Sitra Ahra

by Voice of the Nephilim

On the night of Halloween 1981, Harry Potter vanished for eight years, reappearing at a Muggle orphanage with no recollection of his past. The deck stacked heavily against him, Harry arrives at Hogwarts, his past the key to the present’s brewing storm.

26. 23rd Movement: Crystal Shards

Sitra Ahra

Twenty-Third Movement: Crystal Shards

January 3, 1993

A dark expression of annoyance upon his face, Harry Potter made his way down the Hogwarts' Express corridor. With both hands he dragged his trunk, wondering if perhaps this year, he and the Flamels should have arrived later.

In light of the swarm of negative media attention he'd received this year, Perenelle suggested that he not use any magic until he got to Hogwarts, especially early in the day. With only a few students at King Crossing, it could be easy to pin an underage magical usage violation on him.

Probably the last thing he needed on top of everything else.

With a heavy pant, he dug in his feet, flung an angry glare at his trunk, and closed the final few yards to the rear compartment. Pushing the bulky trunk through the doorway, he paused for a moment to catch his breath.

Pathetic. Was he the only guy in his year that couldn't even move his own trunk? All the other kids in his year seemed to get bigger, but not him. Well, at least he didn't have to depend on his size in a fight.

Thank you magical world.

Bending down, he lifted up his trunk. His muscles straining against the weight, he attempted to push the cursed trunk onto the storage rack, but couldn't reach high enough to push it over the lip.

Bloody hell.

Rising up on his toes, he heard the compartment door open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Millicent enter.

"Hi," he grunted, the bulk of his concentration still on the trunk.

"Having trouble?" she asked lightly.

Harry chose to ignore her, straining upwards against the trunk. Only a few more inches…

Without warning, the weight of the trunk disappeared. Glancing to his right, he saw Millicent, towering above him, casually place the trunk onto the storage rack.

"I almost had it!" he exclaimed.

Millicent appraised him with a single raised eyebrow, before letting out a mocking laugh.

"Yeah, you were doing great."

"Okay, maybe I was having a little trouble," Harry admitted with a grin. "I owe you one."

"Maybe you can do one of my Potions essays this term?" she suggested coyly.

"How could I say no?" he asked, easily agreeing to the request. Millicent had never made any secret of her dislike for the subject, or the countless essays the Snape assigned.

"Awesome," she replied with a wide smile. "You know, you look really good."

"Uh, thanks."

"I don't mean it like that," she quickly clarified, her face growing red. "Well, I do, but that's not what I…bollocks."

"No, I understand," he assured, not wanting to embarrass Millicent any further. "Being miles from Hogwarts, away from the Gryffindors…it was great. I haven't felt this good in a while."

"Well, it's nice to see you actually doing well," she declared, the blush in her cheeks fading.

"Was I that bad last term?"

She nodded, her dark, lank hair bouncing slightly.

"When things get that bad, it's kinda hard to hide it."

"I did try," he admitted.

"I know, and if we didn't see you everyday, then maybe you could have fooled us. But…"

She trailed off, shrugging her massive shoulders. For a moment, she looked like she had more to add, but the compartment door swung open, attracting both their attentions.

Neville entered through the door, dragging his trunk behind him.

"Hey guys," he greeted, before stowing his own trunk. Harry couldn't help but notice that Neville didn't seem to have any trouble getting it up on the racks. Maybe it really was just him.

For a few minutes, they exchanged Christmas stories. Harry talked of his blissfully quiet winter break in France, while Neville talked of entertaining his entire family at the Longbottom Manor, and Millicent told them about going to Ireland to see her mother's side of the family.

Before long, the door opened again, admitting a bickering Hermione and Tracey.

"Picking up where you left off last term?" Harry asked.

"Gran always says consistency is important," Neville added.

Unsurprisingly, both comments were ignored. With a huff, Hermione sat down, arms crossed, next to Millicent, who was clearly trying not to laugh.

Tracey, acting as though nothing was wrong, sat down between Harry and Neville, across the compartment from her academic rival.

"I just had a wonderful conversation about the positive aspects of the Dark Arts," Tracey declared, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Can you actually stop, and listen to yourself for a moment?" Hermione asked shrilly, her tone incredulous. "Rationalizing the Dark Arts is what begins to corrupt people!"

To Harry's surprise, Millicent's rebuttal was the quickest.

"Am I too evil to be around, then?"

Thrown off balance, Hermione stuttered for a moment.

"Perhaps," Millicent said forcefully, "you should have put a little more thought into things."

"But You-Know-Who st-"

"Who cares?" the large girl demanded, throwing her hands up in the air. "My Dark, supposedly 'evil' family supported Dumbledore financially during the War, and gave him information on Death Eaters."

Hermione took a moment to inhale deeply, restoring some of her composure.

"I'm not insulting your family," she carefully clarified, "but why then does Hogwarts refuse to teach the Dark Arts? It's dangerous, Millie. Just look at some of the stuff in the Restricted Section. If a first-year ran across some of those books, they could easily hurt themselves, not to mention other people."

"And you don't think having a professor teach the subject would help?" Millicent asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Think about it," Tracey added, stepping in. "If a student had someone teach them proper usage of Dark spells, trained them, would it be as dangerous?"

"Of course not," Millicent answered. "Instead of being forced to mess around with books stolen from the Restricted Section, they'd be able to learn the safe way."

"I think Dumbledore's doing the right thing," Neville said quietly, throwing his two cents into the discussion.

"Big surprise there," Millicent replied with a small laugh.

"Well, think about," he urged, leaning forward, his expression earnest. "If someone used Dark magic at an early age, they'd have trouble using Light magic later in their lives."

"So it's okay to teach Light magic here, but not Dark?" Tracey haughtily asked.

"Well, it is Dumbledore running the school," Harry pointed out. "You know, the most powerful Light wizard in the world?"

His comment drew a chuckle from the assembled group, save for Tracey, who threw a lackluster glare in his direction.

"Anyway, that's not true," Neville pointed out, "I've talked to my Gran about this. There's no Light magic in the school's curriculum."

"Bullshit," Tracey quickly replied, shaking her head.

"Definitely bullshit," Millicent agreed. "I mean…it's Dumbledore."

"Am I the only one here who's read 'Hogwarts: A History'?" Hermione loudly exclaimed.

"Obviously," Tracey answered, drawing a laugh from the group.

"Apparently," Hermione said with a sniff, barely concealing her grin. "While it's true that Dumbledore isn't a fan of Dark magic, ever since he started at Hogwarts, his teaching methods have remained the same. He believes that a decision about one's magical usage should only be made after a lot of experience working with magic. He only teaches neutral magic here, so that people can leave Hogwarts with the freedom to make their own decision."

Harry had read it all before, but was surprised that neither of his Slytherin counterparts had.

"Did you hear that?" Tracey asked to Millicent, shaking her head mournfully. "We have to wait until after Hogwarts until we become evil, Dark witches."

And with that, the semester was off to its normal pace. Sitting there, laughing with his closest friends, despite the many trouble that lay ahead at Hogwarts, he thought that maybe this term things would be different.

Better, even.

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Mechanically, Harry quickly shoveled kippers and eggs into his mouth, tasting nothing. Though the fare was up to Hogwarts' high standards, his mind was elsewhere. Breakfast could have been gruel, and he would have had no complaint.

Though winter break had been peaceful, a time to let the burdens of fall term hall away, his thoughts had occasionally strayed to Dean Thomas, the sole member of Ron Weasley's little clique that seemed to have any sense of logic.

Hopefully the tall Gryffindor would actually show up today. To date, he'd been extremely careful about hiding their meetings. If Dean sensed anything was wrong, he'd cancel without hesitation.

Not what Harry was looking for today.

Shoving a half-full plate to the center of the table, he took one final swig of pumpkin juice, before swiftly rising and heading to the Great Hall's exit. There were only a few other students around, all of which were recent arrivals, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

Exiting the Great Hall, he made his way towards the main staircase. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two familiar figures exit from the dungeons. Stopping, he turned and addressed them.

"Good morning," he greeted, grinning at their state.

Tracey's normally flawless blonde hair was frizzy and sleep-mussed, sticking up in every direction. Millicent, her eyes still more asleep than awake, swayed from side to side.

"We're going with you," Tracey declared, her voice far clearer than her appearance would indicate.

"No, I have to do this alone."

Millicent shook her head in response.

"That's not smart," she pointed out blearily.

"I can trust Dean."

"Can you?" Tracey contested, her eyes narrowed. "After all, he did say they were going to raid the Slytherin dorms. Did we miss that or something?"

"Dean wasn't lying," Harry insisted. "Something must have come up."

"Or," Millicent countered, "The Gryffindors knew you'd think it was a trap, and did nothing."

"What are you talking about? That doesn't make any sense!"

Tracey shook her head.

"Yes it does. Maybe you're just not seeing the entire picture, and this is all part of their plan."

"What plan?"

"To get you to trust one of them!" Tracey exclaimed, as if it was obvious. "The Gryffindors have been threatening you all year! What if this is it? To get you alone, and attack you."

Harry remained silent following Tracey's claim. Sure, maybe it was possible…but wasn't it a bit of a stretch?

"I don't know," he said heavily, running a hand down the side of his face. "You weren't there. The fear, the uncertainty I saw in Dean's eyes…it wasn't an act. He really did want to warn me of something."

Looking at his two friend, Harry saw only doubt in their eyes, causing frustration to bloom forth.

"Really," Tracey began, her tone weary, "How well do you really know Dean?"

"It doesn't matter," Harry snapped back irritably. "I heard the truth in his voice."

Tracey's eyes narrowed further for a moment, before returning to normal as her lips drew back slightly, revealing a cruel smile.

