England expects every man to do his duty.

Lord Nelson, the Battle of Trafalgar

Chapter Four

A day after the duelling show, Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Muggleborn in Hufflepuff, was petrified. Harry was nearly isolated from everyone except his friends, Cedric and his friends, and Edgar and his friend Luna. Everyone else thought he was the Heir of Slytherin and the next Dark Lord.

Harry morbidly thought that if he were to truly become the next Dark Lord, he would start by not doing anything and leaving everyone on their toes—and then he was blackmail and bribe the student body into owing him. And then he would own them, and would take over the world that way. After all, the older generation had to die sometime, and if Harry owned the next generation of Hogwarts students, they would be his when they all grew up and came into their power.

But… as it were, he wasn't a Dark Lord so his days of Lording were severely numbered to several brief nanoseconds of thinking about coming into power—and gone just as quickly.

Instead, Harry kept his mind on the Christmas hols, as he was once again going back to the Dursleys with Edgar—and he certainly didn't think of the place as home; in fact, Harry thought, he was a bit like a displaced person with no home.

Edgar and Harry were dropped off by Hermione's parents Celia and Tony at the train station once more, and the two caught a bus that dropped them off near Magnolia Crescent in Little Whinging; they only had to walk a block or two of the winding, English streets before they were on Privet Drive, glancing at Christmas lights hanging from rooftops, Christmas wreaths hung on doors, and the occasional Virgin Mary lit up in house windows—the neighbourhood that the Dursleys lived in was a very traditional, white English area. Vernon and Petunia would not be caught dead around what they considered 'poor immigrant trash,' and were the greediest, social-climbing, racist yet hypocritical people Harry knew.

Petunia would force them to church service—as she had been brought up Catholic, coming from an Irish background, but attended an Anglican church—and yet then turn her head on the teachings of the church. Harry found it mind-boggling, and Edgar didn't even consider the Dursleys "faith" worth his time.

Unlocking the front door with the spare key under the floor mat, Harry ushered Edgar in the small row house before him, and then struggled to push his luggage through the narrow door and into the warm hallway quickly, to not draw the Dursleys' attention.

Unfortunately, it didn't work and Vernon barrelled down the narrow hallway, his thick neck red. "What the devil—Potter! Boy! Shut the door!"

Harry sighed, and pulled the door to Number 4 Privet Drive shut, just as an icy chill swept in, bringing snowflakes and a few dead leaves. Petunia's going to shit kittens, thought Harry with another sigh. He'd have to clean it up after putting away his luggage.

Edgar had already moved up the stairs to the first door on the landing—their room—and had turned the light on. Harry could hear him shuffle the luggage around and him cooing softly to Iris, who found him just outside Privet Drive, having flown from Scotland to Surrey.

Harry turned away from the door and grabbed the handle of his trunk, and glanced up at Vernon, who had gone uncharacteristically silent; the man was also giving Harry an odd, almost contemplative, look.

The large man's head turned from Harry to the upstairs landing, and then back; the look of confusion hadn't lessened.

Oh, thought Harry. He and Edgar were usually inseparable. As the final two Potters, having grown up dependent on each other had the two of them acting like conjoined twins for the most of the time. Edgar would never have left Harry alone with Vernon unless Harry specifically told him to. No wonder Vernon was confused.

Unable to decide between bellowing at his ward for coming back for Christmas, or asking about Edgar, Vernon settled on a half-shooing motion and a half sharp gesture with his thumb for Harry to get upstairs.

Harry took extreme, dark delight in letting his luggage hit every step as he dragged it up the stairs.

Two weeks into vacation, Harry and Edgar were still not speaking; it boggled the Dursleys minds and had Petunia more paranoid than normal. Although Edgar was more than happy to back his older brother up in public at Hogwarts, and didn't believe any of the Heir of Slytherin stuff, the two still weren't seeing eye to eye on other matters and it had polluted their relationship—if there was one thing that Harry didn't know was that Edgar could hold a grudge.

Harry did his best to complete his holiday work, and then spent the rest of his time bundled up in his jacket and scarf and wandered around Little Whinging, stopping at his old haunts and hideaways, reliving the memories of what took place: the corner at St. George and Patterson Avenue where Dudley's gang caught up with him one afternoon after school and beat him black and blue; the smelly alleyway behind McGyvins' pub where Harry learnt about the owner's affair and the start of his blackmailing for a sanctuary for him or his brother if they ever needed it; the school rooftop where he first began to realise that he was different, and that he might have magic…

With his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets to avoid the cold—he didn't have mittens—Harry sighed heavily and wondered about Edgar. He had hopes that once Edgar would arrive at Hogwarts it would be like when they were both at Little Whinging Primary: the two would stick together like glue and watch each other's backs and take their steps forward together.

After the previous year though, Harry had already noticed the little changes in Edgar that weren't attributed to his big brother's attention. Harry wondered if this was what parents felt, letting their children grow up and move on in a life where they weren't the object of their attention or needs; Harry was finding independence was a cruel, double-edged sword.

Without thinking, Harry's feet took him to the old, stone building in front of him, located just outside of the main city centre of Little Whinging, separating the little town from the larger Epsom. The building was old—probably late seventeenth century, as some of the high windows looked eerily familiar to those seen at Hogwarts in certain wings—but there were some pieces crumbling around the chimney stack and between the road's low stone wall and where it attached itself to the building.

A smallish sign outside, near the low wall and gravel car lot stated, simply: 'Little Whinging Church, est. 1685.' Petunia would take her family and add-ons to this church every Christmas, every bank holiday, and when the boys were younger, every Sunday, until Harry left for Hogwarts.

Harry knew the Vicar by sight, and had seen him around Little Whinging often enough when he was doing his shopping or spending some time off with the population. He had always been kind to Harry and Edgar, and Harry wondered if that was why his feet took him so far away from the shops and arcades to the quiet peacefulness of the rural church.

Twinkling Christmas lights were draped across the eaves and around the inside of the windows, and a small wreath hung on each door entrance. A light dusting of snow had appeared over night, coating the earth and blanketing the nearby fields. Vicar Hornsby, a rather youngish man compared to the majority of other parish Vicars of only forty-two, was standing outside in a thick pea coat, scarf and woollies hat, putting up a notice on the outside door.

The tall, red-cheeked man stretched and turned to head back inside, but caught sight of Harry standing by the road, hands stuffed in his trousers, wearing only a light wool coat and his Slytherin scarf.

"Ah, Henry! Do come in," the Vicar greeted him, a bright smile splitting his face and giving a cheerful beckon with his hand. "Hot chocolate? You must have been walking quite a distance to get here from Privet Drive!"

Harry felt his lips' twitch. He did like Vicar Hornsby, and getting out of the cold would be nice. "That sounds nice, sir."

Harry shed his coat and scarf in the entrance way, where Hornsby pointed and instead of leading him through the rectory, he motioned that Harry should join him behind through a usually-closed door near—and Harry was in the church's kitchen.

The two were silent as Hornsby warmed the milk from a pan on the stove, stirring in the chocolate and then placed the mug in front of Harry.

"How are your aunt and uncle? And your brother?" Hornsby began, asking out of politeness.

"The usual," replied Harry, stiffly, "and Eddy's now with me at boarding school."

"Boarding school?" echoed Hornsby. "I never quite saw Petunia and Vernon as the types to let their son—or nephews—go away to boarding school."

Harry laughed. "No, they want Dudley near. But the school I'm at, well, my parents attended and the tuition was already paid for by them for when Eddy and I could go."

Hornsby nodded. "Nostalgia."

"Yes," agreed the twelve-year-old.

"Do you like it?"

Harry's face softened. "I love it there," he said, softly. "It's brilliant."

The two fell silent and then Hornsby asked, quietly: "Has something happened, Henry?"

Harry wondered how to answer that question. Of course something had happened: he now attended a school for witches and wizards; learnt that he—he, Henry James Potter!—was a wizard; knew that the creature that had murdered his parents was after him, still; that he was being isolated from his 'friends' at Hogwarts because everyone thought was the Heir of Slytherin; that he and Eddy were arguing about Albus Dumbledore…

"Yes," he wanted to say; instead, he shrugged, noncommittally. Hornsby, of course, could see right through it.

"How is Edgar? I haven't seen him since last years' Christmas sermons," the older man said, patiently, calmly. He wrapped his hands around his mug and Harry unconsciously mimicked him.

"He's good," replied the older Potter boy. "He's doing well in his classes; he stole my textbooks from last year to learn whatever he could ahead of class."

Hornsby smiled. "He was always like that, ever since he was young—you both were. Inquisitive, polite children, eager to learn."

Harry looked away. "Petunia and Vernon and half of Little Whinging wouldn't say so."

Vicar Hornsby frowned. "Do they really believe that you and Edgar attend St. Brutus's?"

Harry nodded glumly, and Hornsby sighed.

"How people could ever be so short-sighted, it always amazes me," the Vicar began sadly, "but that is the state of humans. We do not see past what is in front of us, and delve deeper to learn the truth—it is far too much work."

"Eddy's a bit like that," admitted Harry, feeling compelled to tell Hornsby.

"Oh?"

"Our Headmaster…" Harry trailed off, unsure of how to explain his situation without getting child's services or the police involved. "He knew my parents very well, even after they graduated. They were all working together with a few others to stop this… man and his… group from hurting people. Kind of behind-the-scenes." Harry smirked. "They were a bit like spooks."

Hornsby smiled behind his mug. "Your parents were secret service?"

"Kind of," admitted Harry, with a smile of his own. "But they were killed by that man they were trying to stop. Murdered. Anyway, the Headmaster placed Eddy and me with Petunia and Vernon because at the time it was the safest place for us. No one knew mum had a sister."

Hornsby was not stupid. "But of course, you were hardly happy growing up in the Dursley household."

Harry looked up sharply.

"Of course I, and others, knew what was happening in that house, Henry," the man continued, his eyes taking a far-away look. "I've spoken time and time again to your aunt and uncle; even Ms. Miller, from your public school spoke on your behalf to the Dursleys—as did the Headmaster at the time. Ms. Figg, too, came up to me often in the streets complaining about how thin you and Edgar looked whenever the Dursleys had her baby-sit."

"Why… why wasn't anything done? Someone called?" gapped Harry.

