So. Chapter 7. I hope you're as excited as I am! A week ago I figured out the plotline for the GoF and OoP arcs, or fleshed them out really. I was literally screaming with excitement. When I eventually share those chapters, you will all hate me. Mwahaha.
Regardless, thank you to all those who reviewed and followed and favourite (polysyndeton there) after my last update. Also, I invite any or all of you to please share any errors you find: spelling, grammar etc. These chapters take a while to edit, and it's so easy to miss something. And thank you for your defence, Shining Sunny and The-Thorns-On-A-Rose. It was appreciated. And of course Gurgaraneth is always reviewing too :)

On another note, I've hit 100 followers. Yay! You are all amazing, wonderful people. See you next week, lovely readers :)

Warning: Some dialogue and descriptions are taken from J.K Rowling's Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Chapter 7.

Obviously, I do not own the Harry Potter franchise.

Chapter 7: Mudbloods and Murmurs

Over the next couple of days, Harry spent a lot of time dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. The man seemed to have a strange obsession with tracking Harry down in order to tutor him on being famous. It would have been easier to avoid him, however Malfoy, still smarting over his verbal defeat at the hands of Harry a few days before, seemed hell-bent on making life as uncomfortable as he could for Harry. More than a few times, Harry had seen Malfoy in conversation with Lockhart, pointing Harry out to him with a vapid smirk on his face. The first time he'd been about to turn down a corridor on the way to the Grand Feast, when Malfoy's loud voice had called out, mockingly sweet: "Oh Harry! Professor Lockhart, he's just over there, do you see?"

And then Lockhart had called out to him"Harry!" His footsteps had echoed in the hall as he came forward. "Harry! Young Malfoy here just mentioned you're on your way down to dinner. Accompany me, would you? I have some knowledge that I think will prove helpful to you; from my Witches Weekly interviews you know, about interacting with female fans. One doesn't write all the books I have done without some experience, after all… Harry? Harry, where are you going? Mr Malfoy, perhaps you'd better run after him, I don't think he heard us."

The second time, Malfoy had managed to find out that Harry was studying in the library with Hermione and Ron. The annoying blonde had led Lockhart all the way to the back of the library, behind the shelf labelled '15th century Goblin Alliances: Marriages and Treaties' where they'd been trapped for the better half of an hour. It was during this time that Professor Lockhart had shared the secret to "my beautiful smile, which of course I won't mention, it'd be rude, you know," with Harry. Harry had been nodding and humming at regular intervals, while his eyes had been rereading the sentence 'The Shrinking Charm is similar in style to the Weightless Charm in that in shrinking, the weight of an object is diminished' in his Charms textbook. Lockhart's words were easily tuned out in this manner, except the theory he was reading seemed to have gained Lockhart's voice. Harry tried to pretend that this strange aural phenomenon wasn't there; Tom was in favour of this approach. Meanwhile, Hermione glared at Ron and him with narrowed eyes for ignoring a teacher. It appeared that Ron had started doodling a sketch where a young boy with red hair was being eaten alive by a crocodile. On the same notepad Hermione had taken notes on tips for managing a smile worthy of Witches Weekly.

The trio stopped studying in the library after that, though Hermione began making the table behind the 'Goblin Alliances: Marriages and Treaties' shelf her regular study space.

Less difficult to avoid but just as irritating was the young Gryffindor Colin Creevey, who seemed to have managed to memorise Harry's timetable. What was perhaps the worst of it, was that Tom took it as an excuse to point out the personality faults of Gryffindor using young Colin as his examples. Harry, who always felt absolutely evil when he did this, wouldn't be able to stop himself from laughing. This of course, meant that he couldn't defend his house, and the common room ("he liked the orange, dammit") because he'd be too busy laughing in agreement. As a compromise, Harry blamed Tom for sharing his laughter, arguing that it wasn't Harry that was finding Colin Creevey annoying, it was just Tom. When Harry had first made this argument, Tom had snorted so hard, that Harry had done so too. The action had earned him a stern look from Professor McGonagal when it had occurred (during Transfiguration) but it had proved Harry's point, which was the important thing.

This was all tolerable. Much of it was funny, in hindsight. But under it all, was the constant thread of anxiety that seemed to worm its way through Harry's skin whenever he saw Ginny Weasley.