"Fine, go ahead. I'm sure Flint will completely understand when I tell him you're meeting with a Gryffindor without any support."

"You wouldn't!" Harry exclaimed angrily.

"Watch me," she replied coldly, before turning swiftly. Her blonde, frizzed hair whipped about her as she rushed in the opposite direction, back towards the Slytherin dormitories.

"Come on!" Harry urged, throwing his arms in the air, but she didn't even slow. "I don't believe this."

"We're only trying to help you," Millicent quietly pointed out. "Going up there without any support is stupid, Harry."

"Fine!" he snapped loudly. Halfway down the steps, Tracey froze at his words, mid-step.

"You can come with me," he conceded, "but you're waiting outside the room, just like you did at the Owlery."

"Not good enough," Tracey said, dismissing his compromise.

"Yes it is," Millicent said loudly, causing Tracey to turn, a look of annoyance on her face.

"I thought we agreed on this."

"Yeah, we both think we're right, but that doesn't mean we are. He at least deserves the chance to find out either way. If it goes wrong, at least we can help him."

Tracey didn't look happy with her friend's argument, but nonetheless came back up the stairs, joining them at the foot of the stairs.

"Anything else?" Harry spat angrily, stung by his friends' betrayal. How could they threaten to go behind his back like that?

At their lack of reply, he turned his back and stomped up the stairs. Harry seethed in silence, wishing he'd gone to breakfast even earlier. A difference of a minute, and he might have made a clean getaway.

"I know you're pissed now," Millicent acknowledged, breaking their heavy silence, "but after all that's happened this year, we…well, you shouldn't be trusting anyone in Ron's circle."

"Unless Harry's just looking for an excuse to try out some of Yaxley's curses without any witnesses," Tracey offered.

Harry ignored her comment, instead addressing Millicent.

"You know, I get it, why you'd think that, but you weren't there, didn't hear his words."

Millicent shrugged as they reached their destination, clearly unconvinced.

"Is this it?" she asked, pointing at the statue, which Harry confirmed with a nod. If the scale was accurate, Gregory the Smarmy had been an extremely fat wizard, covered in thick robes that must have comprised a square mile of fabric. His bald pate shone in the torchlight, contrasting with thick, bushy eyebrows.

Directly across from the statue was an open door, leading to an unused classroom.

"I've got it from here," he declared, turning his attention towards the doorway.

"We'll be here waiting," Millicent said softly, while Tracey merely kept her eyes on the ground, her expression sour. Swallowing his pride, Harry thanked them quickly, before turning and entering through the doorway, closing the door behind him.

Dust covered the floor and sparse furnishings of the room, which was clearly outside the responsibility of the house-elves. At the far end of the room, staring out at the grey infinity of the winter landscape, Dean Thomas stood.

"Thanks for coming," Harry said, relieved that Dean actually was able to show up this time.

Hands clasped behind his back, Dean remained silent, merely continuing to stare out the window. Unease beginning to creep in, Harry moved closer, reaching his right hand into his robe, keeping his wand at the ready.

"What's wrong?"

"I…I'm not feeling that great," Dean wearily replied, sounding completely drained.

"Why's that?" Harry asked, moving closer. Dean turned at his question, right hand drawn backwards. Before Harry could react, his fist pistoned forward, launching into Harry's midsection. The blow from the punch knocked the breath from his lungs, sending him crumpling to the floor.

"You see," said Dean, "all this 'being nice to you' stuff, its been making me sick."

Reaching into his robes, the large boy drew his wand, pointing it at Harry.

"Expelliarmus!"

Gasping for air, Harry scuttled backwards, the spell impacting harmlessly against the floor.

"Petrificus totalus!"

Hearing the incantation from behind him, Harry tried to roll out of the way, but the spell clipped his arm. At once, he lost control of his body as it stiffened out, straight as a board. Laid out flat upon the cold floor, helpless, worry began to settle in. Where the fuck were Tracey and Millicent?

"Like we'd let anyone interrupt this," a familiar voice to his right snorted. Moments later, Cormac McLaggen came into view, viewing his prone form with clear distaste. With a sneer, he bent down, ripping Harry's book-bag from his shoulder. Dean did the same with his wand, before eyeing the holly speculatively.

"Should we snap it?"

Cormac let out a cruel bray of laughter as he dumped the contents of Harry's book-bag onto the floor.

"We should, but it will have to wait."

"Fine," Dean conceded with a shrug. "Can I at least throw it out the window?"

"Sure, why not?"

Frozen, Harry could only watch in horror as Dean went over to the window, opening it to the frigid air outside, letting in stray snowflakes. Carelessly, he tossed the wand out the window.

"I wouldn't worry too much about the wand," Dean mentioned casually. "I'm sure you'll find it eventually."

"Can't say the same thing about your books, though," Cormac said, before bringing his wand downward.

"Incendio!"

A thin tongue of flame leapt from his wand, contacting Harry's possessions. The fire tore through his books hungrily, engulfing them within seconds. Anger began to course through Harry's veins as the two Gryffindors began to laugh manically.

His books, half a year's worth of notes, quills, parchment and ink, all gone.

He desperately tried to fight against the binding curse, but still was unable to move even an inch, enraging him further. If he had his wand, he'd be more than willing to show them some of Regina's nastier teachings.

"Look at the bright side," Dean said breathlessly, wiping at his eyes. "We could have done a lot worse."

"And believe us, we will," Cormac continued, "that is, unless you leave Hogwarts by the end of the moth."

With that, they stepped out of his vision. He heard the slam of a door closing, probably the closet that Cormac had come from. Concentrating fiercely, he tried to mentally flex against the magical bonds holding him down, but got nowhere. Where the fuck were his friends?

As if on cue, Tracey entered the room, wand held aloft. She quickly undid the body-bind, while Millicent worked on extinguishing the flames.

Free, Harry jumped to his feet, and ran towards the closet. Throwing wide the doors, he beheld an empty closet. Footprints peppered the floor, but gave no indication as to where the two Gryffindors had gone.

"Where the bloody hell did they go?" he demanded angrily, kicking the wall.

"We never saw them," Tracey quickly replied, glancing around the closet. "Are there any secret passages that connect to this room?"

"I don't know!" Harry snapped back angrily. "Where the hell were you two?"

"You're the one who closed the door behind you," Tracey snapped back, her eyes narrowed.

Throwing a sharp glance at her friend, Millicent turned back to Harry.

"Look, we're sorry," Millicent said "The room must have been silenced earlier; we didn't hear anything from outside."

Nearly shaking with anger, Harry punched the wall in frustration, before storming back into the middle of the room, and looking down.

All his books, their margins overflowing with his personal notes and discoveries, were nothing but ash. His other possessions were all in similar shape.

"Fuck!" Harry screamed, kicking the pile of smoldering ashes. Turning, he stormed back towards the hallway.

"Where are you going?" Millicent asked quietly.

"Those Gryffindor wankers threw fucking my wand out the window!" he replied heatedly, drawing a wince from both of the girls.

"We'll help you look for it," Millicent offered, joining him.

"What's the point?" Harry snapped heatedly. "No point in you two being late for class too."

Tracey shook her head.

"If we all search, we'll find it more quickly."

Gritting his teeth, he looked past his two friends, to the large window. Flurries of snow swirled across the backdrop of the steel-grey sky, reducing visibility down to almost nothing, while the howling wind rattled the windowpanes.

Searching for his wand, in that, all by himself?

That would have sucked slightly more than his current situation did.

"Thanks, guys," he replied, swallowing down the anger welling within him. Without further comment, they walked away from the classroom.

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Shivering deeply, fingers and face numb from the cold, Harry stumbled towards the Defense classroom. The hour spent blindly fumbling through the snow had taken the edge off his temper, calming the desire to find both of the Gryffindors and practice some of his nastier Dark curses on them.

If not for Tracey, they might have still been out there, but luckily, she had found it. Soaked to the core, all he wanted to do was slip in discreetly, sit at the back of the room and plot some sort of way of getting back at Cormac and Dean.

Fate, as it often did, had other plans.

"Harry!" Lockhart exclaimed upon his entry. "The day I reveal the truth about Salazar Slytherin's monster, you decide to be late! Very bad form, Harry."

Using the distraction to their advantage, Tracey and Millicent slipped in unnoticed, taking seats at the back of the classroom. Resisting the urge to take Daphne's copy of 'Magical Me' off her desk and put it through Lockhart's blindingly white teeth, he turned his attention back to the professor, forcing a plastic smile back onto his face.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I couldn't find my wand."

Lockhart let out a hearty chuckle at his less-than-sincere apology.

"Well, be sure to hold onto your wand from now on, alright? Especially with Slytherin's monster running amok. Why, do you think that I could have vanquished the Bandon Banshee without my wand?"

"Probably not," Harry lamely answered, biting back what he really wanted to say. Taking a seat at the front of the class, he considered how odd it was that Cornish Pixies were more difficult for Lockhart to handle than a banshee.

"Now," Lockhart began, clapping his hands together, "I don't want to alarm the lot of you too much, but it is now clear what's been attacking students. You see, I didn't realize it at first, but I've seen the creature before."

Harry let out an exaggerated sigh, not bothering to smother it. If Dumbledore hadn't already seen it, there was almost no way Lockhart had.

Either oblivious to his reaction, or choosing not to notice it, Lockhart continued, lowering his voice an octave.

"On a trip to an island off the southern shore of Greece, I came across an isolated village where people were being turned into stone. Investigating into the matter, I discovered that one of the most vile Dark creatures in the world had been awakened."

"What was it?" Blaise asked, leaning forward.

"A Medusa," whispered Lockhart, gravely.

For a moment, Harry could only stare in shock, before letting out a snort of laughter. He tried to cover it with a cough, but it was a case of too little, too late. His reaction drew a glare of annoyance from Lockhart.

