AAAAAHHH! I don't know what to say. People actually read my work! And reviewed! And favorited it! And followed the story! You have no idea how much this means to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
There's a lot of Slytherin bashing here and I'm sorry - without giving too much away, I do wanna say that it's primarily limited to the early chapters!
I'm working on chapter boards for this story. The easiest way to find them is by logging into Pinterest, and searching 'Healthspard' - it'll bring you right to my user profile and the boards!
ok, ok, I'll leave you alone now, enjoy the read!
Chapter 2: The Chamber of Secrets
Hogwarts: Headmistress' Office, A Few Moments Later
"A curse from Salazar himself?" Ron queried. His face soured as he looked about the castle walls with an ounce of fear, grasping his chair until the tips of his fingers paled. The portraits slept in their homes. "'Mione, maybe you shouldn't be here if the castle is against muggle-borns!"
The witch just rolled her eyes in response and continued reading through Malfoy's chosen book.
"I don't know, we can't be sure. But if this is truly a curse by one of the Founders then we should alert the Ministry, Harry," she suggested. Turning to Ron, Hermione said, "And you do realize that if it's unsafe for me to be here, that you shouldn't be here either." A laugh graced her lips when the redhead failed to understand. "In Salazar's eyes, you're a blood traitor, Ron," said the witch. Her attention returned to the book and she began to transcribe notes on a piece of parchment on a nearby ledge. Her hair waved out of the clip that clasped half of it back at the nape of her neck and she tucked it behind her ear with a scowl.
Ron's eyes bulged dangerously out of its sockets as horror marred his features. His gaze kept lingering on the fireplace throughout the rest of the meeting, thinking that maybe if he stared at it hard enough, he could manage to escape.
Ginny placed a hand on Harry's back which returned the wizard's attention to the present. His mind had been scouring through all his mental notes on Voldemort and Slytherin. It couldn't be. Slytherin stood by his ideals enough to leave the school, he would not taint the castle with a curse. But, as Hermione kept reading off more information from the book, it became rather obvious that Salazar's motives might have driven him to this cause. Before he could answer the witch's question, the Headmistress voiced his exact thoughts.
"Alert the Ministry, Ms. Granger? If the bureaucrats get their hands on this, the school won't open for the next five years. I'm surprised they sent Potter here on my request but if we let another word slip about a curse on Hogwarts, Dorian will want to work this himself. Potter, how long did Fungbury take to close the Waterpierce case?"
"It's… it's still in the works, ma'am," Harry responded, his voice low with embarrassment.
Harry, himself, had cast his vote in favor of Dorian Fungbury for the position of Head of the Auror Office. But just five years after his appointment, the man reeked of sour bread, fire whiskey, and sloth-paced paperwork that managed to snuff out most leads if any did emerge. As in most offices, seeing the leader's lack of fire, most of the other Aurors had settled into a rather repetitive routine. Ron's old office had never found another Auror to house, instead, it had become the filing room for the whole department, teeming with stacks of parchment, bound together by thick ribbons. It was one of the reasons why Harry had agreed to take on the part-time teaching position at Hogwarts. And the wizard wondered now if his office would face the same demise as his friend's.
Penelope turned in her chair and studied her husband again. He was still pacing across the room, calculating silently, his brows knitted together to form a deep W on his forehead. "If I may make a suggestion, Minerva?" asked Penny.
The Headmistress nodded.
"What if you accept Draco for the teaching position? He's an Auror, you'll have extra help and the Ministry wouldn't know. With Ron, Harry, Theo, and Draco, that's four Aurors."
Ron looked like he was about to protest, and Theo's pacing stopped at once. Oh, had he married a wicked witch. Penelope had coaxed Theo to take on the Hogwarts watch, and she had recommended Draco for the DADA position. Who better than an ex-practitioner of the Dark Arts to teach the students how to defend against them, the witch had sung. His wife knew well before them, Theo was sure, that her two Slytherin boys would come to despise the deep-seated prejudices of the Auror department rather quickly. While he admired her, Penelope continued, "Plus, we have Hermione, and she's as good as two. And Ginny too, when she's not training with the Harpies!"
"Perhaps, if we work together, the school can open as scheduled, Professor," Ginny offered, smiling at Penelope, and glancing hopefully at the Headmistress.
Ron snapped at that. "Gin, you can't be serious! Malfoy? Working a case to save muggle-borns? And then teaching the poor students? Merlin's beard, he would be worse than Snape!" he groaned. Catching Harry's melancholy look, and McGonagall's reprimanding stare, he attempted to edit his previous statement, "I mean...great sacrifice on his part and all, but 'Arry, you remember the first six years, don't you?"
"You're fine with me, Weasley, what's wrong with Draco?" Theo said.
"You're not too bad, Nott. But I think we can both agree that Malfoy and I have not had the best past experiences," the wizard replied.
"It would do all of you well to forget past rivalries for the betterment of this school, and its students for the next several days, Mr. Weasley. But if you cannot, I can assure you that your booming business must need you in some capacity. No one would fault you for returning to help your brother, if you'd so chose," the Headmistress advised, peering above her glasses in disdain again. Ginny suppressed a short giggle, but Ron bleached in response to the not-so-subtle 'get out of my office if you can't behave' scolding.