"Once, oh, maybe about a year after you and Edgar arrived at Privet Drive, back in '82, the police were called because a neighbour had heard Petunia scream," revealed Hornsby, a grimace on his face as he recalled the scene. "I remember it quite clearly—I was at Heather Connelly's, just two houses down, and we both heard the scream. Immediately we went over, of course, and you know your neighbours! Someone called the police and several were standing around outside, looking about in wonder."

"What happened?"

"I never did find out, but it was enough that it scared Petunia badly. The woman was pale as a sheet, trembling. All she kept saying was that you and your brother were little devils, and that she wouldn't look after either of you," answered Hornsby. He glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye, and smiled at him. "I saw you being cuddled in the policeman's arms, Edgar in another's, and thought to myself, 'How in God's name could such a small boy be a Devil?' and so did several others.

"However," the sighed, "You and Edgar were taken by the police that evening. From what I understood, they were planning on placing you and Edgar in foster care. Several days passed and then the next thing I heard on Sunday service from Mrs. Connelly, was that you and Edgar were back at your aunt's, and she was ready to shout bloody murder when she opened the door and saw the two of you back on her doorstep."

"That makes sense," muttered Harry, "Our Headmaster said Privet Drive was the safest place for us."

"Maybe from outside threats, Henry," admitted Hornsby sadly, "But they failed to realise the extent of dislike and fear your aunt holds for you—for whatever reason. I do not doubt that she had no hand in your raising, and that you took care of your brother. However, I think those of us who remember what happened that day, or heard of it later, realised that there was no way for you to be moved from that house. We had several repeat incidents over the course of 1982 and '83. And when you and Edgar kept returning… well…"

"Does that make it right?" asked Harry.

"Of course not," answered Hornsby, stiffly, "But sometimes even when good people try to do good deeds, there is intervention. And that intervention is not always for the good—at that time. Everything happens for a reason, a divine cause. We must remember that." He man finished sadly: "Sometimes even adults cannot change things they see as wrong. Sometimes wrong prevails."

Harry stared at the tabletop. "Edgar and I were practically tortured for a reason?"

"Henry…" began Hornsby, trailing off.

"I mean, we weren't really hit, only cuffed once or twice. It was more the chores and the lack of care. Love. Whatever, from Petunia and Vernon. The gleeful way Dudley would hurt Edgar and I, or Marge would sic her dog on Eddy." Harry looked up. "There's a purpose in that?"

"Perhaps," sighed Hornsby. "It hurts to think about it, though. To know you went through that and that there is no reason. That it just happened because. If I think that that all happened to you and Edgar, for a purpose, a reason, an end result—well, it makes me believe that there is hope that things work out for the best at the end."

"I suppose," said Harry, quietly. And thing at the Dursleys had helped him; his cunning and intellect, as well as Eddy's, had helped Harry in his first year by not alienating anyone at Hogwarts; his cousin's games of 'Harry Hunting' certainly helped him in how to deal with bullies and issues at Hogwarts, especially within the Slytherin dorms.

It was like looking at the glass half-full instead of half-empty; a cloud with a silver lining.

"Eddy's upset about it, though," revealed Harry. "I don't know how to handle it. I understand why our headmaster left us there… even if I'm unhappy with it, but Eddy can't understand. Or maybe he doesn't want to understand."

"He is still young," replied Hornsby.

"And I'm not?" retorted Harry, indignantly. His mouth settled into a thin line.

Hornsby laughed; a full-bodied laugh that shook his frame. "Henry, you have not been a child for some time. You grew up much quicker than others so that you could take care of Edgar, and to stand against the bullies in Little Whinging."

Harry managed the scowl that was on his face, and settled back in his seat, his hands warmed by the mug of hot chocolate.

Hornsby reached over and patted Harry's arm. "It hurts to see someone we love move on a different path than the one we are on, or the one we thought we saw them on, Henry," said the Vicar. His smile was kind. "However, just because he is not on the same path as you, does not mean that your paths do not intertwine. You might find that your paths will cross numerous times in the future."

The Vicar stood, reaching for Harry's empty mug and placing it in the kitchen sink. As he turned to face Harry, he offered one final piece of advice: "Whatever happens, Henry, know that you brother loves you and will always be there for you when you need him. It is destiny, you know."

Classes resumed in January and Harry found that he remained the leaper of Hogwarts. His friends stood by him publicly, and those in the Slytherin house found his position as the Heir to be either incredibly amusing (because they knew it wasn't true) or horrifying (because they believe it and wondered how could a Half-blood be the great Salazar Slytherin's heir?!).

In February, Lockhart had the insane idea to send 'message grams' to students who had admirers, and hired disgruntled dwarves dressed as Cupids to deliver singing Valentine's cards. Harry, despite his position in the school, was horrified to learn that he was a recipient of several cards—one notable singing and rhyming message from Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the brood and the one he gave his Lockhart books to back in summer. He still had moments of horror wash over him whenever he heard the word 'pickle.'

Several months later into the school year there were rumours and talk of Hogwarts possibly closing down if there was another petrification; Draco Malfoy had informed the Slytherin house—quite loudly—that his father was on the Board of Governors and they were arresting the same person whom they arrested years ago in connection to the Chamber of Secrets: Rubeus Hagrid.

Harry didn't normally spend time around Hagrid, but he did admire the half-giant, and knew that Kettleburn quite liked him. But Harry also knew that Hagrid wasn't the perpetrator because the man didn't have it in him to be cold-blooded or a killer. He knew that to be able to want to hurt someone, you had to first have a desire for revenge and then the ambition and drive to follow through—Harry had done it often enough in Little Whinging in his own way. His fellow Slytherins, particularly those who grew up in households like his, were also able to follow through on their threats.

And as Harry watched Draco from beneath his black fringe, from a comfy couch by the fireplace and next to Theo, Harry realised that Draco Malfoy was no killer, and could never be a killer. He was all talk and no action, ready to follow on someone else's coattails to ride into victory. He dropped his father into conversations because he knew his father was the type to get things done (even if they were the wrong thing, thought Harry darkly, once again as Draco started on Hagrid).

He sighed, and glanced down at the textbook he was reading for Defence. It was worthless, and Theo and Nate agreed as well; Nate was doodling something in the margins of his.

"I need to get out of here," muttered Harry to his friends. Theo looked up from whatever he was staring at (Harry assumed it was his book, but his glassy-eyed gaze had Harry rethink that he was learning to sleep with his eyes open), and Nate stopped his swirls and squiggles.

"Where?" asked Nate, closing his book softly.

"Anywhere but here. Maybe just a walk about," replied Harry, rising to his feet and shoving his Defence book into his satchel. Theo and Nate copied him, and together they left the Slytherin common room and began a silent wander from one hallway to the next.

Caesar, draped in his usual position around Harry's neck, soon slithered out from underneath the collar and tie to rest his head on Harry's shoulder. After Christmas he spent more time with Harry, not venturing far into Hogwarts to explore the castle, having sensed his master's emotional state.

Ever since Cedric figured out that the voices Harry had been hearing was actually another snake, Caesar had taken it upon himself to learn if there were any other snakes in the castle. Unfortunately, he had not learned of any and since the start of the new school year, there had been no voices to follow.

Harry was tense, though; it was the calm before the storm and he was worried that everyone would get a false sense of security and then—he shuddered. He didn't want to think about the worse case scenario: the culprit never found and Hogwarts being forced to close… and he and Edgar sent back to the Dursley's and Stonewall Secondary.

"Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff later this afternoon," said Theo, trying to think of something to fill the silence, as the three walked past several gleaming suits of armour in the Transfiguration hallway. "Are you going to go to support Cedric?"

"Probably, if I don't get run off the field with threats to be lynched," replied Harry stoically. "This, quite possibly, might happen."

"Ah, the fickle friend that fame is," agreed Nate, trying to lighten the topic by injective levity into his voice.

Theo grinned at Harry, who despite his bleak outlook, grinned back. "C'mon, I reckon we can get a good seat in the Slytherin stands but far enough away that most won't notice you."

"Great!" Harry and his friends made a turn at the nearest hallway and began back towards the Slytherin dorms, where they gathered their coats. Although May, the Scottish highlands were still a bit on the cool side, especially up in the mountains where Hogwarts was located. With the nippy weather, and being unsure how long the game would last (Harry never estimated more than two hours; Cedric was an excellent seeker against the Gryffindor's Cormac McLaggen, who made it known to everyone that he was after their captain's, Oliver Wood, position), most students would bring their coats in case there was a sudden weather change.

As they passed the third floor girls' loo (Hogwarts had a very complicated stair system, where you never took a flight up or down to get where you wanted to go, but a rather in a roundabout way), they heard muted sobbing and several splashes of water.

"Moaning Myrtle's," muttered Theo, cutting eye at the closed, heavy wooden door. "The only ghost 'round here who enjoys a good pity-party all day and all night! Apparently she drives Gyffindor's ghost, Sir Nick, batty."

"It would drive me spare hearing a girl cry like that too," commented Nate, lowly, as they passed. "I wonder why…?"

"Forget it, Quidditch!" Theo chirped brightly, clapping Nate on the shoulder and heaving the boy forward as he lagged behind. "Moaning Myrtle's a ghost. She's not going to go anywhere in the near future, is she? Quidditch, however, will come and go."

There was already a throng of people moving towards the Quidditch pitch out of the school, and Harry, Theo, and Nate joined; they saw Cedric's mates a few yards ahead and they called out hellos. By the time they were shuffling into their seats (near the Gryffindor stands, unfortunately, as the Slytherin seats were all taken), Harry noticed Nate was glancing about.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry.

"You haven't seen Hermione, have you?" his friend replied, instead. "She's usually waiting for us in the entrance hall, but she wasn't there."

Harry blinked; he hadn't noticed, caught up in his own issues and worries, but now that Nate mentioned it…

He and Theo shared an awkward, worried glance, and began to scan the students packed in the viewer stands. Harry spotted Hermione's friend in Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom, sitting with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, and Ron Weasley. Though loathed to go near Weasley, Harry decided to risk it to speak to Longbottom.

"Longbottom's over there; he'd know where Hermione is," said Harry, pointing the boy out, next to the shock of ginger hair that was the youngest Weasley boy. "Shall we go?"