"A what?" Daphne asked, clearly confused.

"A Medusa," Lockhart began to explain, "is a creature that is half snake, half human. Its hair is made of snakes, and its gaze turns the unsuspecting into stone."

Harry's mouth dropped open in disbelief. Who the hell did this guy think he was? There was definitely no such thing as a Medusa.

"I've never heard of those," commented Daphne.

"Very few of them remain," Lockhart replied. "Salazer Slytherin captured one of the final remaining Medusas, and set it to guard his hidden Chamber."

"If you know what it is, why haven't you caught it yet?" Tracey asked, her tone incredulous. Clearly, Harry wasn't the only one having trouble swallowing Lockhart's story.

Lockhart shook his head, his expression somber.

"Sadly, the creature rarely leaves the Chamber, which I have yet to locate. However, the clues are starting to add up, and it's only a matter of time until I find the entrance."

First the Gryffindors burn his stuff and throw his wand out the window, and now he has to listen to this idiot try to give people a false sense of security?

No way.

Harry immediately raised his hand high.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Well, sir, I read somewhere that Medusa is just an imaginary creature from a muggle story.

Lockhart shook his head lightly.

"The Medusa is just as real as you or me, Harry, and far more dangerous."

"More dangerous that Cornish pixies?" Harry asked innocently, drawing a chuckle from the rest of the class.

Lockhart's expression grew annoyed for a moment, before his wide smile returned, albeit looking a bit false.

"One of the reasons a Medusa is so dangerous," Lockhart explained, ignoring Harry's last words, "is because only a Parselmouth can speak to them. You don't happen to know any of those, do you, Harry?"

Harry remained silent, not rising to Lockhart's bait. Instead, he merely met Lockhart's gaze, unblinkingly.

You want a war, Gilderoy?

You fucking got one.

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"Are you really sure you want to do this?" Neville asked, searching his friend's face for reassurance.

"I am," answered Harry with complete confidence. "He sucks as a teacher, he tried to use to save his career, and now he's trying to threaten me."

Neville was silent for a moment, taking the opportunity to pull his crimson and gold scarf tighter. Cold and drafty during normal winter days, the halls of Hogwarts became positively frigid at night.

"What if he's just trying to scare you?" Neville asked, his adjustments complete.

"I don't think so. Every single thing Lockhart's done, or, well, says he's done; he's sold for a book."

"Well, yeah, we know he's making most of it up, but what would he want with you? I he's probably figured out you're not going to help his career."

"Not willingly," Harry pointed out as they approached the ornate oak doors.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it: We already know that Lockhart's career is in trouble, why else would he take the job here?"

Neville nodded, urging him to continue.

"Well, most of the school thinks I'm evil, not to mention the Prophet has been slandering me all year. If Lockhart is desperate enough, I think he might try to frame me for the attacks."

Neville's eyes widened in shock for a moment, before he shook his head.

"No, no way, Harry. I don't believe a professor would do that?"

"Why not?" Harry challenged. "We already know there's no way he could have done most of the things in his books. No, if he could get away with it, he'd frame me for the attacks and then write a book about how he saved Hogwarts from the Heir of Slytherin."

Neville, looking unconvinced, opened his mouth to retort, but the opening of the office door distracted him.

"What are you two waiting for?" Algernon Longbottom demanded, arms outstretched. "Come in, come in, it's freezing out here."

Without waiting for an answer, he ushered them inside, closing the door behind him. A large fire crackled within the fireplace on the far wall, throwing flickering light across the office. Warmth immediately spread across Harry's skin, expelling the castle's chill.

Where Algernon's desk had formerly resided, now sat three crimson stuffed chairs, placed upon a plush carpet.

"I think you'll fine this arrangement far more comfortable than the usual setup," Algernon explained, guiding them over to the chairs.

Harry nodded in agreement as he fell gracelessly into the chair. It was just as comfortable as it looked, more so than any of the chairs in the Slytherin Common Room. Settling into the chair, he soaked up the warm of the flames, feeling the final shackles of the cold fall away.

Neville let out a loud sigh of contentment, drawing a chuckle from his great-uncle.

"It would appear my hypothesis was indeed correct."

"It really was," Harry agreed. "Thanks."

Algernon casually waved his hand.

"It takes little effort to make someone more welcome. In fact, before I forget, can I offer either of you two a butterbeer?"

"Really?" Neville asked excitedly, his eyes wide.

"Certainly," Algernon agreed, stroking his thick beard. "That is," he continued, in a conspiratal whisper, "providing you don't tell my sister about it."

Not needing any further encouragement, Neville nodded enthusiastically.

"Harry?"

"Oh…uh, yes, please, sir," Harry replied quickly.

"Now, none of that!" Algernon crankily corrected, reaching into a cabinet behind him. "I already feel ancient enough," he grumbled, withdrawing two mugs, and handing one to each to the boys, filled to the brim with the frothy liquid. "Algernon will be quite alright."

Harry nodded, thanking him for the butterbeer.

"You are welcome," the older man replied, before withdrawing his wand and waving it over the mugs. At once, the mug became warm beneath his hands, and steam began to waft off its surface.

"Much better," better he said, going back to the cabinet. He with drew a glass decanter filled with amber liquid, pouring himself a generous amount. Taking a small drink, he smacked his lips.

"Horace may have his faults, but taste was never one of them," the older man said, almost to himself, before shaking his head slightly, refocusing on his two guests. "You don't need my permission, go ahead, drink up."

"Well, if you insist," Harry replied with a grin, bringing the mug to his lips and drinking deeply.

The warm liquid expelled every remnant of chill from his body, leaving behind a pleasant warmth that stretched all the way from his toes all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Not bad, eh Neville?" Algernon asked with a knowing, slightly mischievous grin.

"Definitely not," he agreed.

"I thought you might like it," his uncle replied, settling his considerable bulk into the armchair. "I wish I could have slipped you some before this, but it's dreadfully difficult to get away with anything under Augusta's nose."

"It was worth the wait."

Algernon chuckled slightly.

"I'm sure it was. Not to rush you two, but we've a fair bit to discuss, and I've no wish to keep you out past curfew. I believe you wanted to speak to me about Gilderoy Lockhart?"

"We were wondering if you had found out anything about him," Harry replied, leaning forward.

"I've found out a great deal," Algernon answered, resting his hands upon his large stomach, "but the information is of a very sensitive nature. Can I trust the both of you to keep these matters to yourselves?"

Harry and Neville both answered in the affirmative.

"Are you sure?" Algernon challenged, leaning forward, fixing his gaze upon Harry. "If what Neville tells me is true, the conflict between you and Professor Lockhart has become rather personal in nature. I absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, have you revealing any of what we know. Tipping our hand at this juncture could potentially prove disastrous."

"Why? Does he have a lot of friends at the Ministry?"

Algernon shook his head.

"It's an odd situation, to be sure, especially considering that Lockhart made a lot of enemies during his rise to fame. One would think that friends would be in short supply…"

Trailing off, Algernon took another drink. Placing his glass back down, he continued.

"However, he would appear to have at least two friends with a connection to the Board of Governors, since all inquiries into sealed Hogwarts' records have been blocked."

"So the Board is protecting him?" Harry asked.

"It could be only one person," Algernon admitted, "but they'd have to possess considerable influence to get others to go along with it, and of the few governors capable of such pull, I can't think of a single reason why any of them would do so. Well, actually, I know why she…never mind," he said, shaking his head. "The important thing is that building an official case is going to be difficult without access to the records."

"Why do we need the records?" Neville asked.

"We need the records to prove what we already know," Algernon answered.

"That Lockhart isn't qualified to teach flobberworms?" Harry offered.

"Correct."

"We knew that after five minutes," Harry muttered, drawing a chuckle from Algernon.

"You don't know how right you are. I've a friend on the Ministy's examination Board, who spoke to me off the record. He complained that Lockhart was one of the worst students that he tested, completely inept with a wand."

"How many OWLs did he get?"

Algernon's smile grew wide at Harry's question, but he remained silent.

"Wait, did he get any?" Harry asked, his eyes widening.

"He had to have," Neville stated, before glancing at his great-uncle. "Right?"

"One would certainly think so, wouldn't they? However, this particular examiner was fairly certain that Lockhart was one of the only Hogwarts students to ever achieve the feat of not receiving a single OWL."

"How is this idiot teaching here?" Harry exclaimed.

"A fair question, since according to the Ministry's standards, a NEWT is required in a given subject to be able to teach it. Whoever is helping Lockhart pulled a lot of strings to get him hired."

"And that same person is protecting him," Harry said with a groan. How were they ever going to get rid of him if he was protected?

"Indeed, it is a problem," Algernon agreed. "Since the records are sealed, we can't use them to build a case against him."

Harry signed dejectedly.

"So we can't do anything?"

Algernon shook his head.

"We can, but we have to build the case in a different way."

"How?" asked Neville.

"Well, it took a great deal of searching, but I finally found her."

"Katelyn Wellington?" Harry asked hopefully.

Algernon inclined his head slightly.

"Indeed. She was a former classmate of Lockhart, a Hufflepuff one year behind him."

"Why was she so hard to find?" Harry asked. "I mean, there had to be someone here that remembered her, right? Friends that stayed in touch with her after Hogwarts."

Algernon shook his head, adopting an expression of solemnity.

"Katelyn was a muggleborn, and as such, had no pre-existing ties to our world. She was a quiet, promising student, who tragically never finished her fifth year of Hogwarts."

"W-what happened?" Neville asked apprehensively, prompting a heavy sigh from Algernon.

"For the past fifteen years, Katelyn has been at a kind of muggle hospital, which made her difficult to track. She hasn't moved, spoken, or had any other reaction to anything since arriving."

