. Riddle. All Hermione had managed to uncover so far was that the name appeared in the vast trophy room, engraved on a Medal for Magical Merit dated 1943 to 1944. The discovery only deepened her irritation.

“There’s no record of him,” Harry remembered her saying sharply, slamming the book she’d been combing through. “It’s like he’s been permanently erased from history.”

Later that evening, Draco and Harry slipped back into the Slytherin common room after meeting with her.

“Okay, so T. M. Riddle was a nobody,” Draco said with a shrug. “Can we throw this thing away now?”

Pansy had been watching them for some time—Harry and Draco huddled in the corner, voices low, Draco holding something black and worn in his hands. A book. Typical.

Her eyes lingered on Harry. He wasn’t speaking, just listening, the faint crease between his brows showing he was deep in thought. There was something about him—something unshakable—that drew attention without him asking for it. Power didn’t cling to him so much as orbit him.

When his gaze lifted and caught hers, Pansy’s pulse skipped. He didn’t smile—he never smiled at her—but the weight of his eyes made her straighten in her seat. There was danger there, the kind that wasn’t loud or reckless, but deliberate. The kind that made you lean in, not step away.

The whispers in the corridors floated back to her: He’s the Heir of Slytherin… he speaks to snakes… maybe even controls them. Most feared the rumors. Pansy didn’t. She found them intoxicating. If they were true, Harry wasn’t just another boy in green robes—he was something rare. Untouchable.

When he turned back to Draco, Pansy allowed herself the faintest smile. She decided then she wanted to be close to him—close enough that whatever power he possessed might spill over onto her.

Not because she thought he’d love her. That wasn’t the point. The point was belonging to something greater than herself, to stand beside it and watch the world bend.

Great Hall Announcement

That evening, Gilderoy Lockhart rose from his seat at the staff table and clinked his goblet with a spoon until the chatter in the Great Hall faded.

“My dear students,” he began with a dazzling smile, his teeth flashing in the candlelight, “I know tensions have been running high of late. Many of you have been quite worried about the recent… unpleasantness. And, if I may be so bold, I suspect more than a few of you have theories about who might have been behind it.”

More than half the students’ eyes darted to Harry.

“Well!” Lockhart spread his arms grandly. “You can all rest easy now. The Chamber of Secrets is most certainly closed for good. I daresay, the miscreants responsible realized it was only a matter of time before I—Gilderoy Lockhart, five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award—caught them. Indeed, I have handled similar situations countless times before—see Chapters Twelve through Fourteen of Holidays with Hags, if you require confirmation!”

He gave a little chuckle, brushing an invisible speck from his robes.

“And so,” he continued, his voice swelling with self-importance, “I have decided we must mark the occasion with something truly special. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and I shall see that it is the most magical celebration Hogwarts has ever known! Leave the decorations to me—but I will also be providing an exclusive service: the personal delivery of Valentines to your sweethearts, courtesy of yours truly!”

The hall erupted in a mixture of groans and nervous laughter.

“Come to me tonight after eating, and we’ll make your requests a reality,” Lockhart called over the noise, beaming like an idiot.

Draco leaned toward Harry, voice low. “Let’s get out of here before I hex him.”

Harry smirked. “Agreed. I don’t have a Valentine, but if I did, I wouldn’t enlist the services of Lockhart.”

As he turned to leave, his eyes caught on Pansy. She was watching him from across the table—chin tilted slightly down, gaze sharp and unblinking, like she was studying something she intended to claim. The noise of the Great Hall seemed to dim around that look.

Harry glanced away before it could get awkward, but the weight of it lingered. He knew she liked him—though ‘like’ might not be the right word. There was something in her expression, something that felt more like possession than affection. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do with that.

The next morning, Harry awoke expecting the same dreary routine as any other day. He dressed, straightened his tie, and made his way toward the Great Hall with the same half-awake stride he always had after a restless night.

But the moment he stepped through the doors, he knew this day would be the stuff of nightmares.

The Great Hall had been defiled. Every wall was smothered in garish, cotton-candy pink so bright it could burn a man's retinas. It looked as if a sickly cherub had vomited up a lifetime’s supply of paint. Puffy ribbons dangled like nooses from the enchanted ceiling, and lace trimmings curled obscenely around the House tables.

At the center of this visual atrocity stood the Great Fool himself—Lockhart—radiating self-importance like a lighthouse warning sailors away from his ego.

“Good morning, everyone!” he called, puffing his chest as though he had invented joy itself. “All day today, my little dwarf friends will be delivering your tokens of affection, free of charge!”

Harry’s gaze followed Lockhart’s sweeping gesture to the so-called “friends”—a battalion of surly dwarves, each one wearing a curly yellow wig and wings that looked as though they’d been glued on in the dark. Pink tunics hung awkwardly over their stocky frames, and each one carried a crossbow-shaped harp. They were less “Cupid” and more “escaped lunatic from a failed theatre production.”

“They will,” Lockhart continued with unfazed cheer, “have only the most limited interruptions on your classes today. Enjoy!”

Harry groaned inwardly. Enjoyment seemed about as likely as Filch breaking into a jig.

The interruptions had plagued the entire day, much to the teachers’ collective disdain. In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall’s lips had thinned into a line so sharp it could cut parchment. In Potions, Snape’s glare alone looked ready to reduce the dwarfs to ash where they stood. They kept bursting into lessons at random, gold wings fluttering and harps twanging, utterly impervious to the tension that hung over the school.

At first, Harry had found it mildly comical—until the horror came for him.

He was on his way to Charms when it happened.

“Hey! Harry Potter!”

The singsong voice carried down the corridor like a threat. Harry glanced over his shoulder, scowling.

“Not interested,” he shot back, quickening his pace.

But the dwarf persisted, his stubby legs pumping. “I gotta, kid! It’s my job!”

Harry lengthened his stride, almost making it around the corner—almost—when something slammed into the back of his knees. The impact sent him stumbling forward. A death grip locked around his legs, the dwarf’s surprisingly wiry arms refusing to let go.

Students gathered instantly, the sound of laughter swelling like a tide.