The three pushed and scrambled their way a few tiers over, barely pausing to say hello to a small clump of Ravenclaws Nate knew as they passed through their viewing stands, until they were right behind the Gryffindor. The game had yet to start, but Harry could see Cedric with his team down on the pitch, speaking to Professor Sprout and out of the corner of his eye, Madam Hooch was determinedly making her way towards the two teams.

"Longbottom," greeted Harry, tapping him on the shoulder. The nervy boy turned, blinked once or twice, before managing a greeting of his own.

"Hi, Potter," he said, ignoring the sudden intake of air from his friends, and their sudden stiffness.

"I was wondering if you've seen Hermione?" he continued.

Longbottom shook his head. "She left the common room early this morning. Went to the library, I'm sure." He looked pensive, as trying to remember. "She had something to look up, about the whole Chamber of Secrets thing."

Harry nodded and grinned his thanks. "Appreciate it, Longbottom. Thanks, enjoy the game."

"Bye," the replied, turning back to the pitch and ignoring the hissed whispers from the other three Gryffindors.

Harry, Theo and Nate scrambled their way down the tiered stands, and were starting to make their way towards the school when a figure blocked their path; Harry looked up, surprised, and saw McGonagall before the three, a pinched expression on her pale face.

"Professor…?" questioned Harry, as she looked from one Slytherin to another.

"Potter, Nott, Moon," began the transfiguration professor, "there's… there's been another…"

"Oh, God," Harry moaned, suddenly paling and swaying. His brother and his friends had not been in the stands as they crossed the Ravenclaws to get to the Gryffindor section. "Eddy…?"

McGonagall shook her head. "No, not your brother." Harry felt a sense of relief pass through him, leaving him almost giddy and light-headed. That, however, all changed at McGonagall's next sentence. "Ms. Granger was found petrified on the fourth floor corridor."

Harry, Theo and Nate were huddled together, all arms and legs, as they shared one enlarged Infirmary chair that McGonagall had been kind enough to transfigure for the students. They seemed to be a state of shock or surprise, staring at Hermione's petrified form on the bed.

The girl looked the same, although one arm was extended, as though to ward something off, or warn someone and she had a permanently etched worried, pinched look on her face; her eyes were even open, although glassy.

Harry fought another shudder; she looked like one of those wax figures in Madam Tussaud's.

"She knew something," Theo muttered again, his face drained of most of its colour, leaving a sickly grey. "Otherwise she wouldn't have gone to the library this morning."

"I know," whispered Nate, agreeing. Harry felt his head bob, as he nodded.

"She must have known what she was up against," the other boy continued, eyes staring straight ahead at their Gryffindor friend.

"I know," echoed Nate, in the same monotonous tone. Again, Harry felt his head bob down. Was this what he and his friends were reduced to?

The group fell silent, watching Hermione, waiting for some sort of sign from her that she wasn't a living statue.

A distant part of Harry was aware of the pounding of feet, and the loud, reverberating bang as the Infirmary doors opened, and of the heavy breaths of Cedric Diggory as he strode up to the three despondent Slytherins. The Hufflepuff took one glance at Hermione's figure, and then took in the three pale, grey faces of the Slytherins who seemed to be at a loss.

"Merlin," he muttered, his eyes darting back to Hermione. "Merlin."

He rubbed a weary hand over his jaw and mouth, and then settled on a spare chair on Hermione's other side. He sighed, "I heard the rumours, but…"

"Yeah," agreed Harry, although he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to.

"I saw Eddy on my way up," tried Cedric, catching the three Slytherins' attention. "He's fine, he's with his friends. They were in the Ravenclaw common room the whole time, and they're going to stay there. That's what he wanted me to tell you, Harry."

"Great," sighed Harry, some tension leaving his body as he sagged against Theo, who barely took the weight, but then held upright.

The four were silent for a little longer, but then Cedric spoke again. "Aurors came and arrested Hagrid. Huge fuss in the entrance hall—I know he didn't do it though. Liked Hermione too much." His sentences were clipped, broken fragments, as though he was having trouble putting together his thoughts. "Malfoy's father was here too… Dumbledore's been removed as Headmaster."

"What?"

The shout rang through the infirmary, catching and echoing briefly back, and Harry winced as he heard his voice's pitch.

Cedric slumped in his seat. "I know. They think he's not doing enough to protect the students, because he doesn't know what's causing the attacks." Cedric looked away and rubbed on the back of his neck, his next sentence a whisper. "The students are pretty sure they're going to close Hogwarts down soon. No more than three weeks from now."

Harry closed his eyes and tried to ignore the burning, itchy prickling from them. Back at the Dursleys…!

The four sat in silence for several more hours, well past sundown, until Madam Pomfrey gently urged them out. None protested.

There was no changed two weeks later; Hermione remained the hospital, along with Justin Finch-Fletchley, Penelope Clearwater, and a few others. The only difference was that the mandrakes, used in the potion to revive the victims, would be ready for consumption by nightfall.

Aurors had been seen coming and going throughout the past two weeks, and the student gossip was saying that they were hoping to talk to the students about what petrified them. Harry wasn't sure if they were going to get anything concrete.

Edgar had gone to see Hermione on his own earlier that afternoon, having stopped by the Slytherin table and letting his elder brother know—since Hermione's petrification, the two were back on speaking terms and Edgar seemed to have let go of his dislike and grudge against Dumbledore… or, Harry thought, he just learned to hide it better.

Harry was with his friends, Cedric, and Cedric's friends Mike Summers, Horatio Landon and Gorman Cerwyn in the library, trying to figure out what Hermione had been looking at when she figured out the key missing piece in the Chamber of Secrets puzzle.

"All Pince said was that she was looking in the creatures section," sighed Horatio when he came back to their secluded little corner, despondent. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "She was right pissed too, accused me of nosing about in none of my business."

"Gobshite," snorted Gorman, the only one of Cedric's friends who had a dirtier mouth than Harry's own, "She just didn't want to fecking tell you."

Theo and Nate ignored Gorman, concentrating on flipping through another one of the books they pulled off the shelf. The group had started on authors with last names starting in A early that morning, but were now on R with no results.

"What the…?" muttered Nate, catching everyone's attention, as he pointed to one of the books he was looking at. "A page is ripped out!"

"Shit!" snapped Cedric, glancing about worriedly. "Put it back on the shelf, Nate, and hope to hell that Pince doesn't notice or she'll have our balls for dinner!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "What book is it, Nate?"

Here, Harry's friend furrowed his brow. "It's… one of like, ten copies of Fantastic Beasts. There's no need to rip the page out."

"Get another copy. What page is missing?" asked Mike suddenly, as Gorman rose and dashed towards the magizoology section; as he disappeared, Edgar appeared around a tall bookshelf, panting. He was clutching something in his fist.

"Eddy?" asked Harry, rising from his seat. "What's wrong?"

The boy was still panting, his face red with exertion. "Hosp'l… 'Mione… paper…"

"Slow down, what are you saying?" asked Harry, concern on his face. He drew his brother close and steered him to his vacant seat. "Sit down and take a deep breath. Tell me when you're ready."

Edgar was taking deep gulps of air, and then trying to deepen his breathing into long inhales and exhales. As he did so, Gorman approached the table with another copy in his hands.

"Here," he said, putting the book down in the middle of the table for everyone to see. "What page is before it then?"

"Page six," said Nate, flipping them over. "We're missing the first page of the creatures, starting with A through 'til Diricrawl. The classification is all there though, and so is the introduction."

Cedric took control and flipped to the first page, his finger running down the page. "Acromantula… Ashwinder… Augurey… Basilisk…" at the last word, he looked up, face pale. "Henry—basilisk!"

Around the table, the boys all shared horrified looks. Edgar took the time to join the conversation. "That's what I wanted to tell you!" he gasped out, still red in the cheeks. "Hermione had a piece of paper in her hand," he said, unfurling his own fist. Nate took it and slid it against the rip in his copy of Fantastic Beasts. It matched perfectly.

"What… what did she find?"

Edgar looked at Nate, "She already figured it out that morning. It's a basilisk in the school, but she wrote something on the flip side, in the margin."

Nate took the paper, flipped it, and stared for a moment, before looking up at the group. They all waited, holding their breaths. "It says pipes."

The boys ended up in a small, off-shot alcove near the teacher's lounge, arguing about their discovery. As they passed from the library to the lounge, they overheard several teachers, in shaky voices, speak about the fact that there was a new message on the same wall as earlier. It read: her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.

A headcount was done, and the professors discovered that Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the Weasley brood, was missing (as were Harry and his friends, but Madam Pince had then piped up and explained they were defiling her precious books at the time, so they were all cleared from any potential wrongdoing).

Despite that, McGonagall seemed to have no clue on how to proceed, and the other professors were no help, alternating between crying bouts and intense fretting, lost without Dumbledore's firm leadership. Harry and his friends were quite lost, likewise.

"We need to figure this out," argued Edgar, the shortest of the lot and easily lost in the older Hufflepuff's black school robes. "Hermione left this as a clue—so let's finish it!"

Mike sighed, "Even if she did, Eddy, it's hardly our responsibility. The professors need to know about the pipes."

"Well, we can at least give them all the information, if we put it together," argued back Nate, sitting on a desk next to Harry and Theo, both who remained quiet.

"Fine," retorted Cedric, assuming leadership, "Then pipes. What did she mean?"

"Well, if it's a basilisk, that's been around for hundreds of years, it must be pretty big," commented Horatio shortly. "And since it hasn't been seen in ages—not first since Slytherin's days here as a Founder, and then fifty years ago, it can't be using the schools' hallways."

"Water pipes," said Gorman, "it makes the most sense."

"But what pipes are going to be the largest for a snake to move through?" asked Cedric.

"Where do most pipes come from and where do they go?" argued back Harry, finally speaking. "The kitchens and the toilets. And the waste has to go somewhere, just as we have to get the water from somewhere: the lake."

"Eew." Gorman scrunched up his nose. "We shower and brush our teeth in someone's shit."

Cedric rolled his eyes at his friend. "Yes, thank you, Gor, that was just the right thought we needed at the moment."

Gorman shrugged, unapologetic.

Cedric sighed, running his hand around his jaw, leaning against a desk. Gorman and Mike were both sitting in proper chairs, pulled away from the desks that Cedric and Horatio were sitting on; Harry, Theo and Nate were across from them, sitting on top of some desks they pushed into a make-shift semi-circle, but Edgar remained standing, with his arms crossed, between Nate and Gorman.