The room went silent for a short time following Algernon's words. Harry couldn't help but wonder what he had stumbled onto. How bad was this guy?

"What did Lockhart do to her?" Harry quietly asked.

Algernon shook his head.

"There's no record of him doing anything to her. From what I've been able to find, she was found up on the Astronomy Tower, sitting against the wall, unmoving. I'm sure St. Mungo's did their own investigations, but I haven't been able to gain access to the files yet."

"Just like them," Neville whispered. Turning to appraise his friend, Harry saw that his friend was unnaturally pale, and that his eyes had taken a pained expression.

"Neville, what's wrong?"

Algernon, confusion etched upon his face, studied his great grand-nephew for a moment, before freezing. After a moment's time, comprehension dawned, prompting Algernon to promptly rise to his feet.

"Neville, I'm so sorry, I…shite, Harry, would you excuse the both of us for a moment?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Harry answered, slightly confused by his friend's reaction. "I'll just wait outside, okay?"

Neville shook his head slightly.

"Look, Harry…I'll just see you tomorrow."

"Um, are you sure?"

Algernon shifted his eyes to the door for a moment, before bringing them back to Harry.

"Go on ahead," he urged, "we just have to talk about a few things."

"Okay, well…thanks for seeing us both."

"You're very welcome, Harry. If I find out anything new, I'll let you know."

With that, Harry took leave of them room, closing the door behind him, his mind racing. Despite all the information that had just been dumped upon him, one question attracted the bulk of his intellect.

What had upset Neville so badly?

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Walking quickly down the freezing, deserted halls of Hogwarts by night, his breath bringing forth plumes of vapor, it was not only Neville's reaction that bothered him, but Algernon's.

What was one to make of the Hogwarts Governor's reaction? There had been equal parts knowing and confusion in the elderly man's face. It was almost like…had Algernon expected him to know what was going on?

Thrusting his hands beneath his armpits to dredge up the last of the office's remaining warmth, Harry concluded that Algernon was making false assumptions. He had no idea why the story of Katelyn Wellington had upset Neville so much. Yeah, it was sad, but Neville's reaction had reached beyond that. It was almost like -

"…so…hungry…"

"Oh shite," Harry whispered to himself, all thoughts of cold forgotten. The voice was faint, far away from the dungeons. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs.

Neville!

Pivoting sharply, Harry turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, his trainers slapping loudly against the flagged stone. Sucking in mouthfuls of cold air, he sprinted up the stairs leading to the dungeon.

Whatever this thing was, he wasn't going to let it take his friend.

"…kill…time to kill…"

The phantom voice growing slightly louder, Harry burst out from the dungeon entrance. Hitting the stairs in the main entryway, he shot up the stairs, taking them four at a time, praying that Neville was still in his great-uncle's office.

"…so close…"

"No!" Harry yelled, taking a right at the top of the stairs. Rushing down the hallway, he stopped down the hall from the Ethics classroom. Reaching into the illusionary wall, he pulled back the lever, revealing the secret passage connecting to the East Corridor. He jumped through the newly revealed passage, withdrawing his wand. With a quick, gasped incantation, the tip lit, pushing back the darkness.

Taking a right, he sprinted down the narrow corridor, his shoulders scraping against the walls. Coming up to a 'T' intersection, he planted his right foot, to swing a left. As he did, his foot squished down on something, causing his foot to slide. Bereft of traction, he tumbled into the wall, hitting it shoulder first, sending a flare of pain through his right side.

"Fuck!" he yelled, before shaking his head slightly. Ignoring the pain, he took off running again, treading more carefully. Large spiders dotted the dusty floor, eight legs scrambling against the stone.

Harry didn't know, nor care, why the spiders had chosen this particular hallway for a convention, only that they were in his way.

"…I smell blood!"

Cursing, he picked up the pace. The splat of bursting spider bodies met his ears as he trampled through the arachnids.

Reaching the end of the hall, he lowered his shoulder, bursting through the purple and gold tapestry that hid the secret passage from the East Corridor side. Taking a quick right, he resumed his sprint, his lungs burning.

Up ahead the curved, ornate mirror loomed. Slowing slightly to take the corner, Harry gazed deep into the mirror's depth. At once, he slowed to a stop, the breath pushed from his lungs.

He was too late.

Two months ago, in nearly the exact same spot, Harry, Tracey and Millicent had stopped Cormac McLaggen from picking on two first-year Slytherins.

Now, face-up, his mouth frozen in a scream, his large, wiry body stiff, Cormac lay.

Though the large Gryffindor's fate was certainly a tragedy, he couldn't help but feel a small bit of relief that it wasn't Neville lying there on the floor.

More disturbing to him, however, was the sliver of satisfaction he felt, that if being petrified were to happen to anyone, he was glad it had happened to this idiot. That he had actually…well, deserved it.

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His head down, Harry paced the Headmaster's Office ceaselessly, unable to stand still. Upon informing Dumbledore of yet another attack, he had immediately risen from his desk, imploring Harry to stay put.

As instructed, he had remained in the office; his only company the constantly hissing, thrumming and whirring objects of unknown design which cluttered the shelves. The portraits had woken upon his arrival, but had retreated to slumber as soon as the Headmaster had departed.

With no one to speak to, his thoughts had turned inward, towards the future. Though innocent of Cormac's petrifaction, it was no secret that he and the Gryffindor were enemies. During dinner a few hour earlier, the main topic of discussion ringing through the Great Hall had been Cormac and Dean's actions. By dinner's end, much to his annoyance, nearly everyone had heard the story. How was the attack on Cormac not going to look like revenge to the rest of the school? And how bad would the backlash be once classes resumed tomorrow?

That was, assuming they even allowed him to stay here.

Harry shook his head at the invasive thought. Stupid. Even if he was the Dark wizard the majority of the school though him to be, magic of this type was certainly beyond his skills. They would have to see that it would have been impossible to achieve.

Right?

No longer certain, he was spared further introspection by the grinding of the spiral staircase.

"I didn't do it!" Harry blurted out, more loudly than intended.

Dumbledore, looking as if he had undertaken nothing more taxing that a stroll in the park, appraised him through his half-moon spectacles.

"I agree completely. Please," he urged, motioning towards a chair opposite his desk with a gnarled hand, "have a seat, Harry."

Feeling slightly relieved by Dumbledore's serene, relaxed disposition, Harry took a seat.

"Can I interest you in a lemon drop?" the Headmaster asked, holding out a bowl filled with the yellow hard candy. Taking one with a word of thanks, Harry popped one into his mouth, savoring the lemon sweet. Dumbledore took one for himself, before sitting down and regarding Harry with an unreadable gaze.

"While I believe you had nothing to do with Mister McLaggen's unfortunate state," he began, "that is now two times that you have found a petrified student, which strongly suggests that mere coincidence can be eliminated as a possibility."

Harry winced internally at Dumbledore's implied question, as it dug closer to a truth he'd rather not disclose. He had no doubt that the voice he heard was real, but the fact that no one else could hear them was…concerning, to say the least. It seemed that he was connected to them somehow, which was frankly really fucking scary.

"Please understand," Dumbledore continued, well aware of Harry's reticence, "my only interest in this matter is preventing harm from befalling any more of my students."

Harry nodded slightly at the unspoken agreement. Taking a deep breath, he decided to trust the Headmaster.

"A voice always leads me there," he said quietly, eyes downcast. "A voice…only I can hear."

Dumbledore inclined his head a fraction of an inch, but otherwise gave no other indication that he found Harry's words strange.

"What do they say?"

"Well…it's…it talks about being hungry, hunting, smelling blood…it's not human."

"What leads you to that conclusion?" Dumbledore asked, raising his eyebrows.

"It…it doesn't talk like a person," Harry said, struggling to find the right words. "It's only simple words…like if a shark could talk, it's what it would sound like."

"That is indeed interesting," commented Dumbledore, but the Headmaster had no further insight to add. After a few lengthy moments of silence, Harry hesitantly broached one of his wilder fears.

"There's a lot of rumors going around the school about the Heir of Slytherin."

"Indeed there are," the Headmaster agreed, inclining his head, "and sad to say, precious few are based in reality."

"Yeah, I guess so, but…is there any chance that I am?"

For a fraction of a second, Dumbledore's bright blue eyes widened, before he shook his head authoritively.

"Absolutely not, Harry."

"How can we be sure?" he asked insistently, leaning forward in the chair. "I already know I'm a Parselmouth, the last once since Voldemort. What if it's like last year, and parts of my memory are being erased?"

"Harry…" the Headmaster began sadly, letting out a deep sigh, "I have supreme confidence in the quality of your character, and have no reason to suspect either you, or your unique talent are culpable in these matters."

"But how would you know?" demanded Harry loudly.

"There is a historical precedence at hand," Dumbledore explained, his voice grave.

"Fifty years ago?"

Dumbledore nodded in confirmation.

"Following several petrifications, a young girl tragically lost her life."

"Did you ever find out who opened the Chamber of Secrets?"

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair slightly, steepling his fingers, considering Harry's question.

"Officially," Dumbledore finally answered, "a well-respected Prefect discovered that another student had been keeping a dangerous pet, which was blamed for the attacks. The student was subsequently expelled, his wand snapped, and the attacks seemed to stop."

"Unofficially?"

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh.

"The Prefect who was honored for stopping the attacks was none other than Tom Riddle."

"Voldemort!" Harry exclaimed.

"Correct. I had always had my reasons for mistrusting young Tom Riddle, but the Headmaster at the time, along with most of my colleagues, were entranced with the promising young student, who most thought would eventually become the next Minister of Magic. I strongly believe that Riddle did truly discover the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, and unleashed the horror within described by legend."

"Have you tried to find the entrance?"

"I have," Dumbledore admitted, inclining his head slightly, "but success has eluded me. Whichever means it is hidden by, they remain outside my grasp."

