The Chamber of Secrets section begins! Thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed this story; I hope you're enjoying it, and I love hearing any thoughts you have on it :) (And to my Guest reviewer, I have a response for you at the end of the chapter.)

Anyhoo, on with the story!

Wednesday 12 August, 1992:

Harry exited the shop in which the Floo Network had deposited him and, clutching his broken glasses to his face, stared around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he'd just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads, and two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses on straight and hoping against hope he'd be able to find a way out of there.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn't help, as Harry has never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn't spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys' fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do.

"Not lost are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump.

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry backed away.

"I'm-"

A voice from behind the old witch cut Harry off. "Not really part of the clientele you're looking for, Agnes."

The old witch flinched, and spun around to face whoever had spoken. Harry shifted slightly in order to see who it was. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognised the speaker.

Standing about ten feet behind the old witch, with her head cocked and her arms crossed, was Lena Lestrange. Her long black hair was in a large, messy knot on the top of her head and, to Harry's surprise, she was dressed in very muggle clothing: tight black jeans and a plain white t-shirt, the bottom of which was pulled to the side and tied up, slightly exposing her midriff. She also appeared to be wearing a dark purple-pink lipstick, and what Harry (as a twelve year-old boy not particularly knowledgeable about makeup) guessed was a lot of eyeliner. Harry thought she wouldn't have looked out of place at a rock concert.

But Lestrange's muggle-like appearance did not make the old witch, Agnes, any less cautious of her. "Ah, Miss Lestrange," said the older woman, in the same sort of oily voice Harry had heard Borgin use with Mr Malfoy just a few minutes previously. "How lovely to see you on this fine day!" She began to edge towards Lestrange. "Perhaps I could interest you-"

"I really doubt that you could," interrupted Lestrange in a bored voice. "Now," she jerked her head in the direction behind herself, "off you fuck." She fixed her eyes on Harry.

Instead of appearing offended, Agnes looked between Lestrange and Harry, shrugged, and scuttled off.

Once the old witch was a fair distance away, Lestrange uncrossed her arms, and stretched her right arm out so she was leaning on one of the shop windows. "So, Potter," she began, practically purring, "what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Harry squirmed a little. Lestrange's oddly flirtatious voice made him uncomfortable, partly because she was an older, not entirely unattractive teenage girl and he was a twelve year old boy, but mostly because she was Lestrange.

When Harry didn't immediately answer, Lestrange quirked an eyebrow. "Let me guess – you got out at the wrong fireplace?"

"Yeah," replied Harry, taken aback that Lestrange had known.

She saw his confusion, and snorted in amusement. "Somehow, Potter," she said, starting to walk towards him, "I doubt you'd be moronic enough to venture into Knockturn Alley voluntarily, especially on your own. And," she came to a stop about a metre in front of him, "correct me if I'm wrong, but I can't imagine you've much experience in using the Floo."

"First time," mumbled Harry, feeling oddly flushed. He assumed that Lestrange knew he hadn't been raised in a magical family.

"So there should be somebody waiting for you in Diagon Alley?" asked Lestrange.

Harry just nodded, not bothering anymore to question how she could know – or guess – all these things about him. Clearly, she could figure out things a lot more quickly than most people.

Lestrange eyed him wordlessly for a few seconds, before simply saying, "Well, come along then, Potter." And she walked passed him.

Harry stared at her in confusion.

Without stopping or turning around, Lestrange called out to him, "Unless you want to hang around until somebody else comes along and offers to show you the way back to Diagon Alley – but you'll be waiting for quite a while."

Harry stared at a Lestrange's retreating back for a moment longer. Then he made a quick decision and ran after her.

Catching up with her, he fell into stride with Lestrange, who acknowledged his presence with a mere sidelong glance.

As they made their way through the twisting alleyway, a curious Harry couldn't stop himself from asking, "So what are you doing here, then?"

"I live here," answered Lestrange flatly.

Somehow, this didn't surprise Harry much. Although he would have assumed that she lived in some sort of gothic castle or a creepy old mansion, Knockturn Alley also seemed like an appropriate place of residence for Lestrange.

Then Harry remembered something that had been bugging him for about six months. "Lestrange?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"Why did you tell me about Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone?"

Lestrange glanced down at him. "Well, if I recall correctly, because you asked," she said drily.

"Yes, but-"

Lestrange cut him off. "If there's a particular answer you're looking for, Potter, I suggest you find the right question."