Pinned and thrashing, Harry tried to wrench himself free, but the dwarf simply adjusted his grip, settling in like a wrestler going for the win. Then, to Harry’s mounting horror, the little creature began to sing—loudly.

“Some say he’s the Heir of Slytherin,

but that can’t be true,

the secrets he holds…

are the ones to my heart…”

The laughter grew louder. Harry twisted harder, but the dwarf was undeterred, plowing into the final verse with gusto:

“Yours truly—Ginny Weasley!”

Harry froze. The name rang out like a bell, echoing over the jeers and giggles of the crowd, branding the moment into memory.

With a forceful tone, Pansy snapped, “Let him go!”

Before the dwarf could react, her wand was already raised. “Expelliarmus!”

The dwarf shot backward, colliding hard with the stone wall. His ridiculous bag of pink cards was scattered across the floor. Pansy lowered her wand and, without hesitation, stooped to snatch Harry’s newly acquired diary from where it had fallen.

Harry’s gaze flicked upward—straight into Ginny Weasley’s. Her eyes darted to him, then to the diary clutched in Pansy’s hand.

Before a word could pass between them, Pansy crossed the space and offered Harry her free hand, helping him to his feet. “Be my Valentine,” she said coolly. “I don’t need some stupid dwarf to ask for me.”

Harry stared at her, caught between shock and confusion.

“Utter one word,” she pressed, her eyes locked on his. “Yes.”

Ginny’s face crumpled. Without another sound, she turned and fled down the corridor, tears trailing in her wake.

Chapter Text

Harry sat at the desk near his bed, the shrunken head already propped up beside him.

“You dragged me here to stare at this blasted diary again?” the head asked dryly.

“Not exactly,” Harry muttered, flipping the diary open. He dipped his quill into the ink bottle, holding it just above the first blank page. This was ridiculous. What was he even supposed to write?

The quill lingered, trembling slightly in his grip, until a single drop of ink fell. It spread for an instant—then vanished, sucked into the page as though the parchment had swallowed it whole.

Harry’s frown deepened. He flipped through the diary—nothing. Not a smudge.

Turning back to the first page, he dipped the quill again, this time dragging it hard across the paper in a thick black stroke. The mark lasted only a heartbeat before it, too, was pulled into the parchment.

A new line appeared—drawn in neat, deliberate strokes by an unseen hand—before it faded just as quickly.

The shrunken head let out a low whistle. “Well… that’s not creepy at all.”

Harry ignored him, leaning forward. He scrawled, Who are you?

The words bled away, replaced by a graceful, tidy script:

My name is Tom Riddle. And you are?

Harry hesitated. There was something unsettling about the way the letters formed—patient, precise, almost polite.

Harry Potter.

Ah, the diary replied. I’ve heard of you.

The head snorted. “Oh, brilliant. That’s not ominous in the slightest. Go ahead, give him your shoe size while you’re at it.”

Harry’s hand tightened on the quill. What is this diary?

It’s a memory, came the answer. A record of the truth no one else will tell you. About the attacks. About the Heir of Slytherin.

Harry’s pulse quickened. You know who the Heir is?

Of course I do. I tried to stop him once—got him expelled. I thought I’d succeeded, until someone told me the Chamber of Secrets had been opened again. In my fifth year, it was unleashed. Several students were attacked. One girl died. Headmaster Dippet cared more about protecting his precious reputation than finding the truth. I was given a meaningless medal and told to keep quiet. I knew it would happen again if the culprit wasn’t locked away.

I can show you, Tom’s elegant hand promised. If you’ll trust me.

The head groaned. “Because trusting a talking book is always a sound life choice.”

There have been three attacks already, Harry wrote quickly. Who told you this time?

I am a diary. It is in my nature to keep the confidences of all who write in me.

Harry bit his lip, leaning closer. Show me.

The words vanished. The page began to glow—faint at first, then brighter, the light rippling outward like moonlight spilled into water. The edges of the world blurred.

The shrunken head’s voice was suddenly far away. “Oh, you’ve gone and done it now…”

And then Harry was falling. Instinctively, he grabbed the shrunken head, clutching it tight as the light swallowed them both.

________________________________________

When the dizziness faded, Harry stood in the Hogwarts Entrance Hall—but wrong, somehow. The air was heavy and stale, shadows pooling in the corners. Candles burned low, their flames wavering as if afraid to be seen. Somewhere far off, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm.

Students passed by without so much as a glance. Their robes were of an older cut, their colours muted, their faces faintly blurred—as though the memory itself had worn thin.

At the grand staircase, a boy descended. He had Harry’s same dark hair, pale skin… but colder eyes. Calculating. Dangerous.

Harry swallowed. “You’re… real?”

Shrunken Head moaned, we are in a memory child. Shut up and follow that boy.

Riddle didn’t so much as look at him. He walked on, quick and deliberate, and Harry followed.

The corridors twisted unnaturally, corners bending in ways Harry was sure they shouldn’t. They stopped outside the Headmaster’s office, muffled voices audible inside.

The door opened. An Younger Dumbledore stepped into the hall—less silver in his hair, no warmth in his gaze. His eyes were shards of ice as they flicked toward Riddle, lingering briefly on the small black book in his hand.

“Professor Dippet is expecting you,” Dumbledore said.

Inside, the office was both familiar and wrong—Hogwarts’ heart, but colder, sharper. Headmaster Armando Dippet sat behind his desk, a folded letter in hand.

“You wanted to see me?” Riddle’s voice was polite, almost timid.

“Yes, yes. Sit, my boy,” Dippet said, glancing at the letter again. “I’m afraid I must deny your request to remain at Hogwarts over the summer. You live in a Muggle orphanage, yes?”

“Yes, Headmaster. But I’d rather stay here. I’m an excellent student. The professors respect me. I’m a Slytherin prefect.” He touched the silver badge on his chest with a faint smile. “I could be useful to Hogwarts during the holidays.”

Dippet sighed, heavy with disappointment. “Tom… it would take an extraordinary circumstance to allow such a thing. Perhaps—before this tragedy. But now? With a girl dead, the Ministry suspects Hogwarts is unsafe. Some are even pushing to close it entirely.”