It was only the first week of school. He didn't share any classes with her. But Harry did see her in the evenings in the Gryffindor common room, where she'd often come and speak to Hermione, asking for assistance in Potions. It was fortunate that Ginny seemed too shy to speak to Harry, because Harry was sure that he wouldn't be able to hide the hostility he felt if she did. It was like a compulsion, as if some potent force ripped away all his awareness of the world and the room and its inhabitants until all he could think was 'She has the diary, she has Tom, she has him, give him back, I'll save him, he's mine.' At mealtimes in particular, it was difficult not to throw a fork at her. One evening she had even sat beside him; Ginny's face had been flushed the whole dinner, and she'd only stared at her food, perhaps looking up to answer a kind questioning from Hermione. She had hardly moved. But once when she'd reached to place a baked potato on her plate, her shoulder had brushed against Harry's and his insides crawled. He had wanted to hurt her.

Harry had left dinner quickly that night.

It was fortunate really, that he had Tom. Whenever Harry had the sincere urge to god forbid, hurt her, Tom would step in until Harry was calm. It was a literal step in; Tom would move as Harry did, his mouth, his hands, his arms, his legs, any movement would all be Tom, any words would also be his. It meant that Tom could escape while Harry got himself under control, and Tom whispered words of calmness, of apology to him.

"I am so sorry," he'd whisper. "This is all my fault."

Harry had never replied to this, had never been in the mental state to, but he appreciated it all the same. Not that he blamed Tom; of course not. But the support was sincerely helpful, was appreciated, and Harry had lacked that support most of his life. It was supremely wonderful to have it now. However, what Tom often had trouble helping with, was the guilt Harry suffered with after the affair.

That first particular night, Harry had lain on a sofa in the common room, having left the Great Hall. As all the students were still eating, the room was deserted, and he could simply stay there, relax in the silence and presence of Tom. Of only the presence of Tom. And then the guilt had started to churn, his forehead had creased, he felt nauseous, cold and hot simultaneously, and Merlin, he had actually wanted to hurt Ginny. As if he hated her (which he did not), as if he was some kind of monster or animal that just hurt people if they wanted something. Harry had looked up at the common room ceiling, which didn't possess the same visual effects of the Great Hall, the same smoky sky or starless night, but it was nice all the same. It was red, a deep burgundy, almost like blood, without any of the shine. The colour seemed to remind Harry, that he was indeed, Harry Potter, Gryffindor student of Hogwarts. He didn't want to hurt people needlessly. He didn't do that. Which made the fact that he had actually wanted to strange and terrifying. It made him feel filthy.

"Harry…" Tom's voice sunk into the cacophony of his thoughts like a stone in a pool of water. "Harry, it is not your fault. That diary is… it is evil. It possesses people, and makes them not who they are."

Harry closed his eyes, and breathed through his nose. "I know. But what does it say about me that I can be so easily tainted by it, when I haven't even touched it. Have only seen it once."

Tom's voice rose up now like a wave, trying to forcibly overcome any of Harry's disbelief. "It is due to my presence Harry. That diary is a part of me; your soul is tainted by me. For that reason the diary calls to you. It is complex magic, and nothing to do with you. You are a good person, Harry. And I would know this better than anyone."

Harry had to smile then. "You do live in my head. But guilt isn't something I can exactly control. It just… happens."

"Does it?" Tom mumbled, and Harry opened his eyes, staring at the bloody hues of the ceiling.

"It should."

The next morning Harry was terribly disappointed to find that it was Potions class. On the way there, after a breakfast where Hermione had asked concernedly if Harry was alright after leaving early the night before, he attempted to explain why Potions class so horrifying.

"Potions is a fascinating subject," Tom was saying, his voice lively and amused. The feeling seemed to be riding along with Harry, helping quell his dread. It was a strange concoction, amusement and dread, but it wouldn't prevent Harry from winning the argument.

"Well yes, but you probably didn't have Snape teaching you. He wants us all to fail, except the Slytherins of course. But he just despises me."

A concerned note changed the flavour of their exchange. "Severus despises you? That is a strong word, Harry."

"Well it's true. The only person he probably hates more than me is Neville Longbottom. I would rather be The Boy Who Lived than him during Potions class."