Harry paused, before deciding he might as well be blunt. "Okay. Why did you help me if everybody says... if, like everybody says, you're one of Voldemort's supporters, and you're supposed to hate me?"

Lestrange came to an abrupt stop, and faced Harry. She regarded him with an odd expression. Then she said, "The thing about this everybody, Potter, is that they say a lot of things, but actually know very little." She pointed to her right and Harry, following her finger, realised they'd reached Diagon Alley. He looked back at Lestrange when he heard her sigh. She had closed her eyes and was leaning back against the wall of the alley, smoothing back some loose tendrils of hair. Then she opened her eyes, and fixed Harry with a penetrating stare. "In answer to your question, the reason I helped you that day is the same reason why I showed you the way out of Knockturn Alley today. And also the same reason why I'm about to do this." Without warning, she reached a hand out in front of Harry's face and made a few complex gestures. There was a snapping sound and Harry felt his glasses being repaired in his hands.

Gingerly, he ran his hands along the frames. The glasses were as good as new. "Erm, thanks," he muttered. Then what had just happened properly registered with him, and he gaped at Lestrange. "You can do wandless magic?!"

"Yes," was the only reply.

When Harry realised Lestrange wasn't going to say any more on the subject of wandless magic, he returned to their previous topic. "All right then, what's the reason?"

"Tell you what, Potter," said Lestrange, "I'll give you the answer once you can answer this question for me – would you still be asking me all of this if I wasn't in Slytherin?"

"I-" started Harry, but stopped. He looked up at Lestrange, feeling confused.

Lestrange pushed herself away from the wall. "Take your time, Potter," she said. "You can give me your answer when we get back to Hogwarts. Now," she indicated to Diagon Alley with a jerk of her head, "go find your friends." She began to head back the way they had come, and called over her shoulder, "And do try to stay out of trouble, Potter. After all," she gave him a twisted smile, "if anything happened to you, who else would fight Lord Voldemort to save the rest of us?"

Lestrange turned a corner and disappeared from view, but Harry continued to stare into the alleyway, feeling more confused than ever.

'Of course I wasn't wondering why she'd helped me because she was in Slytherin,' he told himself. 'It's because...' He frowned. Because what? She was the daughter of two of Voldemort's followers? But, he realised, if Lestrange's parents had been imprisoned since the end of the War, she couldn't have seen them since she was five or six years old. For all he knew, whoever had raised her since then might have been completely different to them. And anyway, people could turn out quite differently from their families – his mother and Aunt Petunia were clearly evidence of that.

So then it was because of what everybody had said about her attacking all those other students. But as soon as Harry considered that, he remembered what Lestrange had just said. 'The thing about this everybody, Potter, is that they say a lot of things, but actually know very little.' Pretty much everything that Percy had said to him about Lestrange had technically been a rumour – she'd never been found guilty of anything. 'Maybe that's because she was innocent,' thought Harry.

But the Sorting Hat had put her in Slytherin. And, as Hagrid had told him a year ago when he'd first visited Diagon Alley: 'There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.' Harry couldn't think of a single Slytherin student that he'd met last year that seemed even remotely pleasant.

Except for maybe Lestrange. The first time he'd ever seen her, hadn't she stopped Neville's bag from falling several floors down, and returned it to him? Helping First Year Gryffindors didn't seem like the mark of an evil witch or wizard, yet Lestrange had done it on more than one occasion the previous year.

Harry sighed. All of this was making his head hurt. Noticing that he was getting strange looks from some of the witches and wizards wandering around Diagon Alley, a it occurred to him that he must have a bit shifty loitering around the entrance to Knockturn Alley. So he turned around and started making his way to Flourish and Blotts. He hadn't gone far when he saw the male Weasleys and Hermione standing near the steps of Gringotts, talking frantically.

It was Hermione who spotted him first. "Harry! Harry! Over here!" she called out. Harry jogged over to them.

"Harry," said a breathless-looking Mr Weasley. "We hoped you'd only gone one grate too far..." He mopped his glistening bald patch. "Molly's frantic – she should be coming now."

"Where did you come out?" asked Ron.

"Hi, Hermione," Harry greeted his other friend, who gave him a relieved smiled. He turned back to Ron and said, "Knockturn Alley."

"Brilliant!" said Fred and George together.

"We've never been allowed in," said Ron enviously.

"And with good reason," said Mr Weasley firmly.