Shock flashed in Riddle’s eyes. “Close it? But—this is my home.”

“I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.”

Riddle’s voice softened, dangerous in its calm. “If the culprit were caught, the school could remain open.”

Dippet’s gaze sharpened. “Tom… do you know anything about the attacks?”

“Oh, no, sir. Just… thinking aloud.”

And with that, Riddle rose and left, his pace quickening until he vanished into the dungeons. There he paced, alone, thoughts turning behind his dark eyes.

Harry watched him for what felt like hours—until, suddenly, Tom stilled. His expression shifted, and without a word, he set off again, his stride purposeful, predatory.

Barely audible, Harry could hear Riddle whisper, “This is the only way.”

The boy’s steps echoed through the memory, leading them deep into the bowels of the castle until they reached a narrow corridor at the very back of the dungeons. A heavy, iron-banded door loomed ahead, slick with condensation.

Without hesitation, Riddle seized the handle and pulled. The hinges groaned, and the door swung inward to reveal a dimly lit chamber. Huddled in the far corner, framed by dripping stone walls, was a much younger, wilder-looking Hagrid. He crouched protectively over a massive wooden crate, his huge frame curved like a shield.

The air was thick—damp stone mingled with a pungent, musky scent that made the hair on Harry’s arms prickle. Something alive was in there.

“What’s in the crate, Hagrid?” Tom’s voice was calm, almost curious—but there was an edge beneath it, a coldness that made Harry tense.

“You leave him alone!” Hagrid shot back, voice quivering with anger. “He’s done nothing wrong!”

The crate shifted with a slow, deliberate scrape. Then came a low, rattling hiss—deep and ancient—that seemed to coil through the air, sliding along Harry’s skin and settling in his bones.

Riddle stepped forward, his shadow cutting across the crate. “It’s killing students, Hagrid. You can’t protect it.”

“He’s done nothing wrong!” Hagrid’s voice cracked with anger, but his eyes flickered—guilt, or fear, Harry couldn’t tell.

The crate shuddered violently. The rattling hiss that followed was like dry leaves dragged over stone, seeping into Harry’s bones.

Riddle’s expression didn’t change. “If you won’t hand it over—”

“Don’t you touch him!” Hagrid surged forward, shoving Riddle back, but the movement jostled the crate. The lid burst upward with a splintering crack, and something—long, sinuous, and impossibly fast—shot past them in a blur. The wind of its passing whipped Harry’s hair, but his eyes couldn’t catch it.

A scream echoed somewhere far above, followed by the crash of something breaking.

Riddle adjusted his robe with slow precision, his gaze fixed on Hagrid. “You’ve just made things worse for yourself.”

Hagrid stood frozen, chest heaving, hands empty. In that moment, Harry thought he looked exactly like someone caught in the act.

The darkness rushed forward, and the world snapped back into the cold quiet of Harry’s dormitory.

The diary lay open before him, innocent and blank.

The shrunken head looked at him grimly. “Well. That’s not going to haunt your dreams or anything.”

Chapter Text

The idea of Hagrid being the Heir of Slytherin didn’t sit right with Harry. Yes, Hagrid had more than a fondness for creatures—he practically lived for them. But Hagrid wasn’t the heir of anything refined or cunning. If anything, he was the heir of the untamed, the uneducated, the uncivilized.

Still, the memory gnawed at him. Harry couldn’t shake the image of Hagrid crouched over that crate, defensive and guilty, while something monstrous slipped into the shadows.

He glanced at the shrunken head. “You said before the Ministry found themselves a scapegoat for the Chamber of Secrets. You saw what I just saw—Hagrid looked guilty.

The head didn’t answer right away. Its leathery features were unusually grave, the stitched lips pressed into a thoughtful line.

“Oh, come on!” Harry snapped. “Let’s just go over what we know. Hagrid tried to raise a dragon in his hut—which almost killed us last year and burned down half his house. Then there was the three-headed dog, another one of his brilliant ideas for ‘protection.’ We know he was expelled fifty years ago for the possible murder of a girl. And after he was expelled? The attacks stopped. In the memory, we saw him hiding and raising another creature while he was still a student.”

Harry leaned closer, his voice low and fierce. “Any thoughts?”

The head’s eyes flicked toward him, dark and knowing. “Plenty,” it said at last, its tone edged with something colder than usual. “But here’s the thing, boy—the truth is always uglier than the story you think you’ve pieced together. People are never as guilty as they look… and never as innocent, either. Hagrid may be a fool, but fools make convenient scapegoats. Remember that before you hang him in your mind.”

Harry stared, unsettled. The words felt less like reassurance and more like a warning.

The head let out a low, throaty chuckle that didn’t sound amused in the slightest. “Let’s go over the facts you think you know, boy. Hagrid supposedly lets some monster loose fifty years ago, it attacks students, and a girl dies. He’s expelled, yes—but funny thing, he isn’t kept in Azkaban. Why? Because there was never enough proof to convict a half-giant teenager of murder, and the Ministry loves proof almost as much as it loves scapegoats. Conveniently, the attacks stop.

“Years pass. Does Hagrid vanish into the shadows, branded forever? No. Dumbledore—bright-eyed, sharp-nosed Dumbledore—decides to keep him on at Hogwarts. If he truly believed Hagrid guilty, do you think he’d have left him roaming the grounds, surrounded by children, beasts, and secrets? No, lad. He knew Hagrid was more useful loyal than locked away.”

The head’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “And what happens? For decades, the Chamber stays closed. Your first year comes and goes, and it’s still closed. But now—your second year—suddenly we’re to believe Hagrid has a change of heart? That he decides, after half a lifetime of keeping quiet, to reopen the Chamber? To risk everything, knowing full well the moment a student gets so much as a scratch, the whole school will point fingers at him again? Tell me, Harry—what could he possibly gain? What motive would drive him to such an obvious, suicidal move?”

It smirked, lips curling tight against its sewn edges. “Don’t mistake me—I’ve never confused Hagrid with a genius. But that kind of stupidity? That isn’t clumsiness. That’s not even recklessness. That’s self-destruction so absolute it borders on suicide. And Hagrid—bleeding heart, beast-loving fool though he is—has never been suicidal.”