A chuckle and the warmth of sweet honey in his mouth. "I'm sure you've realised by now that you are The Boy Who Lived."

"Exactly. And please don't call Snape Severus. That's just… no."

Before long they reached the Dungeons, to find the very same Neville already there. He was standing a few meters away from the entrance, as if afraid that even touching the door would bring Professor Snape swarming out from behind it. But at the sight of the visibly terrified student, instead of inquiring concernedly if the Potions Professor was really that terrible, Tom burst into helpless laughter, the feeling of which, settling into Harry's stomach, was immensely irritating.

"Stop that," he hissed, annoyed and trying not to smile. Sometime the physiological effects of Tom's presence were just too infuriating. "Snape treats Neville horribly. Just wait, and you'll see how he treats me."

"Sorry Harry," Tom replied, but Harry knew he was still smiling, or whatever the equivalent was when you didn't have a mouth, because he was smiling and he wanted to stop. "His face… I couldn't not laugh Harry."

Harry only shrugged, walking up to beside Neville. Some of the Slytherins were arriving and at the sight of them, as well as their amused expressions when they saw Neville, Harry felt furious. Tom was a Slytherin, he remembered. He had probably laughed at Gryffindors all the time.

Amazingly, the thought didn't make him very happy.

The chatter of the students around him quietened, and Harry looked up to see Snape's expressionless face. It was that is, until the wizard saw Harry, and his lips, already thin enough, tightened in distaste. Tom noticed it too, and any laughter remaining abruptly vanished. "I see what you mean, Harry."

Harry wanted to roll his eyes, but thought that Snape would probably purposely misunderstand it and take points. "Thank you," he replied instead as pointedly as he could, and began to follow his classmates down into the depths of the dungeons. For once, Hermione followed Ron and he to the very back, where they sat near Neville, hoping to hide themselves in the shadow of a cupboard. Malfoy of course, and his cronies, went straight to the front. Snape stood at the front of classroom, watching them all wordlessly. Once the last student had found their seat however (his lip quivered in displeasure when the chair scraped the floor ), he spoke.

"So we are back again. I imagine most of you have not improved more than merely a fraction since last year… but we can always hope." There was a silence as Snape's gaze slashed through them all, before he turned and walked over to a desk at the front of the classroom, cloak billowing out behind him. "Turn to page 23. Read." The sound of twenty students turning hurriedly to page twenty-three filled the room. Harry snuck a look up from his book, met Snape's raised eyebrow, and looked back down again.

"Well Professor Slughorn was a little more jovial," came Tom's whispered admittance. "That does not mean that Snape is not a good teacher however. He is a genius of the art."

Harry rolled his eyes this time, knowing that Snape wouldn't be able to see with Harry's eyes looking to his Potions text. He did as Snape said, and read:

Sleeping Draught

Ingredients:

v 1 wormwood sprig

v 4 Valerian sprigs

v 2 blobs of Flobberworm

v 3 largish Sopophorous beans

v 1 handful of powdered asphodel

v Essence of Nettle

Instructions:

1. Crush the wormwood, add to the cauldron. Stir slowly.

2. Chop the Valerian, add to the cauldron and apply a high heat.

3. Juice your Flobberworm and add its thick mucus to your cauldron.

4. Stir vigorously, apply a low heat, and then give it another stir.

5. Chop the Sopophorous bean and add to cauldron.

6. Stir the mixture quickly, then heat.

7. Add a spinkle of powdered asphodel petals and a dash of essence of nettle.

8. Heat the potion a final time, then stir slowly.

9. Wave your wand over the cauldron to finish your potion.

Tom scoffed. "Sleeping Draught! Surely you shouldn't have any trouble with this."

Harry cringed and could barely manage to continue to read the warnings section of the chapter. "Just watch."

Sure enough, after Snape had ordered the class to begin brewing, the chaos had begun. Pansy Parkinson had stolen one of Ron's Flobberworms, and had placed one of her own into Harry's potion. Crabbe walked all the way from the front of the classroom, and Malfoy hit Harry with a Stinging Hex so that he was distracted when Crabbe turned up the heat on his cauldron. By the time he'd noticed the potion was bubbling and steaming, the entire classroom stunk of burnt Flobberworm, with a Valerian finish.