"So which location is it? The kitchens or the loos?" asked Cedric finally.

"Not the kitchen," shot back Horatio immediately, "Or else we'd have a bunch of petrified house elves."

"House elves…?" began Edgar, but he caught Harry's shaking head and trailed off his question. Harry knew he'd make a mental note to read up on them, though.

"Then which toilets, which floor?"

"Where were all the petrifications done?" asked Theo, joining the conversation. "The first was the message, third floor, Mrs. Norris. The second attack was Colin Creevey," Theo gave Edgar a pinched look as he said it, "then Finch-Fletchley, at the end of term, again, the third floor. And now Clearwater and… H-Hermione."

"Second floor," inputted Horatio softly, conscious of Theo's voice break in Hermione's name.

"The pipes must be coming from the lower levels, then," said Cedric, breaking the silence that spread over the group. "It would make sense; the higher up you go, you end up in towers and circular classrooms, like the conservatory or Trelawney's divination tower. You're not going to have large pipes running up and down the stonework. They'll be smaller."

"But larger close to the ground, sloping enough to push the waste," agreed Mike, nodding. "And the lake is at a lower level than the school; Hogwarts is built on that cliff side that overlooks the lake. Remember first year, passing underneath the school?"

"So we're going to systematically go through all the toilets on the first two floors of the school?" questioned Gorman, with a look of distaste. "What about the dungeons? Only Snape knows that area best, but they're guaranteed passageways and niches that none of us know about."

Cedric sighed and Harry slumped. There was no way for them to figure out the location of the Chamber.

"The best solution is to go through all the loos on the third and second floors and work our way down from there," offered Horatio, sensibly. "We're running out of time though, now with the Weasley girl gone missing."

"Split up?" suggested Mike, cringing. "I don't like it."

"No, it sounds a bit too horror film," agreed Harry, and at everyone's blank looks, shared an amused grin with Edgar, who grinned back.

"We're running out of options," pointed out Nate, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "We need to make a decision and soon."

Cedric looked from his friends to Harry and his friends, and then at Edgar, who stood defiant against the two groups, arms crossed. Finally, he pulled rank. "We search the two floors, one group on the third, one on the second. If we find the entrance, we let the others know. And if we don't, we look in the dungeons together."

"And then what?" questioned Horatio, diplomatically. "We're fourth years, Ced; Harry and his friends are only second years, and Eddy's a firstie."

"We can go to a professor then, let them know," suggested Nate. "We're not ready to handle a near thousand year old basilisk, anyway."

"And they are?" snorted Theo, darkly.

Harry sighed. "It's the best option at the moment. Let's go."

Harry and Edgar joined Cedric and Gorman, while Theo and Nate joined Mike and Horatio. "I have Caesar too, so he'll notice things we might not," continued Harry, stroking the python as he popped his head out from underneath Harry's collar.

Mike shuddered. "To each his own," he muttered, and then his group left, heading for the second floor.

Harry, his brother, Cedric and Gorman went directly to the third floor, starting at one end of the school and making their way around in an elliptical arch, as nothing in Hogwarts ever went straight. They looked in several bathrooms, but there was nothing out of the ordinary except for scaring two sixth year female Ravenclaws at one point, who shrieked and swatted at Cedric and Gorman, who gawked at the amount of flesh on display.

A sob and moan from the remaining bathroom on the floor had the group of four staring at the door in dismay.

"Do we have to?" Edgar whined, sounding very much like the eleven-year-old he was.

Cedric grimaced and pushed open the door, Harry following him in and Gorman herding the group at the end, muttering obscenities under his breath.

The translucent form of a heavy-set girl in pigtails and horn-rimmed spectacles (which were now in style, ironically) drew their attention, and they watched as she moped and floated just a bare inch above a single toilet in an open stall. Her chin was quivering from trying to withhold her sobs.

"Erm, hello," started Cedric, unsure of how to start.

"Oh!" the girl squealed, half-disappearing into the stone wall behind the toilet. "What're you doing here?" she continued nastily.

"Just looking for… um… anomalies," continued Cedric, uncharacteristically flustered.

"Anomalies in what?" continued Moaning Myrtle, who now sounded interested.

"Not quite sure," muttered Cedric, scratching the side of his cheek. He glanced at Gorman, Harry and Edgar, pleading with one of them to continue.

Edgar, it seemed, had a stroke of brilliance, and asked, "Myrtle, may I ask how you died?"

The ghost beamed happily, ad a slight silver flush appeared over her cheeks, making her translucent form a bit more solid looking. "Oh, yes! Of course!" she gushed. "It's was horrible," she began in relish; she was a born storyteller—or born drama queen. "That mean, nasty Olive Hornby was making fun of my new glasses, you see, and I was oh so upset, so I came in here to have a good cry."

"That wasn't nice of her," commented Harry, catching on. Myrtle liked a good pity; the worse, the better.

"Not at all!" she agreed, trilling. She was now hovering in front of the four. "So I came in here and locked myself in this very stall." She paused, sighing. "Then I heard the door bang open; I thought Olive was coming back and had followed me in to make fun of me some more."

"Was it?" asked Edgar.

Myrtle shook her head. "No! It was a boy's voice. And then he started speaking… some strange words, or slurs. He wasn't too far away, probably near the sinks. I came out of the stall to tell him off—and then I died."

"That was it? He never cast a spell at you, or anything?" asked Gorman, sceptically.

"No," shot Myrtle irritably, her good mood vanishing. "All I saw were two yellow eyes and I felt my body fall as I lifted up out of it: a ghost."

Harry glanced, startled, at Edgar and then Cedric. Two yellow eyes? Dead before she hit the ground? Slurs and words that didn't sound English?

"Oh, fuck," said Gorman, as he put it all together too. The group turned as one to look at the sinks, not against the wall across from the stalls in the other bathrooms, but in a circular fountain design attached to a very large central column that extended to the ceiling.

They had found the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

By the time the groups met up again, they had all decided to remain near Myrtle's bathroom, arguing on their next step.

"We need to tell a professor!" argued Horatio. "We can't fight a bloody basilisk!"

"Who're we going to tell then, hmm?" asked Edgar, flushed in anger. "McGonagall's Acting Headmistress and she's floundering, unable to make any decisions!"

Cedric shrugged as Horatio's eyes turned to him. "It's true. She doesn't know what to do in light of this whole mess with Dumbledore gone. She's a good professor, Rio, but she's not a very good leader."

"Flitwick? He was a duelling champion in his younger years," offered Mike.

"He's an option," agreed Theo, while Edgar grudgingly agreed with a nod.

"Sprout?"

"Absolutely not, she's too soft. Spent her time in the lounge crying about the Weasley girl. So's Sinistra."

"Snape?"

"… would you like to be the one to tell him we found the mythical Chamber of Secrets?"

"No, good point."

They continued listing the professors, until they came to the last.

"Lockhart?"

There was silence and then everyone burst into laughter.

"That fraud?" laughed Harry. "And you want him to face a basilisk? Great idea for murder, maybe, but I doubt he'd do more than faint at the thought."

"True," said Theo, narrowing his eyes in thought, "But he is considered a well-respected and known author, isn't he?"

"Of fiction, I believe you told Hermione back in Diagon Alley," reminded Nate, crossly. "Surely you haven't changed your mind?"

"Oh, no," grinned Theo, and it was nasty. "But as a well-respected author we could use him. There are tons of Aurors stationed in Hogsmeade, right? So we tell Lockhart where the Chamber is; we all know he's full of it anyway. He goes to the Aurors, tells them, and they rescue the Weasley girl and fight the basilisk. Lockhart gets the credit and boost in reputation and we all live to see another day."

"I like most of it except the part where it boosts Lockhart's reputation and worth. He's a fraud," argued Mike, shaking his head. "It's very Slytherin, but it doesn't really change anything and we want him out. No one's learning anything from him anyway!"

Harry sighed and folded his arms. "At the moment, it's the best option we have. And we can force him to leave the school. You know, publicity—he'll be a busy man promoting his new book about the Chamber of Secrets, won't he?"

Cedric laughed. "Fine. You four go and we'll wait for you outside his classroom. I doubt any of the profs are still in the lounge; most are probably getting ready for Hogwarts to close."

Harry, Theo and Nate nodded, but Edgar was already half-way down the hall as soon as Cedric agreed, and they had to run a bit to catch up with the youngest Potter. As soon as they neared Lockhart's classroom, they heard muffled swearing and several bangs and thumps.

Confused, Harry shared a look with Theo and pushed open the door—and froze. Lockhart was shoving books and portraits of himself willy-nilly into open trunks, several already locked and pushed near the door for easy transport.

"Professor?" gapped a shocked Harry. "What are you doing?" Had notice already come in from the Governors that Hogwarts was to close?

Lockhart stumbled, nearly tripping over one fuchsia robe that lay half-in and half-out of an open trunk. The fluffy blond haired man gapped in surprise. "Potter!" spying the others with Harry, he amended his opening greeting. "And Mr. Nott and Mr. Moon and the youngest Potter as well."

"Professor? Is the school already closing?" demanded Harry, his eyes taking in all of the trunks and Lockhart's slightly panicked expression.

Lockhart's face beamed; he was going with the excuse, but Theo spoke up. "The school's not closing, is it professor?" his tone was steely. "You're running away."

"Erm," hedged Lockhart, blinking at Harry's best friend.

"Thought you had more bollocks," commented Nate, surprisingly at the slang, and he crossed his arms. Edgar remained silent, eyes guarded.

Lockhart seemed stumped, unable to come up with a reply—but then with a very sudden and surprising flourish he drew his wand from the sleeve of his turquoise robe and pointed it at the four students. "Expelliarmus!"

Theo, Harry and Nate's wands, which were held loftily in their hands, soared through the air towards Lockhart; Edgar's was in the holster the Slytherin boys had bought for him when he received his wand, but not for long. The youngest Potter had it out and pointed at Lockhart seconds afterwards.

Harry nearly squirmed and wiggled as he felt Caesar respond to the threat against Harry and Edgar, poking his head out from underneath Harry's tie and hissing, his fangs shown.

"Put it down, boy," instructed Lockhart, looking at Edgar and ignoring Harry completely, sounding far more accomplished and confident than he ever had all year. "You don't want to make this worse than it is."

Edgar snorted. "What? You running away? I think that's about the worst that anyone could do."