The head leaned back slightly, voice dropping into a murmur that made the hairs on Harry’s neck prickle. “So I’ll ask again, boy. If it is Hagrid—what does he have to gain?”

Once again, the four met up—Draco, Hermione, Neville, and Harry—huddling together in the shadowed corner of an empty classroom. The fire from a lantern was low, casting just enough light for Harry to see their expectant faces as he tried to explain everything he’d seen in the memory.

He stumbled over the details, words tumbling out in pieces, until finally he finished with a frustrated sigh. “That’s it. That’s everything I can remember.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, arms folded, his expression carefully neutral. “So we’ve got Hagrid sneaking around with some creature, fifty years ago. Suspicious, sure, but hardly proof of anything. And yet the Chamber stopped opening after he was expelled. Convenient timing, isn’t it?”

Hermione chewed her lip, eyes narrowed in thought. “But the head’s right. If Hagrid really was the Heir, why wait fifty years to open it again? Why now, of all times? It doesn’t add up.”

Neville shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe he didn’t open it again. Maybe someone else did. Someone who knew the story and wanted him blamed. The attacks this year… they look the same, don’t they? Petrified students, no marks. Whoever’s behind it must know how it was done before.”

Harry rubbed at his temples, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “But if it wasn’t Hagrid then, and it isn’t Hagrid now… who is it? The memory pointed right at him.”

Draco scoffed softly. “Memories can lie. Or at least… they can be shaped by whoever’s holding them. Don’t put too much stock in them.”

Hermione shot him a look. “That’s not how memories work, Draco. They’re still evidence—just not the full picture. And that’s the problem. We don’t have the full picture. We don’t even have half of it.”

The four of them sat in silence for a long moment, the crackling of the fire filling the gap where their answers should have been.

Finally, Neville spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “So after everything we’ve seen… we still don’t really know what happened, do we?”

Harry met his eyes, then glanced at the others. Reluctantly, they all shook their heads.

“No,” he admitted, the word heavy on his tongue. “We don’t.”

Lucky for them, most second years were too distracted by the looming deadline for course selections to dwell too long on attacks or suspects. The notices had gone up on the boards that morning, and the school buzzed with chatter about schedules, future prospects, and how the choices might change everything.

It was hard for Harry to think about monsters and petrified students when parchment lay before him, columns of options inked in crisp lettering. He tapped the quill against the list, frowning.

“I didn’t think we’d have to worry about this for another year,” Neville muttered, brow furrowed. “I barely keep up as it is—now they want us to add more?”

Hermione’s eyes were already shining; the list clutched like a treasure map. “Oh, but it’s brilliant. Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies—think of what we could learn! I just don’t know how I’m supposed to choose.”

Draco leaned over her shoulder, smirking faintly. “Well, Muggle Studies is pointless. Who needs to waste time learning about your lot, Granger? Everyone already knows how dreary your world is.”

Hermione shot him a withering look but didn’t rise to the bait.

Harry’s eyes lingered on two subjects: Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Something about the precision of numbers twisted into power, or symbols carved with intent, called to him in a way he couldn’t explain. It felt darker, sharper—like a hidden current beneath the surface. of ordinary magic. He imagined tracing a rune and feeling it hum with something old and dangerous.

“I think I’ll take these,” Harry said quietly, circling both with his quill.

Neville raised his brows. “Really? Those are supposed to be difficult. Why not Care of Magical Creatures?

Harry shrugged, but inside he knew the truth— creatures were wild and dangerous, yes, but they weren’t structured. They weren’t controllable. Runes and Arithmancy promised control. Power bound into form.

Draco tapped the list thoughtfully. “I’ll take Arithmancy too. Father says it’s useful for… investments. And predicting outcomes. Not everything’s brute strength, you know.”

Hermione gave an approving nod. “I’m definitely taking both Arithmancy and Runes. And probably Care of Magical Creatures as well. I’ll find a way to manage the workload.”

Neville sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well… I’ll just stick with Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. At least I understand plants. Runes and numbers—” He shuddered. “That’s not me.”

The four of them looked down at their selections, quills scratching, each choice reflecting more than just a schedule. In quiet ways, it was shaping who they were becoming.

And for Harry, staring at the sharp lines of his inked circles, it felt like the first step down a path he hadn’t even realized he was already walking.

Before the boys knew it, the day of another Quidditch match had arrived. The castle was buzzing with chatter about the game, green and yellow banners already fluttering in the stands outside. Yet for Harry, the thought of taking to the skies no longer filled him with excitement. The rush of the wind, the thrill of the chase—none of it mattered as much anymore. Quidditch seemed hollow now, a distraction that pulled him away from the shadows he really wanted to understand. The mystery of the Chamber gnawed at him more than the Snitch ever could.

Draco, on the other hand, was still strutting down the corridor at his side, broom slung casually over one shoulder, already rehearsing in his mind how he’d sneer at Hufflepuffs defeat.

They were halfway to the pitch when a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

“Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”

Both boys froze. Professor McGonagall stood before them, arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a grim line. Her face was pale, but her eyes were blazing.

“You two will come with me immediately.”

Draco frowned. “But Professor—we’ve got a match. The team’s already waiting—”

“There will be no match,” McGonagall said, her voice like iron. “Quidditch has been cancelled for the remainder of the year.”

Draco’s mouth fell open. “Cancelled? You can’t be serious!”

“Deadly serious, Mr. Malfoy.” Her gaze swept over them, hard as steel. “At this rate, we shall be fortunate if Hogwarts remains open at all. Now—come with me. At once.”

The weight in her words chilled Harry, heavier than the echoing click of her heels as she turned down the corridor. He exchanged a quick look with Draco, who seemed more outraged than frightened, and they hurried after her.

McGonagall did not speak again as she led them through the castle. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint whispers of portraits leaning forward in their frames, eager to glimpse the procession.