"Potter, send a note to Mr. Malfoy-"
"Professor, shouldn't we inspect the Chamber of Secrets before anything else?" said Harry. His green eyes sat perfectly in the center of his round glasses.
McGonagall looked at the Trio and made a quiet note to herself to talk to Albus' painting later after the meeting. Here they were, so long after their initial years at the school, full-grown adults with full-grown brains and yet absolutely nothing had changed. Ron still had to be reminded of priorities and told not to pick fights. Hermione remained oblivious to the world, her nose mere inches away from the withering text of the old book as she jotted down something with frantic speed. And Harry, the boy she had placed on his aunt's doorstep almost twenty-six years ago, and the same boy who had gone to the Forbidden Forest to sacrifice himself to save his friends and family, now was talking about charging into another dangerous situation without a plan.
"No, Potter. First, we must consult an old friend," was all the witch said, as she opened a glass cabinet and drew from within the raggedy Sorting Hat.
Malfoy's Apartment.
Three hours after his return from the castle, Draco received a very small note from Potter which he refused to even open. Granger sent him a fucking essay (with references on the last page, because Merlin forbid, she plagiarized any of her absurd nonsense), detailing her case the next morning. Then Penelope's Howler barged into his office at four p.m., forcing him to leave early and hide in his apartment for the rest of the day.
The seventh floor flat teetered between minimalistic and manically sterile. The dreadful and brooding black Manor still frequented his nightmares, but this new abode shone with soft, smoky themes. A wall separated the sitting room, and the kitchen, but the floor-length windows that opened to the balcony provided a false perception of open space. Or so the realtor had said. Not as deadly as the Manor, the place still managed to suffocate him from time to time - and for that, he had hung a series of liquor glasses from a wooden rack, right above the stormy marble counter-top. Some nights he spent at the Leaky Cauldron, enjoying Abbott's hospitality, and on other nights he chose a poison from his personal collections, drank about eight to ten servings in one of the sculpted crystal glasses until he was pissed enough to send the very glass crashing to the dark bamboo flooring. Draco always kept his socks on in the kitchen space because barefoot he would still find dust of shards piercing his skin, no matter how thoroughly he cleaned. Save for the box bed in his room, the leather futon with slim padding in the sitting room and an ornate wooden desk in his study, the place housed no other furniture. Bare, cold, and unyielding to emotion.
Before their training with the Auror program began, for eight months Draco surrendered to his scars. His apartment mimicked his reckless ways, brimming with unneeded objects, furniture, and trinkets that served no actual purpose but just flaunted his wealth. He rotated between three women, mercilessly loving them on top of his dinner table, bar cart, and smashed up against the grandfather clock, among other places. The French one from Beauxbatons left first. Then the Irish one too. Finally, the half-blood witch he had met on one fateful night at the local pub in Wiltshire left because she had found actual love, not just a shagging-mate. Only once, had he pleasured the French and Irish women together. And even on that night, when both their velvety moans had harmonized, he could not shake off the guilt, the regret and the bastard loathing that drowned his mind. So, as any respectable man ought to, he packed every single unnecessary item the morning after the Wiltshire girl took his leave and stripped his apartment bare. He sent everything away - almost the ink and the parchment too, but this he retrieved to write a letter to Theo to ask if he would consider Auror training (it proved to be a better distraction than sex, anyway).
Now, as he stood against the tall windows, the only color that filtered into his flat was from the sunbeams casting a golden hue. At five forty-five, Draco denounced alcohol for the evening and turned to the most obnoxious British pastime: tea. He was about to bring the mug to his lips, a copy of the annual report in his left hand, the binding pulled back, with several dog-eared pages, when he heard the Floo go off in his living room. He had granted only the Notts access, but for a second Draco contemplated hiding in the pantry in case it was Penny. He silently thanked Salazar when Theo's dark disorderly hair came into view, his beige trench coat damp - most probably from the recent rains in Scotland - and his face flushed.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy, what makes you think you could ignore a pregnant witch's Howler without consequences?" the man said.
Before Malfoy could respond, Theo went on, his hands trembling from the cold and frustration.
"Do you know how many people it took to convince her not to hex you into another dimension? No, honestly, mate, if you have a death wish, have some else off you because I can't afford to raise this kid on my own while my wife rots in Azkaban over your head!"
Draco just pinched his nose with two long fingers and shook his head, a sarcastic grin playing on his lips. "And good evening to you too, Nott."
Theo, who had been controlling his anger out of respect for his friend, slipped back into his Slytherin skin. "Oh, fuck off. We're leaving for Hogwarts. Now."
"The Sorting Hat, was it helpful?" Draco contemplated. He put down his tea and the report and pulled his jumper's sleeves high on his forearms. The grey material hung close to his torso and arms, but the cashmere itched his skin and added to the restlessness. His hand reached for his hair and he ran through the blond strands, having found nothing else to fidget with.
"So, you read what Hermione wrote?" Theo questioned, arching his left brow so high that it disappeared into his black hair.
"Since when did Granger become 'Hermione'? Remind me to tell Penny to keep an eye on you," Draco chuckled, deflecting and struggling to cut through the tension.