Snape looked up from his desk. "I see our celebrity has shown his skill once again. 10 points from Gryffindor for offensive fumes. Please do attempt to follow the instructions, Potter."

Harry's face reddened as Pansy Parkinson gave a great giggle from the second row. Tom's outrage burned deep inside his gut, enough so that is was difficult to stir the potion not too violently. "This is unprofessional, Harry. I cannot believe Dumbledore allows this to go on. This is blatant favouritism. Surely he noticed those students fiddling with your potion."

Harry shrugged, and waved his wand over the potion to finish it. It was more maroon than purple, but it would have to do. He'd done better than Neville anyway, who had spilt his potion all over the floor, and had had to begin again. It was now a rather pretty golden brown, but nowhere a purple. No, he'd much rather be himself than be Neville.

Poor Neville.

By the time the day was over, Harry had almost forgotten about the diary, still smarting about Snape, as well as attempting to avoid Colin Creevey and Lockhart. He'd run into the man after Charms in his third class of the day, but had managed to escape pleading that he'd be late to Herbology. So when he walked into the common room that afternoon, sweaty and aching with tiredness, it had done nothing for his mood to see Ginny curled up in a chair by the empty fireplace writing in the glossy, black journal. It made his hands clench, he wanted to take it from her, and why he'd do it, yes, he was walking over there and-

"Harry, go upstairs right now." He started at Tom's voice. With a small shudder he realised what had happened and ran, felt tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, wanted to throw something. He felt so helpless.

Upon reaching his dormitory, Harry threw himself upon the bed, and just like the last time, simply lay there, gazing up at the ceiling in abject misery. "I just wish I could control it," he murmured.

Tom was present in that way someone was when they were prepared to catch someone, to slow their fall to the ground, to save them. "I know."

Harry's eyes traced the wooden posts of his four-post bed. "You said I need to take it off her. But I don't know how. I'm scared I'll claw her face off first."

He felt Tom reach out then, and it was like someone's hand was stroking his hair. "I know."

"We need to think of a plan."

Tom's caresses felt like watery silk kissing his forehead. "I know."

He fell asleep soon enough.

He awoke when Oliver Wood shook his shoulders, grinning and practically hovering with the energy of himself.

"Whassamatter?" said Harry groggily.

"Quidditch practice!" said Wood. "Come on!"

Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn't understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making. "Oliver," Harry croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."

"I thought I told you to quit," came Tom's sleepy voice, and the rotting taste of his displeasure. It was far worse than the coppery tang of morning breath.

"Yes, and I said no," Harry muttered back, shivering as he crawled out of bed.

"Good man," said Wood, an anticipatory gleam in his eye. "Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes."

What followed was an incredibly passionate discussion on the merits, or lack thereof, of Quidditch for so very early in the morning. When Colin Creevey appeared at the portrait hole at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, his camera swinging wildly around his neck, Harry grabbed at the opportunity to further his argument.

"Colin!" he exclaimed, smiling wildly at the boy's wide eyes. "Of course I'll sign that for you. Want to come watch?"

"Watch what?"

"Quidditch practice."

Colin's mouth made a small 'O'."Oh wow! Wait for me – I've never seen a Quidditch match before."

"See," said Harry petulantly. "Even Colin gets it."

"I do not want to 'get' something that Colin Creevey gets, Harry."

Harry's steps slowed down as he realized his error, but was hard-pressed to fix it, as Colin's rapid-fire questions continued. Colin didn't stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie, Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.

"There you are, Harry, what kept you?" said Wood briskly. "Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference . . ."

"Joy," murmured Tom. "I approve of your hobbies, Harry. Tell me… are you going to wake up this early tomorrow as well?"

"Oh shut it, Tom," Harry snapped, and began to doze off.

"So," said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"

"I've got a question, Oliver," said George, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"

Wood wasn't pleased.

"Now, listen here, you lot," he said, glowering at them all. "We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control —"

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

"So this year, we train harder than ever before. . . . Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed. They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.

"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.

"Unfortunately not," muttered Tom.

"Haven't even started," said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall.

"Yes Harry we could have been eating breakfast. I'm hungry," Tom whined.

Harry's left eye twitched. "Wood's been teaching us new moves." It wasn't like Tom was the only one suffering. Harry was hungry too.