At last, they pushed through the doors of the hospital wing. The air inside was thick, too still, as though even the walls were holding their breath. Madam Pomfrey hovered anxiously near two beds at the far end.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

On the nearest bed lay Hermione, frozen rigid, her eyes wide with terror, a small mirror clutched tightly in her stiffened hand. Beside her was Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw prefect, her features locked in the same glassy expression of horror.

The sight punched the breath from Harry’s chest. His mind reeled, numb and cold all at once.

Beside him, Draco swore under his breath, color draining from his face. He had seen victims before—Colin, Justin—but never Hermione.

McGonagall’s voice was quieter now, though it shook with something she could not entirely conceal. “The attacks are not stopping—this changes everything.” She looked at them both, her stern mask cracking for the briefest moment. “I must speak with the Headmaster. Stay here. Do not touch anything.”

Then she swept away, leaving Harry and Draco staring at their petrified friend, the reality of the Chamber’s power pressing down on them heavier than ever before.

Chapter Text

A magical boom cracked through the air, shaking the walls of the castle as a resounding voice carried over the grounds.

"All students will return to their house dormitories by six o’clock tonight. All extracurricular activities, including Quidditch practices and matches, are hereby canceled. Students may only leave for lessons under the direct supervision of a house prefect or teacher. All other movements—including to the lavatories—will require the escort of a staff member. No exceptions."

The echo of the decree still rang in Harry’s ears as he and Draco found themselves cornered once again, this time by Professor McGonagall. Her lips were set in a hard line, her face drawn tighter than usual. But she wasn’t alone. Beside her loomed Snape, his black eyes glinting like oil as he extended a piece of parchment between two fingers, as though it were something foul he’d plucked from the floor.

“Explain,” Snape drawled, his voice silk and venom. “The nature of this.”

Harry and Draco craned their necks, but the parchment was held just out of view. Whatever was written on it was not meant for them—at least, not yet. Both boys froze, mouths slightly open, caught between confusion and dread.

“We didn’t do anything!” Draco blurted, his usual composure cracking under Snape’s stare. “We were on our way to the Quidditch pitch when Professor McGonagall stopped us. We swear! Plus—Granger isn’t even my friend—”

“Stop.” Snape’s command cut through Draco’s words like a blade. His eyes narrowed. “Do not insult us with such childish lies. There is much that happens in this castle that you believe goes unseen. Do you honestly think we do not know that Potter, Longbottom, Granger—and yes, even you, Mr. Malfoy—are… friends?”

The words sank like stones in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

The boys met the professors’ stares with tight-lipped silence. Then, with a sharp motion, Snape thrust the parchment into Harry’s hand.

It was nothing elaborate—just a few scrawled words:

“Harry, girls’ bathroom.”

And beneath, a single word, etched in hurried ink:

“Crossbreeding.”

Harry blinked down at it, frowning. “What does it mean?”

Snape’s voice coiled around him like smoke. “Potter, Miss Granger was found with a mirror in one hand, that slip of parchment in the other. It would seem she and Penelope Clearwater were using the mirror to peer around corners. What I want to know is why.”

Harry stared at him, bewildered. “How am I supposed to know?”

Snape’s lip curled.

Harry snapped back before he could stop himself. “Yeah? Me too. If you don’t know, how should I?”

“Watch your tone, Potter,” Snape hissed.

Harry’s eyes darkened. “Or what? You’ll expel us? Go on, then. At the rate things are going, Hogwarts might not even be open in a few weeks.”

A sharp gasp filled the room, but Harry had already turned on his heel and walked away, Draco scrambling to follow.

“Where do you think you’re going?” McGonagall’s voice called sharply.

“Back to the dormitory. Before six,” Harry shot over his shoulder.

“You need to be accompanied by—”

Harry stopped, his voice cold and steady. “I’m the Heir of Slytherin, right? What exactly do I have to fear?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, Draco. We need to get back into our school robes while we still can.”

____________________________________________________________________________________

The Quidditch locker room was quiet, its lanterns casting long shadows across the benches and open trunks. The familiar smell of polish, broomstick bristles, and damp leather hung in the air. Harry shoved his way to his locker, the tension burning beneath his skin.

He threw it open.

Empty.

The diary—his diary—was gone.

For a moment, Harry just stared into the vacant space, his mind struggling to catch up. Then the anger hit.

“Gone,” he hissed. His fists slammed against the wooden door with a sharp crack. “It’s bloody gone!”

Draco stepped back, watching the storm build behind Harry’s eyes. “Maybe… maybe someone just moved it?”

“No.” Harry’s voice was low, dangerous. He turned, the flickering light catching the sharp edge of his expression. “Someone took it. Someone’s playing games.”

His pulse hammered in his ears. The chamber, the attacks, the professors breathing down their necks—it was all unraveling, slipping out of his control. And now, the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose was in someone else’s hands.

Draco’s voice rasped low in the Slytherin common room, his face pale in the green-glowing firelight. “Hermione’s been attacked. Petrified.” His hand clenched tight on the back of a chair. “Hagrid might not be the one who did it, but he knows more than he’s telling.”

Harry’s eyes were sharp and unyielding. “Then we don’t waste time. We get my cloak, and tonight we go to him.”

____________________________________________________________________________________

The dormitory was deathly quiet when Harry retrieved the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk. His fingers brushed over the silken folds as if drawing strength from it. By the time he and Draco slipped through the common room’s stone arch, the corridors had sunk into their haunted stillness.

The castle at night was alive in its own way—whispers carried in the draughts, portraits stirred uneasily in their frames, and distant footsteps echoed with no visible source. The boys moved like shadows, the cloak trailing behind them, until they reached the broad stairwell leading toward the Entrance Hall.

There, crouched at the base of the staircase, someone waited. A small, round-faced figure with his arms folded tightly across his chest, as though bracing himself against the cold stone. Neville.

He straightened when he saw them, his eyes darting nervously. “I knew you two would try something,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sit in Gryffindor Tower knowing Hermione’s in the hospital wing. You’re going to Hagrid’s, aren’t you?”

Draco’s lips curled faintly, though his voice was hoarse. “And what if we are?”

Neville swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Then you’ll need me. Hermione would’ve wanted me here.”