Granger's given name tasted bitter in his mouth, almost like the alcohol he was avoiding this evening, but without the intoxicating effects. He had read the witch's essay, mostly to calm his budding curiosity about the curse. Apparently, picking up a fucking book from a shelf warranted a free entry to Potter's Fan Club, and for all intents and purposes, he considered the essay his first newsletter from the said Club's monthly subscription.
She wrote without a doubt. She didn't theorize her theories and she didn't state her very debatable hypotheses as propositions. No, the way she wrote of them, they were facts, already cemented in history, unavoidable. So many times, throughout her written rant, Draco found himself scoffing and yelling at absolutely nobody that her assumptions didn't make any bloody sense. But multiple times during the essay he also wished that Granger wasn't...well, Granger. He wished that the essay was written by Nott or Blaise, or Pansy even because if it was, he would have Flooed to their place right away for so many discussions.
"Penelope is going to beat you the next time she sees you, so forget telling her anything except for apologizing. The others...are tolerable, I suppose. You, on the other hand," Nott said, a playful spark returned to his eyes as he pointed at the wizard, "are the devil's favorite spawn. Come to Hogwarts, take up the position McGonagall is giving you and until the school opens, help us, Draco." He was almost pleading this time. "Help me."
Theo turned, walked back towards the living room fireplace, peered over his shoulder to make sure that his best friend was following - he was, head hanging low in defeat, however - and stepped into the green flames.
"Oh yes," the wizard said to Malfoy as he grabbed some powder, "Don't forget to bring an umbrella."
Hogwarts: Penelope Clearwater's Office. Fourteen Days Remaining.
The first thing that Draco noticed about Penny's office was the water. He could smell the wet as soon as they arrived inside her well-kept space. The witch was by no means organized but somehow, her mess always seemed arranged - premeditated, almost. Now, there was no way Draco could tell if anything was out of place because all her belongings were shrouded under a thin plastic covering, beading with water drops all over. Upon closer inspection, Draco noted that only a desk and a dusky, pastel sofa remained in the room. The absence of the witch, her books, her photo frames, and her flower vases painted the room in an eerie light. Her husband stood in the middle and released a heavy breath. Outside the window, in the clear sky, the setting sun threw its rays far and wide to lands untouched by any rain.
As soon as Draco stepped over the fireplace ledge and onto the wooden floorboards, he felt the water trickle in though his suede shoes. Suppressing a groan, for they were his favorite pair, Draco sloshed across the office and stood next to his mate. The water oozed out of the thin wall cracks and if one looked close enough, they could see it bubbling through the oaken pores of the ceiling. The blond wizard's hair turned a shade darker as the strands moistened.
"Problem with the plumbing?"
"Nope, it's the bloody castle getting its revenge."
Reaching for his wand, Draco cast a Reparo around the room and a drying spell on Nott and himself. Theo looked bemused, and he watched as Draco smirked with satisfaction as the dripping noise ceased and all the flooding water receded away. Five seconds passed, and just as the blond wizard was about to turn to his partner to make a smart-arse comment, a single drop gathered on the ceiling directly above him and dripped onto his pale cheek. Finally, Nott let out the barking laugh he had been holding in, as he made his way towards the door. Draco looked up as the indoor rain recommenced, words failing him, just as his magic.
"Oh, you should have seen the smug look on your face!" Theo coughed out between laughs, his eyes welling with amused tears.
"Shut it, Nott."
"Suits you well for not bringing an umbrella," the wizard said as they left his wife's office and he cast his own drying spell on them. This time, they stayed dry. "We've tried every spell; the water just won't stop in there. Penelope moved back home for the time being," he explained. Halfway through the corridor, Theo turned to face the other wizard and stuffed both his hands in his pockets, "Actually, mate, the Trio's agreed to meet us at the Three Broomstick. We're all going to come back to inspect the Chamber of Secrets, but with the castle being so volatile, it's best not to linger about."
"Ha! As if Salazar would lay a finger on us," Draco scoffed.
"I wouldn't be so sure, Malfoy," Theo uttered this with a strange, inquisitive look in his eyes as he pressed his mouth into a thin line. They moved again in long strides towards the Grand Staircase, briskly walked to the courtyard, and made their way towards the outer wards.
"What about the Sorting Hat?" the blond wizard repeated.
"It's complicated," was all Nott offered before the two wizards apparated to the Three Broomsticks Pub and Inn with a resounding crack that echoed through the empty grounds.
Hogsmeade bustled with hope, despite its empty streets. A shop owner had climbed on a rickety ladder and was hammering away at a sign just above his business' entrance. Across from him, a stout woman with a bucket of paintbrushes and a gaunt man with a stuffy mustache conversed. The man's thin, mouse-like voice bounced down the street as he slapped a dirty rag around his neck and made his way to another pub at the street's end. Three Broomsticks, too, seemed partly under the beautification process that gripped this village every year, a few weeks before the start of Hogwarts. Draco decided the village looked incomplete, though, without the snow-clad roofs and floating Christmas lights that began as early as November.
Before Theo could reach for the door to enter the Inn, Draco's hand pulled his friend back by the shoulder.