"But…" Harry began, his voice uncertain, "Riddle would have been…sixteen, right?"

The Headmaster nodded a single time.

"Young Tom Riddle was an unnaturally intelligent, gifted wizard. I suspect that even by the age of thirteen, he had begun trafficking in obscure branches of the Dark Arts."

"So," concluded Harry, "he's probably the only one who could open the Chamber, right?"

Dumbledore regarded Harry silently for a moment.

"Several of the other professors and I updated the Hogwarts wards this summer," Dumbledore carefully explained. "The vast amount of dark magic contained within Voldemort's wraith form would be unable to pass through the wards."

"Well, then what opened the Chamber?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Dumbledore answered, his tone grave.

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Having finished the day's reading, Harry closed the history book with a yawn. Before anyone would even let him do anything magical, Callie and Corwin had said he needed to learn all about magic.

Magical Theory. The Standard Book of Spells Grade One. Herbs and Magical Fungi. A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.

Sure, it was fun and all to read about magic, but when was he actually going to be able to perform some? Crowley had said he'd already be working on it by now!

Pouting slightly, Harry wandered downstairs to see if supper was ready. Tonight was Wednesday, so that meant…Corwin was cooking! He was the best!

Rushing down the steps, Harry turned the corner and went into the kitchen. Corwin, a knife held in his hand, was quickly slicing something up on the counter, out of Harry's sight.

"What's for dinner?"

"Good afternoon, Harry," Corwin greeted with a kind smile, putting down the knife. "How go your studies?"

"Boring," he replied, rolling his eyes.

"Boring? So you find magic boring? My, then we better not teach you any!"

"No!" Harry whined, stomping his right foot down. "I just don't want to read anymore."

Corwin let out a small chuckle.

"I know, it can get boring, but it's something we all have to do. One shouldn't begin to use magic unless they understand it…"

Corwin trailed off, before staring out into space, looking at nothing.

"No, it can't be," he whispered, before slumping against the counter.

"What's wrong?"

"Harry, I need you to get Crowley," Corwin gasped from between teeth gritted tightly together, the veins on his forehead and neck bulging.

"Wh-wh-what's wr-"

"Get Crowley!" Corwin screamed, slumping to the floor. Panic beginning to take over, Harry fled from the kitchen, and sprinted up the stairs. He took a right at the end of the stairs, and fled to the end of the hall.

"Crowley!" Harry screamed, hitting the door as hard as he could, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. He had to help Corwin!

Almost immediately, the door was ripped open, revealing Crowley. Candlelight flickered behind him, reflecting off of his bald pate.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know!" Harry wailed. "H-h-he w-was in the k-kitchen-"

Without preamble, Crowley fled down the hall, slamming his fist into several doors as he passed. He disappeared down the stairs as Callie, Sylvia and Richard emerged from their respective rooms, looking confused as he did.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Sylvia asked concernedly.

"I-I-I-I," Harry tried to explain, but was overcome by tears. Sylvia immediately scooped him up into her arms, and followed the other two people down the stairs.

"It's okay, Harry," Sylvia assured, running a hand through his hair as she descended the stairs. "I'm sure that…"

Her words died as she reached the first floor and turned the corner.

Crowley was knelt upon the white tile of the kitchen, flecks of red covering his clothes. Before him, flopping on the floor like a fish out of water was Corwin. His white shirt was stained with bright red, providing a stark contrast. Slashes crisscrossed his face and upper body. One eye rolled in its socket, while the other lay deflating upon his cheek, connected via a cord of red gristle.

"Callie, get over here!" Crowley loudly ordered, causing the woman to rush over to Crowley's side. As she arrived, the flesh on Corwin's upper arm began to peel back on its own accord, spilling even more blood onto the floor.

"We can't let it through!" Callie screamed, drawing forth her wand.

"Corwin?" Harry whispered, barely able to comprehend what was going on.

"What the fuck are you doing, Sylvia?" Richard yelled. "Get him out of here!"

At once, Sylvia obeyed, taking a wailing Harry back up the stairs.

He never saw Corwin again.

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January 29, 1993

Streaking through the air, cold biting at his face, Harry pushed the front of his broom downward, slipping him under the incoming projectile. Seeing movement to his right peripheral, he leaned hard to the right, allowing the second bludger to fly straight past him.

"Thirty seconds, Potter!"

Ignoring the yell, Harry righted himself, rocketing forward. Throwing his body to the right, he rode the broom sideways for a moment, letting the bludger fly past him. Stretching out with his fingertips, he grabbed the dark blue flag hanging off the uppermost of the three hoops, before holding it over his head as a simultaneous show of triumph and surrender.

"Great fuckin' work Potter!" Flint roared, flying and giving him a hearty slap on the back, which was nearly enough to dislodge Harry from the broom. Unconcerned with the force of his blow, Flint turned to the rest of the team below.

The rest of the Slytherin team formed two opposing lines, facing one another, a formation which Flint had dubbed the 'Corridor of Death'. Harry wasn't exactly thrilled with the Slytherin Captain's newest training brainstorm, but did have to admit the constant threat of death was a great motivational tactic.

"That's what I want to see!" Flint declared. "Six fuckin' people, and we still couldn't knock that little runt out of the sky."

"Close thing though," Harry muttered to himself, causing Flint to let out a bray of rough laughter.

"We've got the best Seeker in this soddin' school, and ye Beaters are hittin' the bludger like ye mean it. Even you, Bole, ye limp-wristed poof."

The team let out a chorus of laughter, while Bole stayed silent, a large, shit-eating grin upon his face. Bole probably wasn't too happy with being singled out, but the last time he had questioned Flint, it had ended with him unconscious under a cold shower.

"We're lookin' real good this year," Flint continued, eyeing each and every member of the team. "We should have won it last year, but this year it's ours for the taking. I promise you, those librarian cunts in Ravenclaw don't stand a chance against us if we play our game.

Flint continued in the same manner for a few more minutes, before mercifully dismissing them, allowing them to hit the showers. Rushing out of the bitter cold, Harry found solace beneath hot streams of water, inducing a mild form of euphoria as the bone-deep chill began to depart.

After spending what seemed like hours in the shower, he quickly dried himself off and dressed, before making his way back towards the Slytherin Common Room. Though it some ways it was rather inconvenient to have a Quidditch Captain who insisted upon long practices five days a week after dinner, it did have the added benefit of keeping him busy, out of sight.

Following the discovery of Cormac's petrified body the school's general hostility had reached unparalleled heights. Aside from most of the Gryffindors, the Hufflepuffs and even some of the Ravenclaws had begun to shun him. While generally too fearful to attempt any sort of reprisal, lively conversations turned to silence when he passed by, to be replaced by hushed whispers. Even Dumbledore's assurances regarding his culpability did nothing to improve his standing.

Instead of trying to fight it, he just went with it. People this stupid just weren't worth arguing with. For nearly a month, he had merely kept his head down, mingling only with his small circle of friends. It was a more solitary existence that what he was used to, but at least it kept him from running afoul with the more hostile of the Gryffindors.

Granted, if asked, Flint probably would have attacked every single one of them for even thinking about attacking his Seeker. While tempted, Harry had opted not to send Flint after them.

Turning the corner, Harry stopped in his tracks. Stretching across the hall, in a long line, were five members of his least favorite House.

"Looks like we've found ourselves a lost snake," Seamus Finnegan taunted.

"Not really," Harry replied with a dismissive shrug. "After all, didn't you know the Slytherin dorms were in the dungeons?"

"Well, yeah, but…" Seamus began to sputter, before Dean cut him off.

"All by his lonesome, too," the large, dark-skinned boy said, drawing himself up to his full height.

Harry, giving no clue as to his unease, snorted with disdain.

"You lot think you'd really have a chance against me?" he asked incredulously, glancing down the line.

"Why not?" Parvati asked, withdrawing her wand.

"Yeah," Lavander echoed, drawing her own. "After all, we've got you outnumbered."

"Please," Harry replied, waving his wand dismissively. "Unless you, Parvati and Seamus' pathetic attempts in class these past two years have been a ploy, I don't think any of you could give me any trouble."

"Yes we could!" a small, blonde boy squeaked insistently, prompting Harry to snort laughter.

"Colin, why don't you go back to your dorms before you hurt yourself?" he suggested, while discreetly moving his hand towards his wand. If any of them decided to cast, he needed to be quick with a shield charm.

"Oh, no one has to get hurt here today," Dean said calmly. "We're just here to ask you a question."

"Well, I'm all ears."

"Well, it's been almost a month since you lost all your schoolbooks," Seamus said mildly, a cruel smile on his face. "We were wondering if you remembered the promise we gave you."

At mention of the incident, Harry's smile grew forced. Dean's betrayal, and subsequent destruction of his school materials, still raised his ire whenever mentioned.

Harry crossed his arms, resting his chin in his left hand for a moment, as if in deep thought. After a moment, he shrugged.

"You know, I just can't remember what it was. Maybe if you brought Cormac down, I could ask him what he wanted."

The effect was instantaneous. All of the Gryffindors save Dean all immediately lost their cool, and began to shout at him, all while raising their wands.

"No!" Dean ordered, quickly moving in front of them, arms raised wide. "All we're supposed to do is ask-"

Harry, wasting no time, withdrew his wand and thrust it forward.

"Slugulus eructo!"

His back turned, the green spell struck Dean in the back of his head. Before the light had even faded, the large Gryffindor had folded at the waist, retching violently.

"Dean!" Seamus yelled, bringing his own wand up. Harry, anticipating Seamus' reaction, slashed his own wand forward.

"Expelliarmus!"