Harry studied him in the dim torchlight. Neville looked terrified, his fists trembling at his sides, but he hadn’t backed down. There was something raw and honest in his determination that struck Harry—not weakness, but courage wrapped in fear.

Without a word, Harry pulled the cloak higher, spreading it out. “Then come.”

The three of them moved together now, silent as wraiths beneath the cloak. Past the slumbering suits of armor, past the echo of Peeves’ distant giggle, until the heavy oak doors of the castle gave way to the night.

The air outside was damp and sharp, filled with the smell of earth and grass. Moonlight silvered the lawn as they crept down toward the pumpkin patch, where Hagrid’s hut glowed faintly at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry’s chest was tight, his thoughts circling like vultures. Hermione’s still form in the hospital wing burned in his mind, and every step closer to Hagrid felt like a step toward answers—or vengeance.

He raised his hand and rapped sharply on the wooden door.

It creaked open, spilling lamplight across the grass, and Hagrid’s hulking form appeared in the doorway, his face pale and eyes bloodshot. “What’re you three doin’ here at this hour? D’yeh want ter get expelled?”

Harry pushed forward, pulling the cloak off their shoulders. His voice was cold, relentless. “We need answers, Hagrid. Hermione’s petrified. You knew this was coming.”

Hagrid’s hands shook as he drew them inside. The smell of smoke and damp earth clung to the hut. “I never—never laid a hand on anyone. But I’ve seen this before. Long ago, when the Chamber was opened last. They blamed me then, too.”

Neville’s breath caught. Draco glanced sharply at Hagrid. Harry stepped closer, his eyes fixed. “Then who was it? Who really did it?”

Hagrid’s gaze flickered to the fire. His voice broke into a whisper. “Tom Riddle.”

The name cracked the air like thunder. Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears, something dark stirring deep within him.

And then—the pounding knock on the door. Three heavy thuds that made the windows rattle.

Hagrid’s face drained of color. “Under the cloak. Quick.”

They barely had time to vanish before the door swung wide. Cornelius Fudge stepped in, hat twisting nervously in his hands. Behind him, robes sweeping like shadow, came Lucius Malfoy.

“What are you doing here?” Hagrid bellowed, his huge frame trembling with barely contained rage. “Get out o’ my home!”

Lucius Malfoy’s lip curled in disdain, his pale eyes glinting in the firelight as though the hut itself offended him. He stepped forward, robes swishing as he cast a look of contempt around the cramped wooden walls.

“Trust me, I had no intention of setting foot in… this shack,” he drawled, his voice dripping with venom. “Home is hardly the word I’d use. I am here to ensure the safety of the children of Hogwarts.”

Hagrid barked out a harsh, humorless laugh that cracked in the middle. “Safety o’ children? Don’t make me laugh, Malfoy. You care about nothin’ but power an’ yer own name!”

Harry, Draco, and Neville exchanged shocked looks, frozen in the shadows of the doorway. Draco’s stomach dropped as his father came within arm’s reach, the man’s presence colder than the draft sneaking in through the cracks of the hut.

“The safety of the children is my only concern,” Lucius said smoothly, though his eyes lingered on Draco for the briefest of moments, sharp and warning. “And last time this… horror plagued the school, it was you, Hagrid, who was the prime suspect.”

“They never convicted me!” Hagrid thundered, his voice echoing off the low beams of the hut. His fists clenched at his sides, massive hands shaking. “They said there wasn’t enough evidence ‘cause I never did it! An’ I’ll tell yeh again—I’ve done nothin’ wrong!”

Cornelius Fudge, sweating under his bowler hat, stepped in hurriedly as though afraid the exchange might come to blows. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief, his voice unsteady yet authoritative.

“Hagrid, I’m sorry—but four children have been attacked. Four! And the common thread, the thing that cannot be ignored, is that the last time the Chamber was opened… you were at the center of it. We can’t ignore that.”

“I’m bein’ set up!” Hagrid roared, face red, eyes wild. “Yeh can’t just drag me off like some criminal, when there’s a monster still out there roamin’ the castle!”

“Enough,” Fudge said firmly, his tone hardening as he straightened his robes. “For the safety of everyone, you will come with me to Azkaban. It’s temporary, of course… but it must be done.”

The door creaked open again, and Dumbledore entered quietly, his presence filling the room without force, only weight. His long fingers rested on his wand, though his blue eyes were grave, tired.

“I do not believe Hagrid guilty,” Dumbledore said softly, but with authority that made all fall silent. “In my heart, I know he is innocent. Yet—if this is the will of the Ministry, then I cannot stand in its way.”

Lucius’s smile sharpened. He reached inside his robes and withdrew a scroll, sealed with thick wax. “I’m afraid it is not only Hagrid tonight, Headmaster.” He unrolled the parchment with deliberate slowness, his voice smooth and cruel. “By order of suspension, signed by no fewer than twelve members of the school governors, you are hereby removed from your post as Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

For the first time, silence pressed down upon the room. Even Fudge looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Hagrid gaped, his anger drowned by shock.

Dumbledore inclined his head, his eyes fixed on Lucius, and for a fleeting instant, something like fire flickered there. “Very well,” he said calmly. “But know this—though you strip me of title and office, I will never truly leave this school. As long as there are those who remain loyal to me, Hogwarts will always help to those who ask for it.

Lucius’s expression faltered, the faintest shadow of unease crossing his face before he masked it again with disdain.

“Follow the spiders!” Hagrid suddenly cried, his booming voice half-command, half-mad plea. “Tha’s where yeh’ll find yer answers—follow the spiders! An’ make sure someone feeds Fang!” His eyes darted wildly toward the children in the shadows, lingering a second longer on Harry before he was seized by the Ministry guards.

His raving echoed long after he was dragged into the night, the hut falling silent save for the whimpers of Fang in the corner.

Chapter Text

Hush fell over Hagrid’s hut, so heavy it pressed against their chests. None of the boys seemed able to find their voices, the flickering lamplight carving sharp shadows across their faces.

Draco spoke, “Did you see his face?”