"Mind telling us why you're doing that, Lockhart?" asked Harry, evenly, as he kept his eyes on Lockhart's wand and not the man himself. His hand rose to stroke Caesar and calm him down; the snake listened and coiled back to rest around Harry's torso, but remained poised should Lockhart near him.

Lockhart sighed. "I'm certainly not going to remain at Hogwarts if there is a dangerous creature roaming the school, taking the lives of students. I value mine too highly for that," he confessed, tossing his head back slightly and bouncy his fluffy hair.

"And your books?" queried Nate quietly. "We already knew you were a fraud… but how did you get the information for them then, if you avoid dangerous creatures? Some of that information is a bit too precise."

"Simple," shrugged Lockhart, "I'm amazingly gifted at Memory Charms."

The Slytherins sucked in air from their teeth, nearly hissing, as the air in the room seemed to turn colder. Memory Charms, thought Harry angrily, a simple spell with the means to ruin someone's life in four syllables!

Lockhart continued. "But how fortunate the four of you are here! What a spin! Why, I found the three Slytherins arguing about how to use the Chamber of Secrets to their advantage—no real stretch here, Harry, given how the school detests you—and how dear Edgar was trying to stop you… a fight ensured, and in the aftermath, you all were struck so horribly with a collection of spells that you lost your minds…"

"A very lovely story, Lockhart, but excuse me if I don't allow that to happen," expressed a very cool voice with a barely hidden tinge of rage underneath the tone.

The boys started, turning to face Cedric and his three friends with their wands pointed at Lockhart; Cedric's expression was one Harry knew—it was the same, scarily intense look he had reserved for Harry previously.

Cedric Diggory was a very good looking teenager, whom Harry knew would grow up to have many admirers. But right now, Cedric reminded Harry of a statue: his face was resolute, firm and sharp, angling and hallowing his cheeks and the dip between his chin and mouth and highlighting the V his brows took. His eyes were hooded, head slightly lowered in a very old, primitive beckon of challenge; his mouth was a straight line, tight and almost shut, except for a few flashes of teeth here and there, as though Cedric was trying to control the muscles around his mouth.

The look in Cedric's eyes scared Harry though; it was unbridled rage that glittered behind the greyness of his iris. Usually when Cedric got into this mood—once before on the Hogwarts express the year previous when Theo was about to ask Harry's name, and then later in the darkness of the Slytherin dungeons stating he was stand by Harry, no matter what—Harry was unsure of what to think, as it was such a change from the kind, bright and clever boy he knew.

Harry didn't delude himself; he knew Cedric had hidden qualities that he didn't reveal to others. He was wickedly clever—his grades reflected that, despite a poor Charms grade here and there—and his reflexes were spot-on to be a Quidditch Seeker; he was also born near the end of Voldemort's first reign, three years before the Dark Lord had killed Harry's parents. He wouldn't remember anything from his childhood, not that early on, but it was bound to leave impressions on him that he would store away and that would later help shape him into who he was now.

Cedric's loyalty was a double-edged sword: popular opinion saw Hufflepuffs as blindly giving their loyalty to their friends and that's it—they failed to realise that when a Hufflepuff gave themselves to someone, they did it with an intensity that was frightening. They would put everything forward to protect their friends, as Cedric was displaying now.

"Ah, Diggory!" beamed Lockhart, although Harry could see beads of sweat gather at his brow. "How kind of you and your chaps to join us."

"Quite," the handsome Hufflepuff sneered—sneered!—and muttered, "Expelliarmus," as Gorman, Mike and Horatio added their own spells.

Lockhart's wand soared towards Gorman who grabbed it midair and then gleefully snapped it in two. Lockhart visibly flinched at the gunshot sound, and then wilted. Mike and Horatio were handing the Slytherins back their wands.

"So what now, boys?" asked a defeated Lockhart.

Cedric wasn't flushed, or pale, or even breathing heavily as he replied. "I think we go with a change of plans. Our first idea concerning you has merit."

Theo and Nate gapped, while Harry and Edgar frowned and drew closer, in comfort, as Gorman, Mike and Horatio stared at Cedric like they had never seen him before.

"Ced…?" asked Mike, slowly. "It was meant as a joke."

When Cedric refused to answer, Harry mentally sighed. What was it in Cedric's past that shaped the same kind of desire to get things done, no matter what the consequences, that Harry—and even Dumbledore—had?

"Ced," murmured Harry, coming to stand beside the Hufflepuff. "He's not worth it."

"Maybe not," muttered Cedric in reply, "but obviously the plan we came up with doesn't work. We'll take him to the Chamber."

"And what, leave him there?" asked Mike in horrified awe—or dismay, Harry couldn't tell—, and Horatio blinked in surprise.

Cedric shrugged. "It's not like he'll find a way out, will he? Consider it like a pit with only one way in and one way out."

"I like it," said Gorman, unsurprisingly. "Let's go."

Mike and Horatio seemed to gap in surprise, and didn't move for several seconds as Gorman and Cedric shuffled Lockhart out of the room, their wands at his back; Edgar was leading the man towards Myrtle's bathroom, and Harry, Theo and Nate brought up the rear behind Cedric and Gorman, leaving Horatio and Mike behind in horrified surprise.

"You'll need to open it, Henry," said Caesar, who had remained silent for the majority of the evening, far more interested in watching and tasting those around him as Harry had run from one end of the school to another, although he had nearly made an appearance barely ten minutes ago in the Defence room. "You or Edgar."

"I'll do it," he muttered out loud, ignoring Lockhart's bewildered look, until Harry stuck his right arm out at his side, resting it lightly on the edge of one of the sinks and Caesar slithered down Harry's shirtsleeve.

The man yipped in shock, and stumbled back into Gorman and Cedric who both grabbed the man's arms and pinned them at his side, effectively blocking him in.

Harry shot Cedric a look—almost unreadable; was Cedric still sure he wanted to go through with this?

Cedric tersely nodded, and Harry ran a hand through his hair in response. Caesar, Harry saw, had slithered to the floor near the toilet stalls, and seemed unwilling to go any further.

Eyeing the sink taps, he, Theo and Nate began circling the fountain and looking for something that would proclaim it the entrance of the Chamber—and Nate found it.

"Here! A little snake is etched into the hot tap," he said, waving his friends over. Harry neared and Nate pointed it out—a snake curled into an S shape, hidden on the underside of the tap.

"Open," hissed Harry in Parseltonge, and at first, nothing happened. Then—

—there was a loud grinding noise and the sinks began to fall away, sliding stone against stone, grating and piercing. Soon, a large hole, enough for at least two fully grown men on brooms to fly down without touching each other, was revealed.

"Merlin's balls," breathed Gorman, as the group stared down the dark hole.

"Well, who's first?" interrupted Edgar, glancing from one to the other. When no one volunteered, he sighed and took a single step forward, and then fell into the hole.

"Eddy!" shouted Harry, in surprise and, utterly terrified, he jumped into the hole as well, right after his brother.

Theo and Nate shared an exasperated look, and followed their friend and his little brother.

"I think that answers it," muttered Gorman, as he prodded Lockhart. "After you, then, Guv."

Lockhart audibly gulped, and together he and Gorman jumped into the hole.

Cedric pocketed his wand, securing it, and took one moment to look at the hole. "Merlin," he muttered. "Sure this is one of your best plans, Diggory?"

He roughly rubbed at his jaw with his hand and spotted Myrtle out of the corner of his eye.

"You can share my toilet if you die down there," she offered with barely concealed gleefulness.

Cedric mustered up a rather shaky smile, and then without any reservations, followed his friends down the hole.

Harry rolled out of the pipe, as the hole turned out to be, slick with fungus and several centuries' worth of grime streaking up his black trousers and staining his white button up; the shirt had ridden up during his tumble down and his back felt itchy and scraped raw as well. His forehead was also throbbing, from where he fell face-forward at one point, creating a pain that echoed in time to his furious heartbeat.

Edgar, he saw, was already standing on shaky legs and trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his trousers, a nervous gesture he had not yet outgrown. Harry ignored his own shakiness and strode forward—far more steadily and confidently than he actually was—and let all the rage and terror he felt at seeing Edgar jump into that pipe bubble to the surface.

"Don't you ever do that again, Edgar Potter, do you hear me?!" shouted Harry, grabbing Edgar by the shoulders and shaking him. "Ever! Again! Never!"

Edgar was startled; his brother had never lost his temper like he was now, his face pinched and pale with worry except for two very bright spots on his cheeks, narrowed green eyes and a near-snarl on his face.

Theo and Nate tumbled out, with Lockhart and Gorman almost immediately afterward, ending up sprawled and tangled with limbs.

"Gobshite!" shouted Gorman, an elbow banging into something.

"Ow, Merlin, that's my stomach!"

"Would you all shut up?! There's a basilisk down here and I'd rather not announce our presence!"

Cedric finally appeared, doing a tumble roll and rose steadily to his feet in one, swift move. Harry was impressed, but not too impressed that he forgot that his brother was staring up at him in shock.

"Sorry… Henry," gapped Edgar, drawing Harry's attention back to the youngest Potter, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—it's just…"

"Yeah," agreed Harry, grimly. He pulled Edgar roughly towards him, into a tight hug, and then let him go just as quickly. "Let's get this over with. I don't want to be down here any longer than necessary."

Lockhart rose unsteadily on his feet, next to Gorman. Theo and Nate were standing near Cedric, looking around the dank, dark cavern with awe and curiosity, and Edgar was already leading the way down a narrow passage.

A single hoarse cry made everyone turn back, thinking they were going to see a bit of basilisk, but instead Gorman was wrestling with Lockhart for Gorman's wand—the Hufflepuff teenager lost it—and Lockhart was standing over him, breathing heavily.

"Obliviate!" the man shouted and Gorman rolled out of the way; Cedric was shouting something similar to 'get down, Gorman, get down!' and Theo and Nate had dodged to the side, Theo's wand out and a 'confringo' exploding from it.

The spell caught Lockhart's arm and the wand in his right hand tense and then another spell—expelliarmus—had it slip from Lockhart's grip but not fly out of it. Lockhart, furious, turned to Cedric, ready to shout again.

"Reducto!" shouted Nate, his own wand out now as he kept low to the ground and move away from Theo and towards Harry and Edgar.