Mrs Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other.

"Oh, Harry – oh, my dear – you could have been anywhere–"

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot that Harry had forgot was all over him.

"Knockturn Alley!" she shrieked when told where Harry had been. "Oh goodness, what if you hadn't found your way out?"

Before Harry realised what he was saying, he told the Weasleys and Hermione, "Actually, I didn't find my way out. I had help from-" he stopped himself, now feeling unsure if he should have mentioned it.

The Weasleys and Hermione were all looking at him curiously.

"Help from who?" asked Ron.

Knowing he didn't really have a choice now, Harry hesitantly replied, "Um, Lena Lestrange."

A look of horror crossed Percy's face. "Lestrange?" he said in a strangled voice.

Fred and George exchanged a look with each other, as did Ron and Hermione, and Mr and Mrs Weasley. Ginny just look baffled.

"What was she doing in Knockturn Alley?" demanded Ron.

"She lives there," said Harry.

"How do you know that?" asked George.

"Because she told me," shrugged Harry. He quickly explain what had happened (leaving out his and Lestrange's conversation) to answer the rest of their questions before they were asked.

Afterwards he finished telling them the story, Mr Weasley said, "Well, the main thing is that you're all right, Harry." But Harry saw him exchange another anxious look with Mrs Weasley. For some reason, this slightly irritated Harry, although he couldn't think why.

It was a day full of incidents and weirdness for Harry. But that night, as he lay in his makeshift bed in Ron's room, it was the image of Lena Lestrange in her muggle clothes, disappearing back into Knockturn Alley that he couldn't shift from his head. And it was only then that he remembered something he'd overlooked earlier that day.

Apart from himself and Dumbledore (and on one occasion, Hagrid), Lestrange was the only person he'd ever heard use Voldemort's name.

Lena looked up from the book she was reading as she heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting. She glanced over at the clock that hung on her wall. 11:06pm; Valeriya had arrived home earlier than she had expected.

"There's chicken pie in the kitchen," she called out to her aunt. She heard Valeriya make a noise of acknowledgement, and returned to her reading.

She was lying on her bed in her small bedroom. And it was small – only just large enough to hold a single bed about the same length as her body, a bedside table (which was principally used as Mortimer's space), a small wardrobe, a couple of cardboard boxes, and her trunk. This left only a little less than a square metre of floor space. It was a stark contrast to the spacious dormitory she shared with Maggie at Hogwarts.

The flat she and Valeriya lived in only consisted of two small bedrooms, an even smaller bathroom they shared, a small kitchenette, and the space between these rooms and the front door. It was in a block of identical flats at the end of Knockturn Alley that was mostly inhabited by criminals and other members of the Wizarding world who lived on the fringes of their society. It wasn't a particularly neighbourly place, which suited Lena just fine.

Raising herself slightly off her bed, she twisted her back until she heard a satisfying crack, and settled back down. She was reading a muggle book on political philosophy entitled The Prince, by an Italian muggle named Niccolo Machiavelli who'd lived about five hundred years ago . She had purchased it at a muggle bookshop that afternoon, while visiting muggle-London with Maggie and Rolf. It was the first summer the three of them had actually spent any time together, and Lena had to admit it was a welcome change.

Lena twirled her hair as she read, fully absorbed in the text. So far, Machiavelli had instructed her that 'if an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared'; to 'never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception'; and also that 'since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved'. Machiavelli went into some depth to explain his reasoning for that last piece of advice.

'Love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.'

Lena wondered if Voldemort had read this book.

But when she read 'everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are', her encounter with Potter from that morning immediately filled her mind.

It had been so difficult not to ask him what had happened that night in June when he had faced Quirrell and Voldemort. What had Potter seen? And what did Voldemort say to him? She had spent the last two months in an almost constant state of agitation, desperate to know. But instead, she had shown the lost boy the way out of Knockturn Alley, and not asked him a single thing about that night, even when there had been a natural segue into the subject.

He had surprised her with his frankness. But it was Potter's lack of malice towards her that particularly unnerved Lena. Yes, he didn't exactly trust her – although he had been remarkably quick to follow her that morning – but he seemed to be more curious about why she hadn't displayed any open hatred towards him than having any ill-feeling towards her for her association with Voldemort's followers. It was an unusually mature attitude for a twelve year-old boy to have.

'Then again,' thought Lena gloomily, 'it's not like he knows that the man who murdered his parents used to be my favourite person in the whole world.'