Neville swallowed first, his voice tight. “Yeah, Hagrid’s—what happened to him—it was terrible.” He shifted uneasily, his gaze sliding toward Draco. “But… he looked… I don’t know. Afraid. And angry. At the same time.”

Draco’s pale eyes dropped to the floorboards. His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “Not Hagrid. My father.” The words came out raw, bitter. “Did you see his face? How pleased he was to send Hagrid back to Azkaban? I know when he’s lying—most of the time. But tonight? He knew Hagrid was innocent. And he didn’t care.”

Harry watched Draco, his shoulders hunched, his usual sharp arrogance dimmed into something smaller—defeated. A Malfoy carrying shame.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Harry said, though his voice was quiet, almost reluctant.

Draco lifted his head, his grey eyes locking with Harry’s green. “You don’t have to lie for him, Harry. You know my father well enough. He’s never happy about anything. But tonight? He was pleased with himself. And that should terrify you as much as it terrifies me.”

The silence that followed was broken by Fang’s sudden whimper. The massive dog shifted, ears flat against his head, hackles prickling. The boys jumped, nerves fraying like threads. Then they noticed it—a faint, glistening trail of spiders slipping out of Hagrid’s hut and vanishing into the Forbidden Forest.

“Damn dog,” Draco hissed, though his voice cracked, betraying his unease.

Harry drew a slow breath, steadying himself. The forest loomed beyond the hut’s window—black and endless, the kind of dark that seemed to breathe. He knew where Hagrid had wanted them to go, where the truth lay waiting. One place spiders would feel most at home.

“I think we should look in the Forbidden Forest,” Harry murmured. “We follow the spiders.”

Neville paled, his mouth going dry. “Spiders? Why does it have to be spiders?”

Draco’s lip curled, but without his usual confidence. “Because nothing about this school is normal. And if the answer is in there—” he jerked his chin toward the trees “—then that’s where we’ll find it.”

The three of them stood in uneasy silence, the weight of the night pressing down, until Harry finally reached for the Invisibility Cloak. The air outside was damp and heavy with mist, the kind of night where every creak of the branches felt like a warning.

They stepped into the Forbidden Forest.

The deeper they went, the colder it became. Branches clawed overhead, blotting out even the faintest starlight. All three boys used the spell Lumos to light their way. The path narrowed, swallowed by roots and shadows, the faint rustling around them a constant reminder that they were not alone.

Neville’s whisper trembled in the dark. “Why do I feel like we’re walking straight into something we’ll regret?”

Harry kept his eyes fixed ahead, heart hammering. “Because we are.”

As they pressed deeper, their eyes caught more and more spiders scuttling along the ground. Every instinct in Harry screamed to turn back. And still, step by step, they followed.

“I’m not saying we should turn back,” Neville whispered, his voice trembling as though even the trees might be listening, “but we’ve been walking for what feels like forever. What are we supposed to learn from spiders?

Draco was walking a little behind, his head bowed, his hands buried deep in his cloak pockets. His face was pale, his expression distant. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I doubt it’s as terrifying as my father.” His voice carried no smugness, only bitterness, the words laced with something heavy and sour that clung to the night.

Harry raised his wand, the faint light stretching shadows across the gnarled roots that twisted underfoot. His eyes caught movement up ahead. He pointed. “There. A clearing.”

The trees opened suddenly, their trunks swelling into giants that twisted high into the canopy, branches so thick they blotted out the stars. The clearing itself was drenched in shadow, the earth littered with webs that glistened faintly in the wandlight. The spiders were funneling in, pouring like a black river into the open space, their legs clicking against the leaves. But not one so much as looked at the boys. They moved with purpose, a mindless tide ignoring them entirely.

The further the three crept forward, the larger the spiders became. The smallest ones were the size of cats, their bodies bulbous and gleaming. The largest scuttling across the clearing walls were as big as Fang. The mastiff whined, digging his paws into the earth, refusing to step closer. His body trembled as he strained against Harry’s grip on his collar, hackles raised high.

Harry felt his own reluctance mirror the dog’s. Something primal in his chest screamed that they shouldn’t go forward, that there were boundaries in this forest never meant to be crossed.

Neville gave a short, nervous laugh that cracked in the middle. “Well, aren’t we the clever ones,” he muttered, but his voice shook so badly it sounded almost like a sob.

The sound that answered wasn’t comforting. It started softly, a rhythmic clicking, like claws tapping wood. Then another joined it. Then another. Soon it was everywhere, swelling until it filled the clearing like the echo of a storm.

The trees themselves seemed to shiver. The forest erupted in a wave of noise—a thunderstorm of clicking legs, mandibles clattering, the dry rattle of countless bodies shifting in the dark.

Then came the thuds. Heavy, deliberate. From behind them.

The boys whirled around, wands raised. Their lights caught on grotesque shapes emerging from the undergrowth. Spiders—massive ones—lumbered into view, their hairy bodies gleaming, their eyes glinting like black glass. They were the size of small trash bins, each movement punctuated by the crunch of bark and the crack of branches beneath their many legs.

Harry’s breath caught. He had never seen creatures so impossibly large.

The spiders didn’t attack. Not yet. Instead, they moved with eerie coordination, fanning out in a slow circle. The clicking rose, echoing through the canopy, as the creatures pressed the boys inward, herding them toward the heart of the clearing. Fang barked once—a sharp, panicked cry—before cowering back, his bulk nearly dragging Neville off his feet as the boy tried to hold him steady.

The ground beneath them shifted. Harry’s eyes darted down.

At the center of the clearing, half-hidden under dirt and leaves, was a trapdoor woven of spider silk—an enormous webbed lid so thick it seemed like part of the earth itself. Its silken strands glistened wetly in the light, and with each heavy thud echoing closer, the web shuddered… as though something beneath it stirred.

The clicking became more precise, less random, until it rose into a terrible rhythm.

Aragog. Aragog. Aragog. Aragog.

The sound was everywhere at once, echoing like a death chant.

“You hear that too, right?” Harry murmured, voice barely audible.

Both Draco and Neville nodded, their faces pale, eyes darting wildly.