The blast hit a few feet in front of Lockhart, but the man was still slung back, where he hit a jutted piece of rock; he slumped to the ground, moaning, and Cedric cautiously approached him in tiny, measured slides.

Barely five feet away and Lockhart stirred, eyes open and wand in hand up at Cedric.

"Obliviate!" he shouted again. This time, there were several shouts and worried cries, as well as a loud bang and puff of smoke that surrounded Cedric and Lockhart.

"Ced?! CEDRIC?" shouted Gorman, racing forward and waving his hands back and forth to disperse the smoke.

A cough drew everyone's attention and a figure stumbled out of the smoke.

"Cedric?" asked Harry, stepping forward.

Cedric looked up, his face red. "It didn't hit me—the spell didn't hit me."

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and in moments, the smoke floated away to reveal Lockhart, sitting on the ground with a rather dazzled expression on his face.

Nate moved forward, with Gorman, who spotted his wand and picked it up with disgust. The wand was snapped in two, probably from when Nate blasted Lockhart against the wall, and the furry tail of Gorman's wand core was burning.

"My wand," the elder teen moaned. "My parents are gonna kill me."

"They'll have to get in line behind a basilisk, Gorman," commented Theo dryly, as he pocketed his own wand. "Because there's no way in hell it didn't notice all that noise we made."

"Good enough point," agreed Cedric, "We'd really best be going."

"Going where?" questioned Harry. "They only way out is back up that pipe. And I highly doubt any of us brought brooms."

Cedric frowned. Harry thought the dirt and grime from his own tumble down the pipe made him look much older than he really was—and that reminded Harry that with Lockhart out of the picture, Cedric and Gorman were the oldest of the group… and they were only fourteen (well, Cedric was fifteen, but that was nitpicking).

"We'll find another exit," said Cedric, finally. "Just keep your eyes on the floor and if you hear anything that sounds like a snake, we stop. If we keep together we should be fine."

"And Lockhart?" asked Nate, nudging a toe against the unconscious man.

Gorman sneered, and Cedric paused, but only for a moment. "Leave him here," he finally decided.

Nate nodded, a rather fixed expression on his face that made Harry's insides burn with pride. Who ever said that Slytherins only look after their own skin? His friends were sticking by him.

The group crept as lightly as they could across the cavern's floor, which was littered with rats' bones and pebbles that fell from the ceiling, leaving it very difficult to avoid any sort of loud crunching noise.

Finally, they came upon a large, circular disk with two interlocking snakes with emeralds for eyes.

"Say something to get it to open," suggested Theo, standing on Harry's left side. Nate nodded from behind Theo, and Harry glanced at Edgar who also nodded. Harry was consciously aware of Cedric and Gorman directly behind him.

"Open," hissed Harry, and the large disk rolled out of the way to reveal a bright, cavern with a single flagstone pathway, lined with large rock snakes with water pouring from their mouths. Water surrounded the pathway, which led to a raised, square terrace. In the middle of the terrace, at the bottom of a statue of a man, lay a single figure.

"Stay here," ordered Harry to Edgar. "I don't want you anywhere near the Weasley girl. She could be possessed or something could have brought her here."

Harry turned back to the pathway, and glanced once more over his shoulder at Nate, who gave a tiny nod: message received. Gorman, wandless, remained stationary as Cedric, Theo and Harry moved forward, flanking the Boy-Who-Lived.

Their steps echoed, and their shadows flickered under their feet as they passed floating orbs of light. There were no noises except the plink plonk of the water cascading from the snake's open mouths to the watery pools below.

"I don't like this," muttered Theo.

"Neither," agreed Cedric, just as quietly. "There's no way Weasley could've got down here alone."

"You're right."

The voice startled the three, and they jumped and spun with their wands out and facing the voice. From behind a column of a ready-to-spring snake a young man appeared, still half-hidden in the shadows.

The young man was wearing similar robes to theirs, only it seemed more tailored and slightly older fashioned—but there was no mistaking the Slytherin crest.

"And who're you?" asked Cedric, glowering at the teenager.

"Tom Riddle, and yourself?" he politely replied.

Harry didn't like the look of the wavy-haired, narrow-eyed teenager. He was pale-faced, extremely good-looking, and had the same charismatic posture that Cedric had—only Riddle seemed to also have an air of malice around him. It was carefully hidden, but Harry had spent enough time around thieves and liars in Little Whinging to recognise the tactic in others. Theo's stiff posture told Harry had Theo recognised the dangerous element in Riddle as well, and Harry wondered if Theo's father carried the same feeling.

"Cedric Diggory," replied Cedric, stiffly.

"Ah! And who are your companions, Mr. Diggory?" asked Riddle, continuing the charade of pleasantry.

"Theodore Nott," grumbled Theo, as Harry replied, "Henry Potter."

"Potter, you say?" asked Riddle, latching onto the last name. "As in, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Yes," hedged Harry, very uncomfortable by now. "Why d'you want to know?"

"I've heard all about you, Harry."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Riddle jerked his chin at the pale, unmoving figure of Ginny Weasley, but Harry didn't look; neither did Cedric or Theo. "Ginny Weasley, over there. She poured her heart and soul into telling me all about her life, and her hopes, and her dreams through her diary… and you were mentioned as well. The Boy-Who-Lived, who survived when others before had not; who defeated the greatest Dark Lord in the past century."

At this, Cedric began edging towards Ginny Weasley, his movements slow and measured. It was still fairly obvious in the stillness of the Chamber, but Riddle didn't stop him.

"And how is it that you didn't know about me?" asked Harry, "I'm famous. Everyone knows who I am."

"I'm not from…" here, Riddle paused, as though searching for the right word. "…around here."

"So says every villain in a television show," muttered Harry, who rolled his eyes. "Could we be a little more specific, please?"

"I'm an echo of a student who was at Hogwarts fifty years ago," elaborated Riddle, smiling, despite it never reaching his eyes. "So I had no idea about the magnificent Harry Potter and the great Dark Lord he fought, until very recently."

An echo? thought Harry, narrowing his eyes at Riddle. The teenager stepped further into the Chamber, away from the shadows surrounding the pillar, and Harry saw what he meant now; he was flickering, slightly like an old film or a fuzzy picture in a camera lens trying to focus. He was nearly solid, but not quite there.

"She's barely breathing!" said Cedric, loudly, startling the three, who drew their eyes at the young girl lying on the floor. Harry noticed her ginger hair was much darker than her siblings, looking very much like spilled blood. Her book bag was off to her side, lying in a pool of water, and several books had fallen out of it.

"She won't wake," commented Riddle idly, as his gaze moved away from the young girl, back to Theo and Harry. "So, tell me, Harry," continued Riddle, conversationally, "how is it that a baby was able to defeat this Dark Lord? What extraordinary powers must he have?"

"What do you care?" asked Theo, "the Dark Lord was before your time. He only rose to power in the seventies."

Riddle smiled, again, thinly. "Because Lord Voldemort, Mr. Nott, was before, during, and after my time."

Harry narrowed his eyes, tensing and flexing his legs, ready to dart away if something happened; Theo copied him.

Instead, Riddle raised his left hand—which was holding a wand, possibly the Weasley girls'—and traced into the air, creating burning letters: TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

"Watch," he instructed, and with a wave of his wand, the letters rearranged themselves. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.

"You—!" Harry shook. It was the first time since his parents' demise that he was face-to-face with the man who murdered them. Although Riddle was an echo of the present Voldemort, Harry considered them one in the same.

Riddle's smile took on a sinister quality. "Yes, me," he agreed, stepping forward. Harry and Theo took a quick step back in response. Riddle didn't fail to notice, but ignored him as he continued moving forward, getting closer to where Cedric hunched next to Ginny Weasley, despite the distance Theo and Harry put between them.

"What did you do, Harry, that stopped Voldemort?" the man continued.

"I was a baby," snapped Harry, "how should I know?"

"Shame," mused aloud the dark wizard. His eyes travelled down Harry's messy head to the badge on his robes. "You're a Slytherin, Harry. Surely you can see that joining me would be more beneficial?"

Harry snorted. "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you went and killed my parents."

"Regretfully, Harry. Hindsight is, of course, not a quality we wizards possess. Even Seers cannot tell the future, despite what drivel divination spews," said Riddle, twirling the wand. "Divination tells of one possible future. And perhaps in one your parents joined me; and perhaps in another I never killed them. But I cannot confess to what my present self would want with your parents… and I shall never know. But in the meantime, I can at least continue what Lord Voldemort's plan was."

"And that is?" questioned Cedric from his position halfway between Theo and Harry and Tom Riddle. "Riding the world of Mudbloods?"

Riddle smiled. "Well, you did say it…" He turned to the statue of the man at the base of the terrace, and said, in Parseltongue, "Speak to me, Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Founders four!"

"How modest," sneered Harry.

"Oh, you speak?" asked Riddle, as he turned back to face Harry. "What a surprise," he murmured, "I hadn't expected that."

At this point, Harry wasn't listening; the mouth of the stone Salazar Slytherin had opened and a large, green-skinned snake had fallen out, slithering heavily around the terrace and towards Riddle—and by default, Theo and Harry. The two young Slytherins took off in opposite directions, wands grasped tightly in their sweaty palms.

Cedric remained stationary, next to the Weasley girl. He was monitoring her heartbeats, which were getting slower and slower as time moved forward.

"You can't run, Harry!" yelled Riddle, watching with beady eyes. "My basilisk will find you and your friend!"

Harry ignored his pounding heart and Riddle's words, and took off down the pathway; he had to trust that Theo could manage on his own. A shout and a crash had Harry glance back briefly—and it was enough to see the large snake was chasing him down.

Harry swerved, at the right time, and rolled, landing heavily on his shoulder as the snake ploughed into the spot he was just at, shaking the floor.

"Come, now, Harry! Stop playing around!" called Riddle, his voice moving. He was walking towards Harry. "Make this easy on yourself—no one is coming to save you!"

"I have hope that Dumbledore will know what's going on sooner or later!" shouted back Harry, as he dodged another swipe of the snake's tail, and then leaned heavily against the snake statue, landing in a shallow pool of water underneath the cascading waterfall.

"Dumbledore's been driven out of Hogwarts by the mere memory of me!" shouted back Riddle. "He can never hold a candle to me!"