He shook his head. Harry wanted to be here. Sure he was tired and hungry and still half-asleep, but it didn't matter. He was about to fly, for the first time in months, and that was worth any inconvenience.

He mounted his broomstick and kicked off the ground, all the while staring at the sky. He didn't look the ground, but flew up and up, watching the sky become larger and clearer. It was that pale blue of the sky that preceded a warm day, and Harry loved it, felt the wind on his face as he soared, racing against Fred and George. That was until Tom had to ruin it.

"Is this really what all the fuss it about, Harry?"

Harry huffed, and attempted a particularly ferocious somersault that had George guffawing. "Feeling enthusiastic, are we Harry?"

"You bet," he shouted back, attempting to ignore the sour taste of Tom's annoyance. "Can't you just… feel what I'm feeling? Merlin knows we do enough of that already."

Any feelings of exuberance or weightlessness he'd been feeling before began to dissipate, as Harry caught the tail of something hurt and offended. He chased after it, even as he slowed down his high speed flying. "You know I didn't mean it like that, Tom."

"Didn't you?" Tom snapped wearily. "I hate Quidditch. Can't you just understand that?"

Harry sighed, and flew down to the grass of the Quidditch oval where Wood was bellowing at the captain of Slytherin team that had just arrived onto the pitch.

"-This is our practice time!" he shouted. "We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"

"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"

"You've got a new Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps" — he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives — "sweeps the board with them."

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.

"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."

Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.

What's happening?" Ron asked Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?" He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our team."

Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.

"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, "How dare you!", and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" and pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face.

He grabbed Ron's arm and shouted "Stop!" causing an instant silence as everyone stared at him. Surprised by anyone actually listening to his words, he hesitated for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he wondered whether to speak again. Meanwhile, a strange coppery taste had started to seep into Harry's mouth, and his stomach had started cramping with some indefinable feeling that could have been anything from excitement to nerves. Something was up with Tom, and that was all Harry could think of at that moment.

"Stop," he repeated more quietly. "He'll just get you in trouble, you know he will," he said to Ron. Harry looked back at Malfoy coldly then, tried to pretend that Tom was possessing him again so that the words would come out smooth. "Look Malfoy, if you had wanted my autograph you need have only asked. There's no reason you had to join the whole Slytherin team and bribe them so that you didn't have to come alone. I don't bite. I'll sign a bloody autograph if you want."

The words come out tired and irritated, and that was the trick it seemed. It was realistic enough that the entire Slytherin team stared at Malfoy in utter shock. The blonde's pointed face was becoming redder and redder as he blustered in surprise. "What- I do no- what- Potter!"

Practice ended for Harry then, as he didn't stick around to see what Malfoy or Wood would do. He grabbed Hermione's arm and walked off with her, Ron following quickly behind them. The young witch's face had gone a terrible pale white, and her bottom lip was trembling. Harry could see tears beginning to blossom in her eyes. But his stomach was still twisting, and as he patted Hermione's arm whilst leading her back to the common room, he distantly wondered if he'd need to throw up.

Finally, when Hermione had calmed down, after Ron and he had sat her down and brought her tea and biscuits, he asked what 'mudblood' meant.

Ron looked at Hermione's tear stained face gravely. "It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," he said. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents."

Hermione nodded. "I read about it after you mentioned house elves Harry. I was researching old wizarding families."

Ron's nose wrinkled in disgust. "There are some wizards — like Malfoy's family — who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood."

Harry grimaced slightly. He really felt sick. Was it possible to conjure a bucket?

"I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all," Ron continued. "Look at Neville Longbottom — he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

"And they haven't invented a spell Hermione can't do," Harry added, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta. The witch smiled at him and he would've smiled back, but Tom was kicking up a maelstrom. A migraine was beginning to form.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," said Ron, and his pale forehead creased. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out."

It wasn't long after that, that Harry retired to bed complaining of feeling sick. Hermione had apologized profusely, remembering that he hadn't eaten (and tea and biscuits don't count), and had promised to bring him some lunch from the Great Hall. Harry had nodded, hardly hearing her. There were two things on his mind. The first was wondering what was wrong with Tom. The second was a smaller thing, something niggled at the back of his mind, but the more he pressed at it the harder it was to find.