She sighed out loud. Merlin, it had been nice to spend the afternoon with Maggie and Rolf – two of the only people with whom she didn't have ridiculously complicated relationships.

But as she finished the chapter she was reading and closed the book, she remembered that even her friendship with Maggie wasn't as straightforward as she was pretending. Because it was very likely that Maggie was a Muggle-born.

Lena stared up at the ceiling, listening as Valeriya finished her dinner and cleaned up the kitchenette. There was an exchange of "Good nights", and soon their little flat was in complete darkness. But, like almost every night of Lena's life, sleep didn't come easily. Tonight, it was the last part of her conversation that day with Potter that kept her wide awake.

The moment Potter had been Sorted into Gryffindor, he had become Public Enemy No. 1 for the Slytherin students, and it appeared to be quite a mutual loathing. So Lena guessed that when whoever it was filled him in on all the rumours about her, and who her parents were, he'd probably been more than happy to assume the worst of a Slytherin. And if Lena was being completely honest with herself, that was pretty understandable.

Before she had arrived at Hogwarts, Lena had assumed that she would be Sorted into Slytherin. But she would be lying if she said she hadn't entertained the notion of being placed in a different house. She couldn't really imagine herself in Hufflepuff – and, she recalled, neither had the Sorting Hat. However, she thought Ravenclaw could have been a natural fit; she was more than eager in her pursuit of knowledge. But Gryffindor had been the most intriguing prospect for Lena. After all, she was no coward. And coming into Hogwarts with that already attached reputation that made people constantly compare her with her parents – surely being a Gryffindor would have indicated that she was very, very different to them.

But Lena was ambitious. And cunning. And when she'd been Sorted into Slytherin, she could remember thinking about how proud Voldemort would have been of her, and how disappointed he would have been if she hadn't. For although back then her feelings towards her former teacher were becoming more complicated and painful, she never stopped trying to impress the memory of him.

Friday 29 August, 1980:

"Sir?"

"What is it, Lena?"

She bit her lip, and gazed up at her teacher, who was watching her with his red eyes. He was the only person Lena had ever seen with red eyes. She often wondered whether he had been born with them, or if they had changed over time. If so, why? Had it been deliberate?

"Lena?"

She started, and realised she'd been staring into his eyes. She blushed when she saw the trace of a smirk on his face, embarrassed he'd noticed. She didn't want him to think she liked him like that!

She cleared her throat, remembering her original question. "I was just wondering, sir, is it right that Hogwarts starts again soon?"

"The new school year begins next week," confirmed Voldemort. "Why do you ask?"

Lena shrugged.

Voldemort tilted his head, and smiled wryly. "Wishing you could go, too?" He touched his chest in a gesture of mock-offense. "Not proving a satisfactory teacher, am I?"

"No!" answered Lena immediately, a little more vehemently than she'd intended. She blushed again when Voldemort chuckled at her passionate response. She tried again. "I mean, yes, you're a satisfactory teacher." Worried that this sounded insolent, she quickly added, "More than satisfactory."

Voldemort continued to smile at her, clearly amused. "I am glad to hear that. So if that's the case, why the sudden interest in Hogwarts?"

Lena looked down at her lap, and started playing with her hair. "Will I still go when I'm eleven?"

He nodded. "That would be my intention for you."

Looking back up at him with a furrowed brow, Lena asked, "But would there be any point? Aren't I going to be really ahead of everyone else because of our lessons?"

"I imagine you will have advanced significantly further than any of your fellow students, yes. However, I still wish for you to attend."

"But can't I just keep having lessons with you?" said Lena, her eyes giving away the pleading nature of her request.

There was a hint of smugness in Voldemort's smile. If Lena had been older, she would have realised that Voldemort was flattered by her desire to remain with him.

"Because, Lena," he explained, "Hogwarts is an important part of our Wizarding culture." He paused, as if considering whether to say anything else. Finally, he added, "And it is an important part of my heritage."

Lena's eyes widened slightly at this. As far as she knew, Voldemort didn't have any family, which was something that, for some explicable reason, pleased Lena. Furthermore, he'd never told Lena anything about where he came from.

"What do you mean?" questioned Lena, curiosity almost bursting out of her.

Voldemort smiled indulgently at his young pupil. "Well, Hogwarts was founded by four witches and wizards over a thousand years ago. One of those wizards was named Salazar Slytherin. He is my ancestor."