"Dumbledore's ten times the wizard you are, Riddle!" shouted back Harry, moving slowly through the water, watching edgily for the snake but not spotting it along the pathway or near Cedric and Ginny. Theo was no where to be seen either.

At the end of Harry declaration, Harry moved out from underneath the snake waterfall, and moved sloppily back onto the pathway. Distantly, he heard Cedric shout, "Henry, behind you!" and risked looking back to see the lunging form of the basilisk, and thankfully not its eyes.

Harry yelled out, wordlessly, and stumbled and tripped; the snake was slowly advancing on him, but Harry had his head turned away to avoid looking in its gaze.

"Henry!" another voice shouted; Edgar, thought Harry, worriedly.

Cedric was shouting, he could hear Edgar, and Theo and Nate as well—Riddle was hissing in Parseltongue for the snake to attack—but above all the noise, there was another sound, something similar to song.

The basilisk reared back—not to pierce, but to hide—and moved towards the watery pools as the song became louder and louder. A flash of bright light, overpowering the floating orbs, made Harry see spots, and he blinked the black dots away, only to stare in awe at the red-coloured bird with gold plumes, which clutched the sorting hat in its talons.

"Harry, that's Dumbledore's phoenix!" shouted Gorman, from near the entrance to the Chamber.

Bewildered, Harry took the sorting hat and put it on—"Ah, Mr. Potter! How nice to hear from you again. A bit busy, are we? Well, yes, you have a role to play here… so let's help you grow into your role, shall we?"—and then something hit him soundly on the head, knocking his seven ways to next Sunday, blinking and moaning in pain.

The sorting hat fell off, landing into a pool of water. Harry rubbed at his head, another lump forming far too close to the one he received from his tumble down the pipes. He twisted his head to glare at the offending hat beside him, but paused; something silver was reflecting in the shallow pool.

Harry reached forward with a trembling hand, and grasped. Smoothly, he extracted a sword for the deep recesses of the sorting hat (bizarrely wondering if the hat was similar to Mary Poppins' bag) and stared in awe at the large broadsword.

He shifted the hilt to rest more comfortably in his hand, warmed by the rubies and gold filigree, and nearly goggled when he saw the engraving: Godric Gryffindor.

"Dumbledore's pet phoenix and a ratty old hat?" sneered Riddle. Harry looked up and saw that the teenaged echo of the dark lord had moved closer to Harry during his brief blackout, and was now only several feet away, almost looming over him. "What good will those do? How will they help you, Harry Potter?"

"More than you can imagine!" said Harry, rising to his feet, the sword of Godric Gryffindor clutched in his right fist. "Because unlike prejudice Dark Lords, I've got something they don't have!"

Riddle looked amused. "Which is?"

"Friends," started Harry, spying movement out of the corner of his eye. "And tons of creativity!"

Harry jumped up and darted to the side, bowling into Riddle and shoving the older teenager to the ground in shock—he wasn't expecting a physical attack.

"Attack him!" hissed Riddle, pointing at Harry. From behind Riddle, in the deeper recesses of the Chamber's pools of water, the basilisk shot out, foam and spray and water going everywhere and splashing down onto the flagstone pathway and terrace.

Dumbledore's phoenix gave a great caw and the warm, uplifting song echoed throughout the Chamber; the basilisk gave a mighty hiss of outrage, and something that sounded mysteriously like a scream. Harry glanced up, prepared to be petrified, but saw that the phoenix had pricked out both of the basilisk's eyes—effectively stymieing the basilisks' real weapon.

Cedric gave a mighty cheer from where he was protecting Ginny Weasley—and Harry saw Theo dart behind Riddle, keeping to the shadows and the snake statues.

"You might have blinded my basilisk," said Riddle, fury radiating off of him, "But he can still smell you!"

Harry had little time to prepare; within moments the basilisk was on him, and the phoenix was too far away to intervene, as were Harry's friends.

Harry was prepared to stop the basilisk if it meant that someone else could save Ginny Weasley and stop Riddle, so he hefted the sword upwards, as quickly as he could and tried not to flinch at the warm and damp humidity that encased the basilisk's mouth as the giant snake bore down on the small twelve-year-old. Harry gave a wordless battle cry—sounding terribly undignified, as he did so—and shoved the gleaming sword straight up as the mouth came down around him.

He felt something graze his back, splitting his robes, shirt, and tear his skin, creating a massive burning sensation: it was worse than the time when Dudley deliberately spilled a pan of boiling hot water on Harry at Privet Drive.

Yet Harry determinedly clung to the sword, now twisting it, and he felt blood and other fluids drip onto the shoulder and arm, and run down the length of his body. The basilisk began to wriggle, twisting this way and that, and then with a mighty thump it fell to the Chamber floor.

The mouth was dark, and Harry felt incredibly dizzy. He unsteadily yanked the sword out of the mouth and the momentum had him tumbling backwards out of the mouth and onto the flagstone. The sword skittered away somewhere to his left, towards Cedric and Ginny, but Harry didn't care to go looking forward it; instead he blinked up at the roof, and the floating orbs of light, trying to focus on something.

"Henry?" a small voice asked, "Oh, God, Henry, can you hear me? Jesus Christ, don't you bloody die on me, brother! We're supposed to get through everything! Henry!"

"Roll him over, Edgar," commanded another voice, and Harry's view of the ceiling changed to the concerned eyes of his brother; green met brown and Edgar blinked hard, biting his lower lip.

"Merlin's balls," muttered the commanding voice, as a hand barely skimmed the air above Harry's back. He moaned, in pain, and knew elementally that something sharp had cut his back. "The fang's pierced him."

"He's dying," proclaimed Riddle, sounding entirely smug. "And nothing will be able to save him. He may have killed my basilisk, but I get the last laugh."

Bad movie lines, Harry wanted to say. Why didn't villains ever say anything creative or original?

Edgar's face in front of him was swimming in and out of focus, and Harry knew he wouldn't have much time left. He wanted to tell Edgar that he was proud of him; that he loved him very much; that he better not use anything Harry purchased on his own since being at Hogwarts because a boy's got to have some personal items that he doesn't share with his brother…

The singing of the phoenix song suddenly burst to life around Harry, and he sighed, gently. The burning pain from the basilisk fang was fading into the background and nothing but warmth surrounded him; he blissfully fell into the song, letting it sweep him away.

It's not your time yet, my darling. A warm, loving voice seemed to echo around Harry's very being.

You still have much to go on your path, another voice, a male, inputted. Harry vaguely remembered hearing these voices before; almost two years now, during his own sorting when the hat dredged up hidden memories a one-year-old baby would have no way of consciously remembering…

The voices continued: we love you. Take care of your brother, Harry… we'll meet again one day.

And then the burning pain was gone, leaving only a warm tingle that bordered on uncomfortable and Harry opened his eyes; Edgar was staring back at him, pale-faced and tear-stricken, clutching Harry's hand.

"Eddy," murmured Harry, groaning as he rolled to his knees and then up on his legs. Edgar was right beside him, helping him stand, as was Nate and Gorman; clearly, they had abandoned their relatively safe hiding place something during Harry's fight with the basilisk.

"That's not possible!" shouted Riddle, "The poison from the basilisk fang should have killed you!"

"And the tears of a phoenix can heal almost any wound," argued back Nate steadily, ignoring the fact that he was up against a teenaged version of the dark lord.

Riddle sneered, a look that transformed his handsome face to something far more sinister. "No matter. The girl is dead—or nearly there, and once she is, I will be come completely solid and real… and a bunch of school children will not stop me."

"Doesn't need to be a bunch," grimaced Harry, as he leaned against his baby brother and Nate, staring steadily at Riddle. "Just one."

"What?" Riddle seemed completely flummoxed. "How could one of you defeat me? Planning on discovering that mystical Boy-Who-Lived power, Harry?"

"No," he replied, exhausted but trying not to show it.

"Then what?" the dark lord seemed confused, and was letting his emotions colour his thoughts—or else he would have realised what was occurring behind him. "You're too tired to fight me, boy! You couldn't raise that sword you pulled out of the hat for your life!"

"You're right," said Cedric, from behind the dark lord, causing him to spin around in surprise, "he can't… but I can."

Cedric stood proud in his filthy Hogwarts robes, the yellow Hufflepuff trim coated with grim and darkened with water. His face was set in a determined, stubborn tilt, and he had the sword of Gryffindor loosely held in his right hand. With Riddle watching, Cedric took the hilt in his hands, grasping it tightly and raising the sword as high as he could; ready to plunge it… into a book that lay next to Ginny Weasley.

"No!" Riddle shrieked, but it was a second too late; Cedric let the sword plunge down and pierce the book.

Riddle doubled over, in pain, his face an expression of terror and unimaginable pain. The book itself bled out ink, coating the sword tip, while where the sword pierced, the cover and pages were beginning to burn. It smelt like burning hair, or something else human, and Harry saw Cedric try to not gag from his position closest to the book, which was now on fire and steadily burning away—and yet leaving the book still intact.

Riddle was fading, flickering like the echo he was, in and out of focus. He face was agonised, and soon he was translucent, and then gone, in a tiny whiff of smoke.

There was silence in the Chamber.

"Is it over?" asked Edgar, softly.

"Yeah…" Gorman looked around, at the puddles of water; the orbs floating above them, giving light; and then at the large carcass of the basilisk, barely twenty feet away. Dumbledore's phoenix was also gone, sometime during the final scuffle. "Yeah, it's over."

"What about the Weasley girl?" asked Nate, and Gorman turned to look at Cedric and Theo, who was kneeling at the girls' side, trying to find her pulse at her neck. Cedric, however, seemed to be in shock, standing still, still grasping the hilt of the sword in his hands over the burnt-out book.

"Ced?" Gorman asked, moving slowly towards him. "C'mon, you can let go. It's over with; he's gone. The Weasley girl needs us."

Cedric heaved a shuddering exhale, and slowly pried his fingers free of the sword, despite his white knuckles and tight grip. "Right," he muttered, "Right."

The sword clattered as it fell to the ground, covered in ink, blood, and other liquids Harry couldn't identify. With Nate and Edgar helping him, they moved in one unit towards the fallen girl.

"I can't find anything!" Theo said, in frustration as he raked his hands through his thin hair, looking up at Gorman and Cedric.

Gorman swallowed, thickly, and knelt by the girls' other side, avoiding her spread-out hair as he did so, and placed his own fingers against her cool, pale neck. He waited, two, three, maybe ten seconds, and then looked up and shook his head. "She's gone."