The ground beneath the webbed clearing trembled, and then, with a shuddering groan, the trapdoor split open. From the black pit below rose a spider of impossible size, its hairy body as broad as Hagrid’s hut, its legs arching like skeletal trees. Its eyes gleamed like a constellation of dead stars, dozens of them catching the faint scraps of moonlight.<>p The chanting ceased at once. The forest was silent—horribly silent—except for the slow scrape of its monstrous limbs as it pulled itself into view.

Fang barked once, then yelped and scrambled back, leash straining against Neville’s grip.

The beast spoke, its voice low and hollow, every syllable rasping like dry leaves dragged across stone.

“Who comes… into my domain?”

Harry swallowed, forcing words through his dry throat. “We… we’re friends of Hagrid. We only want answers. They took him back to Azkaban, blaming him for reopening the Chamber of Secrets”

The great spider’s fangs gleamed wet in the dark, clicking together. “Hagrid… Hagrid has not come to me in many moons. He is gone.” The words rumbled like a curse. “Gone back to the stone cells of Azkaban.”

Draco stepped forward, though his knees shook. “He didn’t open the Chamber of Secrets. We know he didn’t. He was… framed. That’s why we came.”

The vast creature tilted its monstrous head, mandibles flexing. “Yes. It was not Hagrid. He was but a boy, the one who brought me from far-off lands, a gift I was… never meant to be. He raised me here, in the castle till I escaped into these woods. I was his secret, his friend, his burden. But I did not harm the girl they found… I never killed inside those walls. The dead girls body was found in the bathroom.”

Harry leaned in, despite the ice crawling up his spine. “Then who did?”

A long pause, the weight of ages pressing down on them. Aragog’s voice grew heavier. “The girl died by the hand of the true monster, the ancient horror that dwells within the Chamber. The creature all spiders fear. We do not speak its name. It is older than me, older than Hagrid, maybe older than the castle itself.”

Neville’s voice cracked as he whispered, “But… you must know what it is?”

All eight of Aragog’s eyes gleamed cold and unblinking. “I know. But I will not tell. Its name is death to us. It stalks in silence, and its gaze kills. It is the nightmare of my kind, the beast of Slytherin’s blood.”

The words hung in the air like a chill fog, sinking into their bones.

Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “If you knew Hagrid was innocent, why didn’t you tell them? Why not stop this?”

The massive spider shifted, and the sound of its legs rasping on web and stone was unbearable. “Humans do not listen to monsters. They see fangs and silk and shadow, and they scream for fire. No—Hagrid’s word was never enough. He protected me, found me my wife Mosag when he should have destroyed me. For that, I owe him my silence. And for that, I owe him my brood’s loyalty.”

Harry felt the words sink like lead. There would be no saving Hagrid with Aragog’s testimony.

Then, in the dark, a new sound rose: hundreds of legs scuttling closer. The trees themselves seemed to sway as enormous shadows shifted among them. Fang whined and pressed himself against Neville’s legs.

Aragog’s tone deepened, final and merciless. “Hagrid’s friends are welcome here… but Hagrid is gone. And now, you are meat. My children hunger. I am too old, too blind to hunt, but they are strong. And they will feast.”

The clearing erupted in a roar of clicking as the swarm closed in. Dozens—hundreds—of enormous spiders poured down the trees, the ground, their eyes glinting like sparks in the dark.

Harry stumbled back, every instinct screaming. “Run.”

“Run where?” Draco snapped, voice breaking as the wall of chitin and legs closed around them. The spiders pressed in, their mandibles clicking, dripping strands of webbing glistening in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. The forest floor itself seemed to writhe with their movement.

Fang let out a guttural snarl, his massive body pressing against Harry’s leg, hackles raised. But even he flinched when one of the spiders, the size of a horse cart, lurched forward with an eager hiss.

“They’re going to tear us apart!” Neville’s words cracked like dry wood, his wand trembling in his hand.

“Not if we tear first,” Harry said through clenched teeth. His pulse thundered in his ears. “Stupefy!” A flash of red lit the darkness as his spell hit one spider square in the eye, sending it shrieking and thrashing backward into its kin. The sudden burst of chaos bought them precious feet of breathing room.

“Light!” Draco barked, raising his wand high. “Lumos Maxima!” A searing orb of white light burst from his wand-tip, illuminating the clearing in a glare so sharp it made the spiders recoil, their many eyes glittering like black glass. They shrieked, not blind but confused, their instincts fighting against the radiance.

“Move!” Harry shoved them forward. “While they’re blinded!”

They stumbled toward the edge of the clearing, but another wall of spiders surged ahead, sealing off the path. Their clicking rose again, more furious this time.

“They’re herding us!” Neville gasped, horror in his voice. “They want us in the center!”

The spiders around them surged closer, hunger overtaking their hesitation.

Harry’s eyes darted—no gaps, no open path. Just endless limbs and eyes. His wand trembled in his grip. “We’re trapped.”

And then Fang lunged. The boarhound barreled forward with a roar, slamming into the nearest spider, his teeth sinking deep into its leg. The creature screeched, thrashing violently and sending others scattering in the chaos.

“Now!” Harry yelled. “Through the chaos—MOVE!”

Draco fired a volley of sparks into the air—firecrackers bursting and spinning with deafening cracks. The spiders shrieked and scattered instinctively, their bodies colliding in a frenzy of panic. Neville, white as chalk, lifted his wand high. “Confringo!” The forest floor exploded beside them, showering dirt and splinters into the horde, tearing a gap.

Harry seized Fang’s scruff with one hand and Draco’s sleeve with the other. “Run for your lives!”

They sprinted, hearts slamming, the clicking behind them swelling into a furious roar. The ground shook with the thunder of pursuit, but the explosions and flaring light bought them just enough space to dive into the undergrowth. Branches whipped their faces, roots clawed their legs, but none of them dared look back until the chanting became distant, swallowed by the blackness of the forest.

Only then did they collapse in the mud, heaving for air, Fang sprawled beside them, sides heaving.

Draco spat out a mouthful of dirt, his voice trembling. “If this is what following spiders gets us—remind me next time to ignore every bloody clue this school throws at us.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared at the dark forest they’d escaped.