The crimson spell impacted the sandy-haired Gryffindor before he could cast, blowing him backwards. Harry neatly caught the ash wand with his left hand and pointed it forward, focusing the tips of both wands at the remaining three Gryffindors.

"Any one else want to try to threaten me?" Harry asked harshly, his voice hard. Colin and Parvati immediately pointed the shaking tips of their wands downward, eyes downcast. Lavender threw her head from side to side, seeing her classmates' reaction. Cursing to herself, she followed their example.

"Much better," Harry said.

"You won't get away with this, Potter!" Seamus shouted while struggling to his feet.

"Finnegan, if you don't shut up, you're going to find out what the Dark Arts are truly capable of."

Hearing the truth in the words, Seamus closed his mouth mid-retort. In a way, it was almost disappointing. He almost wanted to demonstrate to the idiotic Gryffindor exactly what Regina had been teaching him.

Hearing a splat to his right, Harry saw a large, repulsive slug burst upon the ground. Dean, having since fallen to his knees, found his winter robes splattered with sickly green slug innards. The boy's large, watery eyes, mired in humiliation, glared at him for a moment, before bending over to vomit forth another slug.

"Please don't kill us!" Colin begged, clasping his hands in front of us.

"I'm not going to kill you," Harry spat back disgustedly, "but I am completely fucking sick of you lot. I've tried talking with you, reasoning with you, but apparently you're all too stupid to reason with. So, I'm going to make it real simple for you: You stay away from me, you'll be fine. You bother me, I hurt you. Understood?"

The remaining Gryffindors stayed silent, their gazes glued to the floor. Out of patience, Harry raised his wand towards the ceiling, letting out a whisper.

"Sonitus."

At his words, a loud gunshot rang out from his wand. All of the Gryffindors jumped in place, while Colin let out a shriek of terror.

"I asked you a question."

At once, the three Gryffindors nodded quickly. Harry wasn't pleased with their response, but didn't find it worth the effort to extract a 'yes' from them.

"Good," Harry said, before motioning towards the exit to the dungeons. "Now get out of my sight."

At once the Gryffindors fled, tails between their legs, each throwing back one final glance of hatred before disappearing from sight. Dean, slime smeared down the front of his robes, all dignity torn to shreds, was the last to leave.

"Dean!" Harry shouted, before the boy could leave the hallway. Almost reluctantly, the Gryffindor turned, his features contorted in discomfort.

"You can tell Ron he should do his own dirty-work next time. His henchmen aren't really up to snuff. Oh, and, I'm not fucking going anywhere. You can tell him that too."

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'How hard would it be to actually heat these halls?' Harry thought to himself, blowing out an icy plume of breath. From November to early March, just the simple act of switching classes could become an exercise in endurance, let alone trudging from the pitch all the way to the dungeons.

Being the final practice before tomorrow's match with Ravenclaw, Flint had drove them hard, despite bitter cold and scattered flurries, deep into the night. Unbelievingly, the clock on the wall of the locker room had read half-past eight before he had left it.

Marcus Flint was not a believer in giving his players a day off before a match.

Hoping to get at least some sleep before tomorrow's game, he descended a flight of stairs, bringing him face-to-face with two familiar faces.

"Good evening, my Lord," Fred Weasley said, bowing slightly.

"Ah, our esteemed Heir of Slytherin! How goes it on this fine night?" George asked.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked warily. The twins had never really given him a problem, but save for his closest friends, he had developed a healthy mistrust of anyone from Gryffindor.

"What?" Fred asked innocently, beginning to whistle.

"Indeed," George added, adopting a bemused expression. "Is it not a fine night for a leisurely stroll about these frigid dungeons?"

Slightly mollified, Harry let out a small chuckle.

"No, you're right, great night for a walk. What can I do for you two gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen? Clearly this child has heard nothing of our conquests, Fred."

"Sadly, it would appear so. Perhaps this is a sign that we should step up our game a little?"

"Unquestionably. Anyway, Harrry, we couldn't help but overhear what happened last night between you and a few of our more brain-cell challenged brethren."

Harry shrugged unconcernedly.

"It was self-defense."

"They won't see it that way though," Fred pointed out.

"I couldn't care less. I've already talked to you two about it. Your brother still has Gryffindor convinced I'm the Heir of Slytherin, they're still going after me, and I'm getting really sick of it all. I'm through taking any of their shite."

Both twins stayed silent as his voice rose gradually over the course of the rant, letting him have his say. Following it, George let out a heavy sigh.

"I told you it would come to this a few months ago," Harry continued.

"Yeah, we noticed," Fred snapped back, clearly frustrated. "It's not like we haven't tried to stop it."

"Stop what?" Harry asked incredulously. "It's your brother that's causing all of this! Stop him and it ends!"

"Ron won't stop," George admitted, his voice low. "It's turned into a crusade."

"At least he says it is," Fred countered, drawing a dark look from his twin.

"What do you know?" Harry asked, staring at Fred, who let out a deep sigh.

"Nothing about this makes any sense. Ron, he's…he's not our brother anymore. He's passed the point of reason."

"He's been through a lot," George hesitantly pointed out.

"That doesn't explain it," Fred insisted, shaking his head. "No one, absolutely no one would continue to blame Harry for all these things. It's like there's something deeper going on here. The speeches, the charisma, the disappearances…George, how in the bloody hell do you explain those?"

"Wait, what disappearances?" Harry asked.

"Never mind," George shot back. "The real reason we wanted to talk to you is that soon, in the first week of February, the date to their ultimatum is going to strike. We don't know if it will be that day, but they are going to make a move."

Harry shook his head.

"They know what will happen if they try to ambush me again."

"They mean business, Harry. Whatever it is, it's going to be well-planned."

"Then why not go straight to McGonagall?" Harry asked, beginning to get frustrated. "She is your Head of House, right?"

The twins exchanged glances, something unsaid passing between the two.

"Harry," began George slowly, "look at it from the outside. Aside from a few slip-ups early in the year, they haven't actually done anything wrong, or been caught. Anything we can say, they can deny."

"And have," Fred added darkly. "I hate to say this, but you're on your own on this one. If we find anything, we'll let you know, but…just keep your eyes open, okay?"

"Oh, I plan on it," Harry replied coldly.

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The match against Ravenclaw turned out to be one of the most unpleasant of Harry's fledgling quidditch career. Played in white-out conditions, complemented by hurricane-force winds, it was not exactly the ideal conditions for a match. The crowd, possessed of anti-Slytherin sentiment, was all but taken out of the game by the howling wind. Even Lee Jordan struggled to make himself heard.

With the high-velocity winds affecting quaffle movement, it became a defensive struggle, points few and far between. Only Harry's lucky catch of the snitch forty-five minutes into match saved them all from severe frostbite.

Following his nearly numb body being nearly carried all the way to the Slytherin dorms for a raucous celebration of victory, Harry had managed to slip away to the showers, spending a good hour under the hot streams of water.

Thankfully, Sunday was much more peaceful, allowing Harry and his friends to spend some quiet downtime in the library.

"I still can't believe they held the match in that type of weather," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"Wizards are crazy about the sport," Tracey said with a shrug. "At least they stop football matches if there's lightning.

"It just seems like such a stupid reason to risk the health of students," Hermione said, blowing a wisp of hair away from her face.

Tracey shook her head.

"Not to them, at least not with their medical skills. They can fix broken bones in days, and have potions for everything. Maybe they think there's no risk."

"Of course there's a risk! If someone falls from their broom and breaks their neck, what good is magic doing to do them?"

"That's probably why everyone has to take flying lessons," Harry added. "Anyway, there's always professors at matches. If someone fell from their broom, I'm pretty sure that Dumbledore would be able to save them."

"Well…yes, I suppose so," Hermione conceded as she let out a shiver, before drawing her scarf more tightly around her.

"Wonder if Yaxley has any of that butterbeer left?" Millicent wondered aloud, fondly recalling the previous night's celebration.

"Wait, the Prefects allowed you to have it too?" Hermione asked, her tone scandalized.

"Yeah, it's just butterbeer," Millicent replied with a shrug. "It's not like we were doing shots of firewhiskey."

"That's what the Gryffindor prefects said."

"But Gryffindor didn't even play yesterday," Harry pointed out, leaning forward.

Hermione shook her head.

"They took Slytherin's victory yesterday like a Gryffindor loss. These used the butterbeer to 'cheer themselves up', or at least that's the excuse they used."

"So how'd you like it?" Tracey asked with a grin.

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Please, that'd be terribly irresponsible of me."

"Did they even offer you one?" Millicent asked, prompting Hermione to frown slightly.

"Neville and myself aren't exactly popular in Gryffindor. Even though Fred and George did go out of their way to offer us some, it wouldn't have been fun for Neville to drink it with the other Gryffindors."

"Did the twins provide the butterbeer?"

Hermione shrugged.

"Probably. By the time we got back to Gryffindor Tower, most of the bottles had already been passed around."

"You know," Tracey said, leaning back in her chair, "I'm not sure that butterbeer even really has any alcohol in it. I've heard some of the third-years buying it at Hogsmeade without a problem."

"Butter-beer," Hermione replied, putting the emphasis on the last word.

"Well, maybe butterbeer came first," Tracey argued. "What if muggle beer was the closest a squib could come to copying butterbeer?"

"If that's true, they didn't really come close," Harry said with a grin, prompting a laugh from his friends.

Before the laughter had trickled away, the library door was thrown wide open. A harried-looking Neville rushed through, approaching their corner-table at a run.

"What's wrong?" Millicent asked.

"T-they took…Hagrid," Neville wheezed out, clearly out of breath.

"What happened?" Hermione demanded.

Slowly regaining his breath, Neville pulled out a chair from the table and sat down heavily.

"I just heard it from Uncle Algie. The Hit-Wizards came last night, and arrested Hagrid. They think he had something to do with the attacks!"