"Oi, Malfoy! What is it now?" Nott exclaimed, rubbing the strained spot on his ride side.
"Madam Rosmerta, does she still work here?" Draco said. His eyes darkened and he tried to peer over Theo's head to look at the barkeeper inside without any luck.
"Why, mate? Fancy a quick shag, eh? I reckon she's a bit old, though," Theo teased, a stupid grin grew all over his face as he nudged Draco in the ribs with an elbow.
Draco's eyes darkened even further, nearing a lump of pale coal. His jaw clenched and his hands turned to firm fists. The last time he had met the voluptuous landlady, Draco had Imperio'd her and almost killed Katie Bell. He recognized the emotion as soon as it seized his entire body - stiffening the muscles in his calves to a spasm and vibrating through him so violently that he had to snap his eyes shut to escape it. Regret. He had felt it before, on numerous occasions and he knew the short-term remedy: he drew three deep breaths that grounded him.
Theo understood in an instant, and he replaced his radiant smile with the only words he knew would bring his best-friend a little comfort, "No. No, she retired a few years ago."
The Three Broomsticks
Hermione played with the clip of her wristwatch, a keepsake from her mother. It had stopped telling time six months ago and she had been too busy to take it into one of the Muggle shops to have the batteries replaced. She began her subliminal chewing on her lower lip as the seconds ticked by. While the Sorting Hat had calmed the group's nerves, the persistent flooding in Penelope's office had renewed everyone's fears. The water was rather harmless, but the castle could not be trusted, especially with the witch's pregnant state. Although everyone had mutually decided on this hour to revisit the school, there wasn't a single soul in the pub except the barkeeper behind his counter and her on a long redwood table. He kept glancing at her in anticipation, so she ordered a Butterbeer just to quench his need to play host. Hermione ached to walk back to the castle on her own to start searching through the Chamber herself.
Instead, she resorted to her habit of drumming her foot impatiently against the creaky floorboards, throwing her attention to the various paintings, dusty signs and old menus that hung from the pub's walls. A picture of Dumbledore's Army lay perched beside the shelves of beer mugs and above the three barrels of assorted Butterbeers, a boar's head protruded out. It was dead, Hermione was sure, but its beady little eyes still moved across the room to spy on any thieving patrons. Three metal chains suspended a wooden wheel above her table with melting candles of all different sizes throwing shadows across the dingy place. Crowded with friends and family, the pub would appear inviting and warm but quiet and desolate, it quickly chilled the witch.
Her sodding blue blouse kept distracting the barkeep from making Draco's drink. The blond wizard sat in the shadows with his coat collar upturned, scowling at the leech. The witch before him grew more and more restless as the time passed and no one arrived. Twice the man behind the counter began to make Draco's Old-Fashioned, once with gin and then again with a muggle brand of whiskey, looking at her clavicles instead the glass. When Granger called him to order a Butterbeer, he accidentally added an olive instead of the traditional orange peel. After the third attempt, the imbecile finally arrived with Draco's fire-whiskey, much after hers, even though he had placed the order before her. The wizard downed the alcohol in a gulp and receded further into the booth that was safely tucked against the bricks, towards the back. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to be a part of this at all. Even now, he considered trudging upstairs to the only fireplace in the whole Inn and going home but decided against it when he realized that Theo was using the same fireplace to make a Floo call to his wife.
Before Granger's wandering sight could pin him down and recognize his trademark features, Potter and Weasley entered the pub and laughed kindly at something the witch said. Soon after, Theo descended from the stairs and having caught Draco's inspecting gaze, beckoned him to join him at the long central table. Granger saw him emerge then, but despite the fact that her jaw slacked open in shock, she didn't say anything.
"Malfoy, heard you took up the Dark Arts post," Harry said, shooting a grim look at Ron who was muttering away sub-par insults.
"If the school opens, yes."
"And you're helping us to find and break this curse?" Hermione asked with doubt.
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you keep up this pointless questioning," said Malfoy, turning his glare on her.
Once the drinks were ordered, delivered and the conversation flowed, albeit, with some terse undertones, Harry cleared his throat.
"Nott said you were interested in what the Sorting Hat had to say," he said, observing Draco for any signs of deception.
"Well, yes."
"So, you are helping then?" Hermione concluded with cold eyes. They could do without another Auror, there was really no need for Malfoy. In fact, feeling the heat rise to her face in response to his infuriating baiting, Hermione was sure that his addition would only be counterproductive to any real progress.
"I'm here aren't I, Granger?" Draco stood, walked to the bar and poured some more alcohol in his glass, already nursing a headache. "As long as the Dark Arts post is mine after all this is done and I don't have to sweat for Fungbury or his pawns any longer. Now, tell me what the wretched hat said or I'm walking out of here," he gritted. If Harry took offense at Malfoy's insinuation, he didn't show it. They were all Fungbury's pawns, after all, Draco included.
"Its exact words were, 'the oldest feud bows only to a bond even older - drag heat from its power and your home will be less colder," said Hermione. She disregarded Draco who sauntered back to his wooden chair and lounged, keeping his eyes on her. She averted his gaze and spoke to the others instead. Fucking ferret, thinking he can boss her around. "The Hat agreed though with the book you picked out - it seems like the curse is from the Founders' times, meant to eradicate all muggle-borns. Although, the confirmation doesn't bring us any closer to actually solving this."