Tom had calmed down after a while, and the headache had disappeared as well as the nausea. But his friend refused to admit to anything, saying simply that he was sorry he'd caused Harry to feel sick. Soon Hermione returned, and passed a plate of food over to Harry, and that was when he realized what the second thing was.

He was wondering why the word 'mudblood' sounded so familiar.

But then Ginny walked in carrying her diary, but it wasn't hers it was Tom's, and Harry forgot that second thing.

"We need to think up a plan to steal it," he repeated again, staring at the journal longingly. His fingers itched to snatch it from her hands.

Tom sighed deeply. "Tonight. We will speak tonight."

For the rest of that Saturday Harry waited in apprehension for the night. He only had a few hours of waiting of course, but it seemed to drag on forever, no matter how he spent the time. That was until he began studying some extension Transfiguration skills with Hermione. She'd since cheered up considerably and was enjoying the study session immensely. Her smile was wide, and as she spoke to Harry (Ron was playing chess with Seamus Finnigan as Dean Thomas watched in the background), her eyes seemed to glitter in excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and soon Harry found himself interested too, despite his simultaneous dread and anticipation for the awaited discussion with Tom.

It was with a start of guilt that Harry realized how much Hermione really appreciated Harry's sudden surge of interest in academia. Ron and he had found her constant obsession with school both annoying and endearing, but they'd failed to realize that no matter their own inclinations, Hermione loved learning. And their constant making fun of this love was probably hurting her. It was made obvious by Hermione's current happiness, her jittery energy as if she wasn't sure how long Harry's interest would last.

She'd probably been very lonely, Harry realized. He promised to himself that he'd spend more time actively studying with in the future. Just for fun, he thought. Just for the sake of learning.

Still, this didn't stop him from almost constantly checking the clock on the wall. He wanted the diary.

"You know," Tom's voice murmured in his ears during a monetary lapse in Hermione's and his discussion. "I should probably tell you now that it's a journal. Not a diary."

Harry released an amused exhale, hoping not to let Hermione misunderstand. They shared a small smile, before the witch went back to her reading. "They're the same thing, Tom."

"No they're not," Tom muttered back. "They're very different things."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Tom."

During dinner that night, Harry ate little and ate fast. He raced back to the dormitory, hoping to beat any of the other Gryffindors.

"So the diary," he mumbled, sinking into the warmth of his bed.

"The journal," Tom corrected.

Harry ignored him. "What do we do about it? You said it's dangerous, but is it actually hurting Ginny?"

"There is a chance she has already been affected," Tom replied. "It will attempt to draw out her power and life force to make itself stronger."

Harry shivered in disgust. "That's…"

Tom's melancholy flowed over him like the warm air of a humid day as you walk outside. "I know Harry. I know."

Harry closed his eyes then, sighing. "Whoever did this to you, Tom… I'm so sorry: they've taken a part of you and mangled it all up, used it to hurt people. And that's not right, Tom. You're not that kind of person." He wasn't prepared for Tom's reaction, which was pained to say the least. A deep stab of something like agony, Harry cringed and had to grab his chest at the sudden pressure. It was just like that morning. And then it disappeared.

"Thank you, Harry," Tom murmured, so quietly it was barely a whisper. "But it means we must be very careful. We cannot let Ginny know we are searching for her diary. It is probably aware of most of her interactions, and you'd be in terrible danger, Harry."

"Alright," Harry nodded. "Is there a spell or something? A potion to make her just give it to me?"

He felt Tom pause to consider the idea. "There is something," his companion said slowly. "Magic might wound up the horc…. Diary. Journal. But a potion perhaps…"

Harry sighed. "I'm pants at potions. Snape's class is proof of that."

"Yes, but the man despises you, Harry," Tom pointed out. "Of course he's going to make it hard for you. There is a potion I believe will work, but you will have to find the recipe and ingredients."

Harry suddenly felt excited. "A trip to the Restricted Section, perhaps?"

Tom's answering laugh made him grin. "Yes. The Befuddlement Potion, it is called if my memory serves me correctly. It is in the book "Mind-Addling Potions: Theory and Applications" by Thelma… I can't remember her last name." Harry did not stop to consider of course what Tom had been doing with a book like that as a student. He only went to get his invisibility cloak. "Well let's get started! There can't be that many Thelmas in the Restricted Section."