"Wow," said Lena, impressed. "How do you know that?"

"Salazar was a Parselmouth," he told her, "as am I. It is an ability which is passed down from generation to generation."

It was an unfamiliar term to Lena. "What's a Parselmouth?"

"Somebody who can talk to and understand snakes."

Now Lena was even more impressed. "You can talk to snakes?" she whispered, awed.

He chuckled. "Indeed I can."

Lena bit her lip, and edged slightly closer to her teacher. "Could I... could I hear you do it?"

Voldemort eyed her with an odd expression, but then smiled again, and pulled out his wand. He pointed it over towards the bedroom door. "Serpentsortia," he incanted.

There was a white light, and a long black snake shot out of his wand. Lena had never seen a real live snake before, and instinctively shrunk back as it turned to look at her, opening its mouth and revealing its fangs. But before it began to slither its way over to her, Voldemort made a strange hissing noise, and the snake faced him. It hissed back, and Voldemort said something else to it. Then he held out his hand, and the snake slowly slithered towards him.

Voldemort glanced at the still frightened Lena. "It's all right," he murmured to her. "It won't hurt you. I won't let it."

The snake reached him, and he picked it up. It began to coil itself around his arms. He hissed something else to it, and the snake turned to Lena. It stared at her for a few seconds, before responding to Voldemort.

"Here," he said softly to Lena, holding the snake out to her. "You can touch it."

Lena looked at her teacher anxiously, but he gave her a reassuring smile. Hesitantly, she reached her small hand out, took a deep breath, and lightly stroked the snake's back.

"It's smooth," she mumbled. The snake turned its head back to watch her, which worried Lena. But when she realised it wasn't going to attack, she continued to slowly pet the snake, unaware of the pleased expression with which Voldemort was watching her.

"Could I learn it?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Learn what?"

"How to speak Parselmouth," said Lena.

"Parseltongue," he automatically corrected her.

"What?"

"Parseltongue is the language. A Parselmouth is someone who speaks it," he explained gently. "And no, you can't learn it. You're either born with the ability or not."

Lena looked up at him, a pout on her lips. "That's stupid," she complained. "And unfair."

Voldemort made an odd noise, and Lena realised he was trying to hold back laughter.

"That's just how it is," he told her, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I'm sorry."

The four year-old glared at him, still pouting. "No you're not. You like that you can do something other people can't do."

He attempted to hold her gaze, but finally a smirk broke free, and he shrugged. "All right, I'm not really sorry," he conceded. "But there are plenty of other things I can teach you, Lena."

"Like what?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Have you ever heard of Occlumency?"

Lena opened her eyes, tearing herself away from the memory. Merlin, she hadn't just been a precocious child, but an impudent one too. Looking back, she was surprised with how much cheek Voldemort had let her get away with.

'He must have really liked me,' thought Lena, then instantly regretted it, because all those sorts of thoughts did were make her compare her relationship with Voldemort back then to the previous school year.

When he hadn't even bothered to let her know that he was there the whole fucking time, the bastard.

Lena groaned. It was pathetic, really, the way she had been thinking the past two months.

'No,' she told herself. 'Not pathetic. Sick. Twisted.' What sort of decent human being would whine about the fact that an evil, psychopathic mass murderer wasn't paying her enough attention?

In the dark, Lena smiled humourlessly. 'That's an easy one,' she answered her own question. 'A decent human being wouldn't.'

Hopefully, Chapter 11 will be another quick update :)

To my Guest reviewer: I'm glad you liked the previous chapter's title; I do try to always give my chapter names meaning, and a relevancy to the entire chapter.

Regard what you said about Percy & Crouch - correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe there's a part in GoF where, after learning about Barty Crouch Jr. from Sirius, the trio speculate about whether Percy knows this, and Ron suggests that even if Percy did, he might respect Crouch Sr. more for sentencing his own son to Azkaban, which works as a sort of foreshadow to the breakdown in relationship between Percy and his family in OotP.

And what you said about parents trying to keep information about the War away from their children - most of the kids who play a significant role in the series weren't any older than three or four by the end of the War. I suspect that kids who were older (say 9 to 11, like the oldest students when Lena began at Hogwarts would have been back then) would have been reasonably aware of what was going on, even if their parents were trying to shelter them - kids that age can be a lot more perceptive than adults give them credit for.

But thank you for the other lovely things you said; I hope you enjoyed this chapter too :)