Theo was already nodding. "Hopefully, the Chamber of Secrets has something we can use. Any idea which feud or bond the Hat was talking about?"
Ron answered, rather proudly, "Don't know about the bond, but I reckon the feud was between Gryffindor and Slytherin."
"Maybe, the bond is between Slytherin and the school. Hogwarts was his weakness, right? He made this curse to save the school's reputation," Harry said. He looked at Hermione apologetically before continuing, "In his mind, he was not doing anything wrong. If we play on his love for the school, perhaps we can find out how to undo it."
"I asked Professor McGonagall if I could borrow a few books from the library earlier. I'll see if there is any other mention of curses by Slytherin," the witch offered.
Throughout the discussion, Draco's mind wandered as he played with the rim of his glass, circling it with the tip of his index finger. Slytherin's bond with the school was ancient and strong. His house welcomed the most astute of students and offered the wizarding world a few of its best champions. The answer to Salazar's riddle would not be simple - no, it would beat their backs and bring them to their knees. His answer would be cruel, just like the famed wizard. Voldemort had been thick, Draco knew - powerful and terrifying but air-headed. The Dark Lord had chosen his vanquisher and cemented his own demise by leaping at the words of an incomplete prophecy. But Slytherin was the progenitor, the one who created the very throne that Tom Riddle so greedily lusted after. The Founder would not leave a curse to protect his legacy that could be solved in two weeks to allow the school's scheduled opening. He left a meaningless laugh escape, and then asked, "Potter, Voldemort was a direct descendant of Slytherin. In your, uh, research during the War, did you find any others?"
"No, but I can't be too sure," said Harry.
"We kept our focus on Voldemort at that time, but maybe we should look at ministry records to identify anyone else that could be a direct descendant. Perhaps, they have a motive behind this," Hermione added.
"Yes, that's good," said Harry, turning back to Draco. "Right, so we should go to the Chamber before it's too late. The plan is to be back before sundown. Malfoy, you stick with Nott. Hermione, you're with Ron. The school is turning more and more aggressive, so be careful. We apparate outside the school grounds, and walk to the Second Floor Girl's Lavatory, alright?"
The group shared a few nods and on their way out, Ron placed a protective yet firm hand on the back of Hermione's waist. "You're sure you'll be okay, 'Mione?"
She smiled with surprise, rolled her eyes and retorted with fire, "Oh, please, Ronald."
Hogwarts: Corridor of Secrets
Harry Potter led them. A visceral groan almost tumbled out of him when he stepped onto the bones of another animal and the memories from his second year rushed back with ferocity. Behind him, Nott, and Malfoy walked while casting dreadful looks at the smaller tunnels that branched out of the main one. Wands extended and burning at the tip with a Lumos Maxima, the five of them walked with haste.
Hermione hurried after Nott and Ron followed close behind. She slung her backpack over her right shoulder as it had come off while they had slid down the entrance. She held it securely - it was her life. The witch had cast two charms on her sleek, black, Ministry-gifted leather accessory - an undetectable extension charm (obviously) and a feather-light charm that increased the bag's weight tenfold if someone with intentions to loot her belongings picked it up. She was rather proud of her work; there was adequate space for her books (a total of twelve, including the Founders' one), a small space for her makeup (a lip balm, and an old mascara), and a section for friends' belongings (i.e. Ron's month old pack of chewing gum, Harry's map, an extra pair of his round eyeglasses, a scarf from Molly for the London weather, and a Tuscan red lipstick from Ginny that she didn't plan on returning, because on the two nights of the whole year when she actually wore the shade, it didn't look half bad). There was another section, one she didn't open often but was the most prized one of all - it housed a letter case with letters from her parents, their phone numbers on a small piece of paper (although, she had them memorized), and a picture of them with her at age seven. Her own specs were neatly folded in a woolen pouch, with the rest of her belongings - a seldom-used hairbrush, a jar with instant coffee, and a box with the best of her quills, pens, and pencils. She also carried a copy of her drafts and the current regulations for house-elves with her.
Occasionally, she would sit cross-legged on her carpeted living room floor and turn her bag upside down to watch all the contents race out. Then for the next two hours or so, she'd sort through each item, often finding lost things, missing pairs of earrings and old memos from coworkers. Once she had even found a Polaroid from one of Ginny's games of her and Ron kissing. They both had been decked from head to toe in Harpies gear and were snogging away drunkenly. She had tucked the photo deep inside her dresser drawer, refusing to cry over their faded love. Now as she looked back at the same man without any butterflies crowding her belly, Hermione decided that she compartmentalized rather well.
The shedded Basilisk skin, the crunching of the bones, black feces and blood that smeared the walls, had all sent the witch's nerves into overdrive. But she had walked calmly, drawing deep breaths through her mouth to avoid smelling the rot. It didn't help much though, because the taste of it had lingered on the tip of her tongue. Harry stopped at the front and beyond him, she saw the Chamber's door.
Two emerald-eyed, intertwined serpents posed to mark the entrance. Harry drew a steadying breath and looked back at his peers. He closed his eyes to open the Chamber for the second time in his life, but Hermione's scream throttled his hissing voice before it could awaken the guarding snakes.