Of course, because life tends to make things difficult when people say optimistic things, there were at least ten Thelmas in the Potions shelf of the Restricted Section, and as the books weren't sorted by their name, or the first name of the author either, it took Harry at least forty five minutes to track down the book after finding the Potions shelf.

"In terms of skill," Tom told him, "the Befuddlement Potion is of a fifth grade difficulty. So you are going to have to study up on some higher level potions theory later, so that you don't injure yourself."

"But why is the recipe located in the restricted section if it's only fifth grade?" Harry asked, curiously.

It was a little past curfew now. Harry had conjured a small ball of light to read "Mind Adling Potions" at a desk in the corner, hidden behind a particular thick shelf of books about which the sign near it said 'Permanent Human Transfiguration – Proceed with Care". Tom had advised him not to take the book from the library; who knew what security spells were attached to it?

"Well," said Tom after a short pause. "I think that there was a small incident that banned these kind of potions some time fifty years ago. I don't know much about it, but these students work a lot like the Imperius Curse, even if the Befuddlement Potion is relatively weaker. A student, I don't know who, was using the potions… unwisely. I believe that whomever it was remained a mystery."

Harry didn't question why Tom would know so much about a random book in the library, and bi-century events leading up to its ban. He did question however, the unfamiliar spell. "The Imperius Curse?"

"Ah…" A short pause that was curiously quiet of everything. "It's an Unforgivable Curse," Tom replied, as if this meant anything to Harry. "The least reprehensible of the three, apparently."

"What's an Unforgivable Curse?"

"Three of the most renowned Dark Arts Curses were given the title of the Unforgivable Curses. They'll send a practitioner straight to Askaban, if you're caught. The Imperius Curse in particular makes a person do your bidding. The spell is derived from the Latin verb 'Impero, Imperare, Imperavi, Imperatus" meaning 'to command'. The victim loses any control over their actions, unless they have the mental fortitude to combat it. A little like what the diary is doing to Ginny…"

Another short pause.

"The Cruciatus curse is… well it's used to inflict pain. To torture. And finally, there is the Killing Curse. Avada Kadavra. It kills instantly. Nothing can block it. There have been no known survivors, except of course... "

He didn't need to continue, and a long moment followed in which Harry could feel some deep horror building up inside him, some strange anger that reverberated in his very bones, cursing his blood to rush faster in his veins, and his vision to swim. "How could anyone do that? What would cause a person to want to do that?... That spell… it killed my parents, didn't it? "

His emotional upset was causing the ball of light to flicker and dim, and he forced himself to calm, allowing the ball of light to glow softly and solidly once more. Harry felt Tom's hesitation in his fluttering fingertips.

"I am sorry," he heard finally. The apology caught him by surprise. "For what it's worth I'm sorry, Harry. About your parents, about how you have suffered because of it. If I could change it… I would Harry. I would change it."

The admission made Harry's eyes fill up, but a wonderful warmth was filling up his chest as well. No one had actually ever said this to Harry, you see. Never had anyone actually comforted him, or confronted the reality of Lily and James Potter's demise. It made him want to smile and as much he wanted to cry and rage and slam his fists down on the table enough to bruise them. Most of all however, Harry wished Tom had a body so that he could hug him.

Harry sent a mental hug instead, and was deeply surprised by how upset Tom appeared to be. There was a terrible storm of emotions flying around, and it was horrible to witness. To feel. The thick wall Tom liked to use seemed to be quivering and shaking, and Harry could hear the loud booms of thunder that was all emotion tearing apart Tom's barriers.

"Thank you," he said instead, calming the storm. "Thank you Tom."

Having had enough potions for one night, Harry crept back to his room. There was an utter silence in the darkness, a situation that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Tom's prison, his own prison under the stairs. And then he heard something, something quite apart from the swish of the Invisibility Cloak around him, and his own quiet breathing. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone-marrow, a voice of breath-taking ice cold venom. Harry jumped, before placing his back to the wall of castle corridor, fully alert. His hands trembled.

"It's started," Tom whispered to him, voice grim. "The diary is fully awake now."

"What was that voice?" Harry asked, trembling and oh so terribly cold.

"It was a basilisk," Tom replied, sounded distinctly worried. "Controlled by the diary. It's purpose is the kill every muggle-born in the school."