"That's ridiculous!" Hermione declared, drawing a harsh glare from Madam Pince. "How could they suspect Hagrid?" she continued, lowering her voice.

"I don't know," Neville answered, shaking her head. "All my uncle would say is that he was their only suspect, and the Minister was being pressured into doing something."

"Why would they think it's Hagrid, though?"

"You do know that the Ministry doesn't like giants, right?" Millicent asked.

Tracey shook her head, for once in agreement with Hermione.

"Doesn't matter, though. The type of magic being used to petrify people…well, it's really Dark stuff. Even if the Ministry is prejudiced against giants, there's no way they'd be able to prove Hagrid was using Dark magic."

"It's pure laziness," Harry spat. "They're just going after someone they can easily pin the blame on."

"What do you mean?" Tracey asked, turning towards him.

Sighing, Harry began to relay the details of his conversation with Dumbledore to an enrapt audience, although only after promising to keep the details to themselves. While he didn't want to break his word to the Headmaster, he felt it far more important that they be informed of what was going on.

Upon finishing, his friends sat around in stunned silence, with Hermione being the first to break it.

"Does Dumbledore now think that Filch was the real first victim?"

Harry nodded.

"I think he does, but…why was Filch killed, and the students petrified?"

"It doesn't make sense," Tracey agreed, shaking her head. "When the mandrakes are ready, the students will be able to name who attacked them. Why kill Filch, but not them?"

At once, Hermione reached into her book bag, and withdrew an empty sheaf of parchment. Looking down, she directly her quill into a inkwell, before looking back up at Harry.

"We've got to prove that Hagrid is innocent. Harry, tell me every detail you remember from following the voice."

With a slight nod, Harry sat back, and began to go through each episode in his head, analyzing and dredging up every detail he could.

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February 4, 1993

One month to the day removed from Dean and Cormac's ultimatum, Harry emerged from the second-year boys' room to find Millicent and Tracey waiting for him, ready to go.

"I guess I'm going to have an escort today," Harry said lightly, a small smile stretching across his lips.

"Indeed," Tracey replied, "whether you like it or not."

Harry held out his hands in front of him.

"Believe me, I'm grateful. Who knows what stupid idea the Gryffindors have in mind for today? Really, thanks a lot guys."

"You're welcome," Millicent said with a fond grin, clearly relieved Harry wasn't going to fight her on the subject. With that, they descended down to breakfast.

Though on the surface things appeared to be normal, there was an undercurrent of tension beneath even the mundane act of breakfast. Conversation was stilted, while all laughter seemed strained, even forced.

Halfway through breakfast, without preamble, Flint shouldered aside Blaise, and sat next to Harry, slapping a piece of parchment down on the table.

"Your class schedule, Potter. Write it down."

"What for?" Harry asked, picking up the quill.

Flint let out a snort of disdain.

"Ye fuckin' daft, Potter? Ye think I'm lettin' ye walk 'round with eh target on ye back?"

"Oh," Harry replied, reddening slightly. "What's your plan?"

"After ever class, ye make damn sure yer the last person out. I'll 'ave someone from our House outside. They'll follow ye to yer next class, make sure none of them Gryffindor twats fuck with ye."

"Oh, uh…thanks," Harry said, quickly writing down his class schedule.

"Don't mention it," Flint carelessly replied, before taking back the bit of parchment and making his way back towards the other end of the table.

"Can you imagine what he'd do to anyone who tried to attack you in front of him?" Millicent asked, shaking her head.

Tracey let out a small laugh.

"You know, I almost hope one of them does. It'd be great to see Flint dismember them."

Chuckling, Harry couldn't help but agree with Tracey's assessment.

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Though the school day was admittedly tense, leading up to his final class of the day, Defense Against the Dark Arts, the most threatening encounter he'd had were the countless glares of dislike he received.

As promised, he noticed an older Slytherin shadowing him between every class, their eyes ever watchful. Peter Yaxley, who followed him to the Defense classroom, gave him a curt nod before turning in the other direction, and disappearing into the crowd.

Taking a seat at the back of the classroom, Defense Against the Dark Arts began. To Harry's surprise, Lockhart had slightly dark circles beneath his eyes. His normally pristine blonde hair was slightly frizzed, as if Lockhart hadn't given his appearance the normally high level of attention it received. It was subtle, but it suggested that perhaps Lockhart hadn't the time to devote to his looks, or that he wasn't sleeping.

Perhaps even both.

"Good afternoon, class," Lockhart began, his tone far less boisterous than normal, his having lost some of its luster, giving it a forced edge.

"What's wrong with him?" Tracey whispered, to which Harry could only shrug.

"Today, as I'm feeling a bit under the weather, I want you to read silently for the rest of class."

"Uh, which book?" Daphne asked, raising her hand.

Surprisingly, Lockhart looked as if he was at a loss for words, as if completely blindsided by the question.

"Gadding with Ghouls, I suppose," Lockhart finally said, before sitting at his desk, and beginning to shuffle through papers.

Slightly unsettled by Lockhart's behavior, Harry withdrew his new copy of Gadding with Ghouls, and began to write wand movements down in the margins, steadfastly refusing to fill his mind with Lockhart's writings.

Tracey merely placed her Potions book inside Lockhart's, while Millicent merely doodled on the inside margins, occasionally flipping the page.

Over the course of the class, Harry occasionally glanced upwards from his text, watching Lockhart. While Lockhart was making a good show of it, he was slowly but surely shuffling through the same papers over and over, as opposed to finishing correcting the current stack and moving on.

What was Lockhart playing at?

After about an hour, twenty minutes shy of the scheduled end of class, Lockhart rose from his desk.

"That will be all for today, class."

Without further adieu, Lockhart practically fled the class, retreating back up the steps which led to his office.

"That's it?" Blaise asked incredulously, looking around at his classmates. Nott shrugged, before rising and leaving the room with comment.

"Well, I'm sure if you asked nicely, he'd still be willing to give you an autograph," Daphne deadpanned.

"I think I'm all set," Blaise said, getting up from his seat. "Don't know about you guys, but if Lockhart wants to let us out early, I'm definitely taking advantage of it."

"Good point," Daphne said, rising from her seat. "See you guys at dinner?"

"Yeah, we'll catch you later," Millicent replied.

As soon as Blaise and Daphne had left the room, Tracey turned to Harry.

"Regina isn't going to expecting us for another fifteen minutes, at least. I'm thinking we should wait in here until Regina shows up."

"Definitely," Millicent agreed with a nod.

"Um, but if the Gryffindors were planning anything between class, wouldn't their timeline be thrown off as well?" Harry asked.

"Maybe," Tracey conceded with a shrug, "but that would still leave Regina in the dark. You think Flint would be happy if Regina told him she couldn't find you anywhere?"

"Point taken."

Millicent appeared to start to say something, but the opening of the classroom door stopped her.

The tall, dark form of Dean Thomas walked through the door, wand out, pointed at the floor.

"What did I tell you, Thomas?" Harry asked coldly, pulling his own wand from his robes.

"We gave you a month, Potter," Seamus smirked, following his friend through the door. "What's it going to-"

"Experlliarmus!"

"Protego!"

Harry's quick disarmer shattered against Dean's weak shield in a shower of sparks, sending the tall boy reeling against the wall. Seamus, fumbling with his wand, got clipped by Tracey's body-bind, sending him to the floor in an ungraceful thud.

Whipping his wand forward, Harry flung another disarmer. The crimson spell struck Dean in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. Neatly catching Dean's wand, Harry ran forward. Grasping Dean by the front of his robes, he swung the boy around, sending him tumbling to the floor.

"What did I say, Thomas?" Harry asked menacingly, his wand pointed down at Dean's prone form.

"Potter, what are you doing? Get away from him!"

Turning, lowering his wand, Harry saw Lockhart emerge from his office, his face pale.

"It was self-defense, Prof-" Millient began, only to be cut off by the Defense instructor.

"Mister Potter, I'm disappointed in you. While a little mischief is nothing to be alarmed over, I'm afraid the taste of fame I've given you has gone to your head. Detention, tonight. Be at my office at eight."

Resisting the urge to kick the prone Gryffindor, Harry threw Dean's wand to the ground, before storming out of the classroom, Tracey and Millicent hot on his heels.

This was Ron's master plan?

Either his minions couldn't carry out orders, or Weasley was seriously running low on ideas.

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Nearly oblivious to the chill of Hogwarts by night, Harry made his way towards the Defense classroom, his thoughts turbulent.

Far different from his experience with Dean, the twins merely seemed to be misinformed. They got the timeframe right, but as for the attack itself…

To say it was lacking something was an understatement. It was idiotic, lazy, entirely without any foresight. There was no chance it was going to work.

What was the point?

Shaking his head, Harry entered into the Defense classroom, wondering what horrors Lockhart had in store for him. Reflecting upon the incident earlier, he couldn't really blame Lockhart for assigning the detention. Based upon what he had seen…well, it made sense.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked upon the door of Lockhart's Office, which had been left slightly ajar.

"Come in," a muffled voice from within implored. Harry did as instructed. Upon entering, he did a quick double-take around the unfamiliar room.

Framed photographs of Lockhart in various types of wardrobe lined the side walls of the office. In every picture, his brilliant smile was front and center. Upon the far wall, a large bookcase stood, filled to the brim with multiple copies of each of his books. A large pile of smiling photographs were stacked atop his desk.

"Please, have a seat," Lockhart offered, motioning towards the seat opposite him.

Stifling a laugh, Harry did as asked, taking a seat. How could someone be so in love with themselves?

"I'm sorry it ever came to this point," Lockhart said, uncharacteristic sincerity in his voice.

"Sorry about what?"