She felt the crack develop beneath her before she saw the ground fissure - the quaking earth wobbled her knees, which she credited to her nerves at first. But within a second, the small splits in the ground below her rifted apart to reveal an endless dark gap. Perhaps it was instinct or pure Gryffindor luck or the steel grip on her right arm that caused her to move. But one thing she knew for sure - she hadn't made a conscious decision to lunge to her right to escape the swallowing earth. Yet, she found herself hurled away from the crack.
Hermione screamed, but only when her body crashed into solid flesh and her head made hard contact with someone's chest. The person whose fingers had pulled her away from her inevitable death must have hit the opposite wall with full force because she heard the unforgettable crack and snap of bones and found the person's weight heavy on her own form. She tried to breathe without success. Stray strands of fleece made their way deep into her mouth and nose from her savior's garments but there was no air. She tried - again, without success - to shove him off but his weight slumped on her even more, his sweater filtering out all the remaining oxygen. His weight even kept her eyelids sealed closed; her long lashes pressed flat across her face. She felt all of this and more.
Though the tingling sting of adrenaline had roused her and left her a few seconds ago, she knew that her hands trembled with aftershocks. Her rescuer didn't shake like her; in fact, while her attempts at sucking air echoed off the low tunnel walls in high-pitched wheezes, Hermione wasn't so sure she heard this man breathe at all.
"Fuck! Get- hmpf," she began. Finally, someone lifted the person off her. Harry seemed to be yelling, sounding shrill as he often did when rage or panic overtook his better judgment. There was another voice: quiet, stoic and yet grounding. Hermione focused on that instead. The voice called her surname, initially saying it with pent up frustration as if he was waiting for her to stop an act.
But then he commanded, "Granger, open your eyes."
His voice was laced with something entirely alien. Not worry, no, but not annoyance. Mild unease? Nervousness? When Hermione did blink away this train of thought and opened her eyes to the blinding glare of a Lumos being thrust in her face, almost touching her nose, she did so not because of his order. She did it because never had she heard that voice speak her name with anything but hatred, let alone an inkling of concern.
First, she saw how the crack had progressed to a chasm, gouging at the earth at least three floors deep. Fifteen feet wide, and eight feet tall, the hole had eaten away the whole left side of the tunnel in that area. It was her own personal gateway to damnation. With blurry vision, she then examined the bloodied man slumped across the wall before she shoved away the wand in her face and gaped straight into the eyes of the man crouching to her level. Again, the steel greys of his eyes grounded her and cleared her vision. They were glass-like, but paradoxically unreadable. Silvery and yet glaring with passionate hatred one minute and hiding seductive secrets the next - but never dull, never just grey. Malf-
"Have you gone deaf, Granger?" Malfoy said. The witch in front of him dazed on, her eyes flying wildly from Weasley to the crumbling wall, only to rest on his face at the very end. They were doe-like, her eyes. Despite her insufferable reputation, and childhood marriage to literature, her honey-brown gaze seemed innocent, even naive. Draco tightened his hold on his wand and peered back at the destroyed tunnel wall before his throat could run dry again.
"What happened?" slurred Hermione.
"That," Malfoy explained, cocking his head towards the crumbling debris of the tunnel and the wide gap, "was meant for you, it seems. Weasley pulled you out of the way."
Ron's form was still slouched across the wall from her. But it wasn't the Ron she had just laughed with, only five minutes ago. No, this man fashioned a grisly gash on his forehead from which blood ran to his chin. His left arm flumped precariously from its socket, mangled and twisted. His vision must have been blurred too because he squinted at her and mumbled negligibly, "Hermyyy…?"
Harry was hunched over the red-headed wizard and casting diagnostic spells faster than Hermione could think at the moment. Nott looped Ron's right arm around his neck and pulled the man up. The diagnostic hologram rose with him.
She rose too, rushing to her friend's side but soon realized her mistake when the tunnel began to spin counterclockwise. She reached to cup Ron's bloodied cheek, "Oh my god…I'm so sorry, Ron," she cried.
"Left arm's broken, shoulder dislocated. A concussion, blood loss, and…" Harry trailed off, running his hand through his hair, his green eyes clenching hard in despair.
"Potter, it's alright. He'll be alright. The three of you carry on, I'll take him to Penny. She's an angel with healing charms, he'll be better than before, I promise," Theo said. He looked at Harry and then at Hermione as if to ask their permission.
Harry swallowed, and nodded, before adding, "Send me a Patronus if anything happens. If anything changes in his condition, I want to know. And send an owl to George, if you can, he'll come at once."
Theo smiled in response and supported Ron with his left side. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled from within a small broomstick that fitted in his palm. He muttered an Engorgio, straddled the broomstick and guided Ron to sit behind him, before flying away in the opposite direction.
While Harry checked on Hermione (she brushed off his diagnostic charm), Draco took a step back from the broken ground and stared at the tunnel from where they had just entered.
"Protego horribilis," he whispered, hoping that the duo behind him wouldn't hear. But when he turned to face the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets again, Potter was regarding him with uncertainty.