"She bloody can't!" rasped Harry. "We didn't come down here just to drop Lockhart off—fat lot of good that did—and now that Riddle's gone, shouldn't she be fine?"

"Sometimes life doesn't work like that, Harry," muttered Gorman, apologetic. "We were too late… or too slow. Or, too… something. She's passed on."

"No!" Harry shook of Nate and Edgar. "What about CPR?"

"What?" gapped Theo, from his haunches on the flagstone.

Edgar nodded, "Yeah, CPR." He strode forward, and, biting his lip, he rearranged the girls' head and body, and then, hoping he was doing it correctly, pinched her nose and placed his mouth over hers, blowing air into her.

"Edgar…" Cedric trailed off, sadly, watching as the boy repeated the procedure and then covered his hands on the girls' chest and pushed—once, twice, thrice.

Nothing.

He repeated it, muttering under his breath, "one… two… three… four," and then exhaling into her, and then ten counts of pushing over her heart. Nothing changed; he repeated.

After several minutes—Harry would never be able to remember correctly how long it was—Harry felt the dampness and exhaustion wash over him. He moved away from Nate, and knelt beside Theo, next to Edgar, who had tears of frustration in his eyes. He watched his little brother roughly wipe them away with the back of his hand.

"Eddy," said Harry, softly, placing a hand on the boys' shoulder. "Eddy… you've done what you can. It's over."

"No! I can't just—her parents and family will want to know—how!" Edgar succumbed to tears, and curled up against his brother. "They shouldn't have to lose someone like we have," he said, so quietly Harry barely heard him.

Harry wrapped his arms around his brother and held him, murmuring under his breath as his friends gathered around the two Potter brothers. Harry rocked Edgar back and forth as the boy sobbed against Harry's dirty clothes. Tucked under his chin, Harry looked up at the ceiling, through his broken spectacles, and prayed to a God he hadn't really believed in.

The Aurors and several professors found them barely an hour later, dragging a lucid, if not amnesiac, Lockhart with them. Dumbledore was at the front of the group, his phoenix on his shoulder and his wand ready, with a hard, flinty look in his eyes.

When he spotted the group of six, surrounded by the fallen figure not more than a few hundred feet from the basilisk, he ignored the shouts of surprise from the Aurors and ran forward to the group.

His gaze ran over each student: Nate and Theo were grimy and had several cuts and bruises; Gorman was wandless and his hands were streaked with blood; Cedric was incredibly pale and shaky, covered in ink, blood and so much dirt and grime he looked as though he had a roll in the mud; and the Potters…

Edgar was still clutching his older brother, so Dumbledore couldn't see if he was hurt, but he appeared to be alright, if not shaky. Harry, on the other hand… the boy had a haunted gaze, as his eyes travelled from the still form of Ginny Weasley to Dumbledore's own wearied gaze. He had two bruises on his hair line, already purling; his spectacles were cracked and there were thin lines of dried blood from where the glass cut into the bridge of his nose and under his eyes; the back of his robes were ripped to the skin, where Dumbledore he spy a streak of pink, newly healed flesh, yet the area around it was caked in flaky, dried blood.

Dumbledore sighed. He hadn't wanted this for any of his students, and now…

"Come," he said, kindly, meeting all their eyes. "Let us get you to the hospital wing."

No one spoke as they were led out of the Chamber, towards the other professors and Aurors, who cast warming spells on them in a sympathetic silence. Harry didn't look back as a small group of Aurors remained behind. One conjured a small black cloth, and Harry turned his head away, blinking quickly.

The image would haunt him, though. He wouldn't forget—and as he glanced at those with him: Nate, Theo, Gorman, Cedric and Edgar… he realised neither would they.

There wasn't a leaving feast that year. None of the tapestries with the house emblems on them were displayed; there was no talk of who won the Quidditch Cup or the House Cup. The entire school was in mourning for Ginny Weasley.

Somehow, despite the government intervention, the press never caught wind of what happened at Hogwarts, but Harry knew there would be talk. He was exonerated as the upcoming dark lord, given that Hermione had been petrified and no one could think of a reason as to why he would do that to his own friend. Yet…

There was a subtle shift within Slytherin that no one would really notice unless they understood the power plays; and Harry knew that Edgar and his friends saw it, because the Ravenclaws were astute and clever enough to be observant.

There was a split between two fractions: one supported Harry and his friends, who remained seated near them on their end of the long table; and the other formed a clutch around Draco Malfoy and those he associated with—and those, Theo hissed at him at the leaving feast, "who're children of Death Eaters… people who believe in him."

Harry couldn't imagine wanting to join the dark lord—not after what he saw of the teenaged version of Voldemort—but refrained from saying anything. People, Harry knew, were allowed to believe in what they wanted… but he wouldn't stand for blatant bullying or slurs thrown at others. He would also keep an eye on Malfoy; Harry knew he had an unhealthy obsession with insulting the youngest Weasley (Harry cringed at the thought, swallowing thickly and avoiding the instinctual desire to cast his eyes at the Gryffindor table, where the four remaining Weasleys huddled together).

Harry and those who had been with him in the Chamber met with the Weasley family a few days after the Chamber of Secrets incident. Harry could barely look at them—at Mrs. Weasley, who had been so kind to him in Diagon Alley less than a year previous, who was now sobbing heartily into her husbands' shoulders; at Mr. Weasley, who remained stoic and unresponsive, lost in his grief; at the eldest two siblings, Bill and Charlie, who had been abroad and now back, taking charge of their family as their parents remained unresponsive to their help and suggestions.

Dumbledore and the head of the Auror division who had ushered the group out of the Chamber, Rufus Scrimgeour, were also present. They were gently repeating the events of the Chamber, and together they had deduced that Ginny had been slipped the diary deliberately.

Harry nearly gagged at that point in Dumbledore's office. Deliberately, he said. Someone hated the Weasleys enough to murder one of their own.

When Dumbledore presented the diary as evidence to Scrimgeour, handing over the case to the Aurors, Harry felt a tingle in the back of his mind—he knew that book. But, from where?

He shoved it away as Dumbledore and Scrimgeour continued their gentle retelling of events, highlighting what the six had done there; they continued that Horatio Landen and Mike Summers had gone directly to the professor's lounge and the other to the Aurors, explaining about their friends and the Chamber, imploring them to help them, to save them. Dumbledore continued that the Chamber had closed back up when they reached the toilet, but several blasting curses from the Aurors had revealed the pipe after many agonising minutes.

There, they found Lockhart at the bottom, memory gone and yet barely any different than when he had his mind. They travelled further, as they could hear distant, echoes of shouts and fights—felt a giant thud (that would've been the basilisk, thought Harry, when I stabbed it)—and were prepared to do battle… only to find another locked door they had to blast through. And when they did… they were too late as well.

Harry was convinced the Weasleys hated him. Mrs. Weasley couldn't look at him; at the cuts and bruises left on his face (he refused Madam Pomfrey's insistence to heal them. He wanted a reminder that sometimes you couldn't save everyone. She argued back that the large scar on his back from the basilisk fang would be reminder enough, but then left it, seeing Harry's stubborn expression).

Bill and Charlie, though, thanked him quietly, shaking his hand and his friends'. They led their parents out of Dumbledore's office, but Molly Weasley's sob lingered in the silent room.

None of those with Harry, including Gorman and Cedric, felt like they deserved their thanks.

"Sometimes," began Scrimgeour, slowly, as he looked from one student to the next, "Despite doing all we can, we still lose."

The leonine man shook Dumbledore's hand and exited the office, leaving the six alone with the headmaster.

They were expecting the man to say something. Dumbledore opened his mouth, ready to either scold or impart some wisdom on them, to ease their guilt, but instead he kept his mouth shut. The twinkle in his eyes had faded, and the old wizard looked every bit his age. Instead, he waved the six from his office, an unreadable look on his face as he did so.

As King's Cross station approached, Edgar fingered the worn chess piece in his pocket. He and Harry were alone, briefly, in their compartment; Nate and Theo were changing into their regular robes, Hermione was with Neville Longbottom, and the Hufflepuffs were trying to repair their strained friendship.

"I feel as though I shouldn't say this," began Edgar, drawing Harry's attention.

"Hmm?"

"Ginny Weasley died, and none of us could do anything about it," the younger Potter continued.

"Life isn't fair, Eddy," replied Harry. "Did I ever tell you what Vicar Hornsby told me over the hols? He said that sometimes when good people try to do something good for another, something intervenes and stops them. Sometimes nothing can be done, and we have to live with it."

Edgar looked down, tracing the pattern of the seat in the compartment. "I don't like it."

"I don't suppose you ever will," replied Harry, almost idly.

"You're taking this well," said Edgar, glaring at his older brother. "Shouldn't you feel more for her death?"

Harry shrugged, looking away. Of course he felt guilty about Ginny Weasley's death; he felt more than he could ever describe to his little brother, and more than he would want to tell him… but at the same time, he accepted that sometimes bad things happen to good people; had he and his friends never gone to the Chamber, Ginny Weasley would still be dead, and Riddle would be alive.

"Henry?"

"Yeah, Edgar?"

Edgar offered Harry something in his fist, and Harry took it; it was the black king.

"You almost died," said Edgar. "I don't want to ever see that happen again…" he took a deep breath, "but, just so you know… you did really well down there. You were a hero: the Boy-Who-Lived. And I… king's to you, Harry."

Harry swallowed thickly, looking at the worn chess piece in his palm. He clenched his fist closed, and bowed his head, remembering the voices when he thought he died. His role was not done, if he believed what the sorting hat said and—were they really his parents?

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow," he muttered under his breath, watching through the window as the Hogwarts Express pulled into their platform at King's Cross, blowing steam and obscuring his view.

He glanced at Edgar, who caught his gaze, and nodded, solemnly. Destiny, duty… Harry was going to take charge now. He sighed; he didn't believe in providence, but there was something mysterious at work that was guiding him down a certain path; even Dumbledore believed it. Last year he told himself that he would meet his destiny head-on, take it by the reins and play the game on his terms.

It is time, thought Harry, as he looked down at his fist, the king hidden away, to become what everyone saw him as: Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Only Harry knew, though, that he would see himself as a king—and not as a pawn to be played.

TBC…