"Well, Harry, I feel that we really got off on the wrong foot. Sadly, it appears that you were ill-prepared to handle fame."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, incredulously. "You tried to exploit me, use me to help your own career."

"Harry, Harry," Lockhart replied, shaking his head sadly. "What possible reason could I have for exploiting you? I assure, between my Order of Merlins and my regular appearances in the Daily Prophet, my career was not in any danger."

"Really?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes. "Then why take a position here? Do you really expect me to believe that the headlines you'd get for taking this position had nothing to do with it?

Lockhart shook his head, a sympathetic smile upon his face, as if he was relaying a concept too grand for Harry to understand.

"I merely wished to pass my knowledge down onto the next generation of wizards and witches."

"What knowledge? Professor, you couldn't even deal with Cornish Pixies! How could we respect you if we had never seen you actually perform any magic? A squib could have taught your class just as well!"

Lockhart's smile lost some of its vitality, morphing into a grimace.

"Is that why you had Algernon Longbottom looking into my affairs, Harry? You think there are better instructors out there?"

Oh fuck. Who tipped him off?

Struggling to regain his composure, Harry managed to keep his voice even.

"Professor, you threatened me. With all your contacts at the Prophet, you could have easily followed through on your threat to leak information to the Prophet."

Lockhart, as if he had not heard him, continued on.

"You know, Dumbledore had quite the difficult time filling this position. Some would even say that I did him a favor in accepting it. I will not let Longbottom, or you, take this from me."

Harry reacted immediately, drawing his wand and pointing it at the Professor.

"Too bad you can't stop me," he replied, rising and backing towards the door. "I'm a little more dangerous than a Cornish Pixie."

His back striking the door, Harry slid his hand down, reaching for the handle. Oddly, Lockhart was making no move to stop him.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Lockhart said casually, rising to his feet.

Finding the handle, Harry pushed down, and threw his weight backwards into the door.

It didn't budge.

"Locked, isn't it," the Defense instructor said with a superior smirk. "Too bad you don't have the key."

Keeping his cool, Harry pointed his wand directly at Lockhart's heart.

"We both know I'm far more talented that you, Lockhart. Why don't you just give me the key?"

Lockhart let out a small laugh.

"You, a mere second-year, think that you're more talented than me? Please, Harry, if I had wanted a mundane career, I would have settled for being Head of the Obliviators. My Memory Charms are without peer."

"So you admit to stealing the work of others?" Harry sneered.

Lockhart shot him a look of loathing.

"Would anyone have cared if some ugly old Armenian warlock saved a village from a pack of werewolves? He'd have looked dreadful on the front cover! No fashion sense, either. No, I made their minor victories into achievements that people will remember hundreds of years from now."

Harry let out a mocking laugh.

"You're delusional. In ten years, no one will remember your name."

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about your memories, Harry. Do you really think I'd let some pre-teen put an end to my career?"

"I don't think you have a choice," Harry said, jabbing his wand forward. "Stupefy!"

The crimson jet of light leapt from his wand, streaking toward Lockhart, who made no movements to avoid the spell. Before Harry could begin to process how, the spell disintegrated into thin air.

Harry could only stare, open-mouthed, as his curse vanished. What the fuck?

Lockhart let out a hearty chuckle.

"And I thought you were clever, Harry. To acquire the information for my books, I had to Memory Charm some of the most powerful witches and wizards in the world. Surely you expected me to have some sort of insurance policy?"

His blood running cold, Harry could only stare as Lockhart reached down into the first drawer in his desk, withdrawing an open wooden box, a foot wide. Inside, nestled into a scarlet velvet lining, was a black, polished sphere.

"This, Harry, is the secret to my success. Soaked in the blood of the user for days on end, it bonds to them, protecting them from any harmful spells. Rather cumbersome to lug around, but kept inside a book-bag, close by, it does the trick."

Harry, internally beginning to panic, gazed at the obsidian sphere, desperately trying to think of a way around it.

"That's sad, Lockhart, that you need to use Dark artifacts."

Lockhart smiled wide at his accusation.

"As you're clearly aware, I am not a skill fighter. I merely use whatever tools are at my disposal."

"Like selling your soul," Harry scoffed, trying to buy time to think. "I used to think you sold your soul for fame; now I know I was more right than I knew."

"Oh, Harry," Lockhart said, letting out a chuckle. "You're too young to understand now, but there is nothing worse in life than being a 'nobody'. Floating through life without making any mark on the world, to be forgotten once you're gone…no sane person would ever accept that."

"Nobody? You're worse than a nobody. You think you can keep this up forever? Anyone who's learned from you knows you're a fraud."

"To a select few, perhaps," Lockhart conceded, "but as long as the loudest voices are silenced, the truth will stay buried."

"Is that what happened to Katelyn Wellington? What you're going to do to me?"

Lockhart's smile faded for a moment, his expression becoming troubled.

"That was an unfortunate situation which spiraled out of control, before I had mastered Memory Charms. If too much power is poured into one, there is a danger of wiping someone's mind completely clean. Sadly, I cannot have you-"

"Accio Magical Me!"

Harry's quick spell cut off Lockhart mid-sentence, causing one of the thick hardcover tomes to fly off the shelf, and strike him in the shoulder. The impact knocked Lockhart forward slightly, eliciting a groan of pain.

"Accio Gadding with Ghouls!"

Another tome flew off the shelf, striking the already stunned professor in the back, causing him to let out a another cry of pain as he fumbled for his wand.

"Accio Magical Me!"

At his spell, Lockhart ducked down, the thick, heavy tome barely missing his head. Harry barely had time to blink before the hardcover smashed into his chest with a dull crack. A great pain exploded forth from Harry's chest as he was knocked to the floor. His head collided painfully off the hardwood floor, bringing his teeth together with a loud clack.

Gasping for air, he saw Lockhart rise, his teeth pulled back in a feral snarl, his wand raised.

"Obliviate!"

The grey spell bearing down upon him, Harry, ignoring the pain in his chest, brought up his own wand.

"Protego!"

The hastily produced, weak shield, shattered upon contact with the memory charm in an arc of magical discharge. Undeterred, Lockhart fired off another Obliviate.

Rising to a sitting position, Harry responded with a stronger shield. Lockhart's memory charm bounced off the curved crimson shield, detonating against the ceiling in a spray of stone chips. Keeping the shield active, Harry shakily rose to his feet, every breath painful.

"Obliviate!"

Slightly twisting his wand, Lockhart's spell bounced off the front of Harry's curved shield, flying right back at the caster. His blue eyes wide with fear, Lockhart ducked down, his own spell flying over his head, destroying a few of the books directly behind him.

Bringing his wand across his body, Harry transfigured the floor ahead of him into ice, causing Lockhart to slip on the unsteady floor, his non-wand elbow hitting the ice with a loud crack.

"You can't do this, Potter!" Lockhart screamed, straining his vocal cords.

"Watch me," Harry grimly replied.

"Obliviate!"

Harry leapt into the air, neatly jumping over the Defense instructor's curse. He landed right as Lockhart pulled himself up, blonde hair astray.

"Obliv-"

"Pulsus!"

Harry's far more concise banisher struck the desk with a hollow bang, sending it rocketing forward. The desk struck both of Lockhart's knees with an almighty crack, eliciting a cry of anguish.

Already in motion, Harry jabbed his wand forward.

"Reducto!"

The crimson spell, having no ill-intent towards Lockhart, struck the obsidian sphere dead-center, punching right through it. Lockhart, his head thrown back in pain as he fell, never saw the black shrapnel shards racing towards his head.

Lockhart's chin was disintegrated in a crimson spray, before the deadly shards shattered his teeth, abruptly cutting off his screams. The professor finished his descent to the floor silently, landing with a dull thud upon the ice.

Harry, his mind frozen in horror, could only stare at the red stains and white flecks that littered the back half of the office. He waited, prayed, for some sort of sign that Lockhart was alive, but as the long seconds stretched out, he heard no movement from the other side of the desk. Gathering the remnants of his courage, he made his way around the desk.

Lockhart lay on the ground, face-up. Everything from the eyes down had been vaporized, leaving only a giant, bloody hole which took up most of his face. One eye, a piece of dark shrapnel embedded in it, lay open, forever blind, leaking a clear fluid from the deflated orb. The other rolled around in its socket, ceaselessly moving, unable to focus on anything.

Without warning, Lockhart's body began to spasm wildly, his feet kicking hard against the blood-streaked ice. Letting out a strangled cry, Harry pointed his wand at the Lockhart, hitting him with a body-bind.

The Defense instructor was in bad shape, but if the bleeding slowed, maybe he could…

Shaking his head, Harry took out the door with a quick blasting curse, before kicking through the remaining embers. Jumping the short flight of stairs, he took off at a sprint, ignoring the pain in his ribs, one thought echoing in his mind.

What had he done?

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Author Notes:

I know it's taken a while, but year two is finally beginning to ramp up towards the big finale I have planned. It's been a slow burn, but I think the chaotic events of the finale will be worth the slow burn. Only two, maybe three chapters left.

Sadly, one of the techs in my department left the company, leaving an already over-taxed department short. I fear that my writing time as of late will dwindle further. It might be a while before the next update.

As always, any comments or criticisms are welcome. Even a quick "I liked it" or "it sucked" would be appreciated. Any questions, ask away. I reply to every review I receive. The reviews I've received as of late have inspired me to use my limited free time to write, when all I wanted to do was relax.

Thanks to scaryisntit for his help in the planning process.

Thanks to my beta, the lovely Princess Serine, for her valuable help.

DLP Thanks:

shinysavage, Inert, Republic21, CheddarTrek, psihary, Hashaheen, Grinning Lizard, Johnny Farrar, Catman, Kyle Dodge1, fuubar, Randeemy, Purple, SlytherinSurpreme, NightSpy