"Thanks, Malfoy. But I think we ought to worry about what's inside rather than out here," said Harry.
To this, Draco rolled his eyes because Potter was really such a bitch.
Hogwarts: Chamber of Secrets
They passed through the reptilian entrance and walked across a raised platform that led them to the center of the Chamber. Salazar's statue stood high, dwarfing them on one side. In the center and towards the back wall, Slytherin's face appeared inhumane on stone. The black stone around the Chamber cooled the air to an unbearable temperature. Potter stood in the middle, waiting, as if he was a patron at a restaurant, being patient until a server arrived with his order.
"Harry," said Granger, whispering, for some reason. "Say something!"
When Potter opened his mouth again, his hisses slithered off the high walls and bounced back to fill the eerie silence. Draco could never grow accustomed to parseltongue, even though Voldemort had used it frequently at the Manor to talk to his beloved pet. He shuddered but noticed that even Granger had goosebumps on her arm. Potter, himself, masked his face well, but behind his trepidatious facade, there was an ounce of discomfort. The Chamber waited several seconds, and Draco could almost hear it judging its latest visitors and their intent.
Eventually, the walls spoke. A deep growling voice boomed, so different from Potter's sibilant speech.
"Harry Potter. Half-blood," the voice said.
Granger looked at her friend with accusing eyes, "What did you say, Harry?"
Before Potter could respond, the voice spoke again, "Hermione Granger. Mudblood."
The witch snarled in response, extending her wand out, she spat, "Show yourself, you coward."
When no response came to her threat, she said, "Homenum Revelio."
But the spell only revealed that they were alone.
"The only thing I said was 'Is anybody there?'" Potter whispered over his shoulder.
"You come here to seek answers, but, I'm afraid, I will leave you with more questions," said the voice. It had a gravel-like texture, as if the sound wasn't a product of vocal cords, but rather, two bricks rubbing together to form fractured words.
"Fine. Tell us about the curse then," said Potter. He moved around the Chamber, casting basic spells to track Dark Magic.
"The blessing is ancient. As ancient as I," seethed the voice. Draco moved too, casting non-verbal spells around the eastern half, which all confirmed that there was no Dark Magic within the place at all.
"And who are you?" Draco said, raising an eyebrow and staring at Salazar's face that covered the back half of the Chamber - mostly because the mammoth structure demanded attention so greedily.
"Ah, now this is unfathomable," the gritty voice rose. After a brief pause, it began again, "Draco Malfoy. Pureblood. Perhaps, I may trust my answers with you."
Draco exchanged a tentative glance with Potter.
"Who are you?" Granger demanded. Draco noticed now that her blue blouse was stained with Weasley's blood.
"Salazar Slytherin - none of his body, none of his mind, but all of his memory, Mudblood," the voice confessed.
"His Horcrux, then?" Potter said.
"No, not his Horcrux. His memory that he left, protected within the Chamber," said the voice. "Salazar Slytherin took his anger the day he left this school and buried it deep within the castle walls. He could not bear to see his beloved Hogwarts fall prey to the unworthy muggles. He housed me within so that when his rightful heir demanded it, I could turn the castle against its mudblood filth."
The grating noise stopped for an instant as if it was contemplating whether it could show them all his cards. But shortly after pausing, the voice resounded against the walls once more.
"He bred the King of Serpents to ensure that only his own blood could enter this Chamber since the snake would only listen to Slytherin's true heir; whereas I answered to anyone who survived the snake, heir or not. The Basilisk was not the monster of the Chamber of Secrets, boy. I am," the voice boasted.
Potter shook his head in denial, playing with his light stubble, his eyes were downcast and deep in thought. Granger rummaged through her bag and pulled from within the text Draco had picked up in McGonagall's office only yesterday. She began flipping through the pages, her eyes flying so fast over the words that there was no way that she was actually reading or comprehending. Trust the witch to pull forth a sodding textbook in the middle of a very unsettling interrogation.
"When Tom Riddle came, he cursed me to be silent and he bound me to him, for he knew that should my testimony become common knowledge, his followers would come to see him for what he, truly, was: a selfish wizard, only pushing for blood purity to gain personal power and immortality. He used my snake for his murders and then you slew the beast while I was forced to stay muted and imprisoned! But Slytherin's rage, his pain from the Founders' betrayal, could not die so easily. I was freed by you, Harry Potter. When you destroyed Tom Riddle, you set Slytherin's rage free."
Potter remained indifferent. Granger, having found nothing in that sodding book of hers, had returned it to her bag, and was looking at her friend with concern.
"Voldemort, he championed your cause, though," Draco offered, choosing to ignore the fact that he was literally talking to a wall. It was starting to seem like he was the only one here with a working brain to carry the conversation.
"No, boy. He mutilated my cause to serve his needs. He used my home to stage his wars. My snake was laid to waste, its venom was used by mudbloods, half-bloods, and blood traitors to destroy his soul. Indeed, he was my heir, but not my follower," the voice lamented.
"He massacred thousands for your ideals!" Granger shouted, her eyes had finally snapped away from Potter and she wore a deadly glare. She itched something on her left arm as if to remove it, and glowered. "People were tortured, murdered, rap-"
"Careful, Mudblood. I haven't spilled dirty blood in a very long time - do not tempt me," the voice threatened. "Do you know, filth, what Riddle's boggart was? It wasn't a wizarding world ruled by your kind and the squibs, no. It was his own corpse. Everything he did was an act of self-preservation."
"And your curse? Is that your act of self-preservation?" quipped Potter, coming back to the present from his reverie.
"It is an act of kindness, Harry Potter. Consider it my gift."
"We don't want it," Draco argued, much to Granger's surprise. She narrowed her eyes to regard him with suspicion, but he continued to glare at Salazar's stone sculpture.
"How do we end this?" questioned Potter, taking a step towards the walls and pressing his hand firmly against the cold stone.
"Cleanse the school of all Mud-"
"How else?" Potter insisted, gritting his teeth sharply.
"Ask the casters, boy," the voice said.
"Casters?" said Granger. "You mean there's more than one? And it wasn't you?"
"I am Slytherin's rage, not Slytherin himself. A witch or a wizard must command me."
"Who commands you?" Draco asked.
"Two brothers, equally guilty. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange," the voice confessed. "They came during the early summer months after all the children had departed home and the last of teachers had left. They said Riddle taught them enough parseltongue were he to die to enter the Chamber."
"And they commanded you to do this? To infect the school, send it attacking after Penelope and Hermione?" Potter was effectively bubbling with fury. "You've been whispering into the paintings' ears, trembling the walls, moving the stairs to the dungeons? I thought you said you only listen to Slytherin's heirs."
"I have been...gaining power, half-blood. It's an insidious process. And no, I said the Basilisk only listened to Salazar's heirs, which is why it was protecting my existence from everyone else. I am free to listen to whoever commands me."
"Then, I command you! Stop destroying the school, stop threatening the students, and the teachers! Just stop!" huffed Potter.
"I cannot, not until my oath to the brothers' is complete."
"The oldest feud bows only to a bond even older - drag heat from its power and your home will be less colder - what does it mean?" Granger said, to no one in particular. Only a minute ago, her voice had resonated with authority but now she was much quieter. Draco noticed that the corners of her eyes were tightly pulled, and the tip of her nose had turned a fervent pink. A swollen bulb of tear brimmed on the edge of her lower eyelid, threatening to spill over her blushed cheek, but she blinked rapidly to send it away.
"You are a clever little wench, aren't you, Hermione Granger? It will bring me insurmountable pleasure to save you till the very end."
Draco felt his magic surge and crackle through his wand. This was getting rather repetitive, and boring. Salazar's blasted beard, he couldn't even hex the fucking voice! Sighing to relieve the tension so tightly knotted in his lungs, Draco continued his protest with renewed stubbornness, "As the only living heir of the Noble House of Black, and on my honor as a Malfoy, I command you to tell me how to end this curse!" His voice dropped lower and lower as his words climbed with wrath, "Or so help me, Merlin, I will drag my uncle and his foul brother in here and spill their blood on your floor, before I make you wish you were even less than a voice."
He could feel Potter and Granger's weighty, wide-eyed stares drilling into him, but Draco refused to acknowledge their bewilderment. Instead, he rested both his hands on his hips and cast a black look around the Chamber.
"Brave of you to challenge the spite of a wizard even Tom Riddle feared," countered the voice, but offered wisdom regardless. "Salazar bound his anger to the castle walls after he was cursed with the Founders' betrayal. Perhaps, the only way to break the curse is to become the curse itself - to understand the Founders," the voice said with finality.
The grating stopped and Granger breathed out, "...to understand a bond even older."
Potter nodded with apprehension at her conclusion.
"I don't think we're going to get much out of him," he said. He looked at Granger, then at Draco, before he began to return towards the entrance.
Granger turned on her heels towards Slytherin's statue, pointed her wand at his face, and calmly uttered, "Bombarda Maxima."
A loud bang followed as stones crumbled to the floor, but Potter did not look back. Draco picked up the piece nearest to him and examined the grotesque, nose-shaped marble. When he looked at Granger, he saw her waving away the debris and dust from around her face, a triumphant smile gracing her features. And when he arched his neck to peer at Slytherin's tall form, he recognized the wizard's feet, his fine cloak, even his hands clasped in the middle in a pose, but the sculpture ended at his shoulders. Salazar's neck and bald head lay shattered to pieces on the ground around them.
If she had done this during their school days, he would have undoubtedly hexed her - and he would have called it self-defense to salvage his House pride. Instead, charged with repulsion towards the evening's events, Draco found himself, reluctantly, smiling along with the vixen.
As he sauntered after the witch, one hand in the pocket of his dress pants and the other running through his light hair, he stared at Granger's wild hair from the back. The way it swept across her petite back as if it were a mane or a regal cloak. Her hips didn't taunt him like Astoria's and her walk didn't call to him as Pansy's did. But she walked with fire as her train. He took in her relatively small frame but gulped with fear.
Motherfucker. How, in the span of one evening, had he gone from enjoying tea as an ideal, non-meddling, stone-hearted Slytherin to cursing at Salazar himself and gawking at Hermione Granger?
Fin. Till two weeks. In the mean time, wash your hands, sneeze in your elbows, stay safe!
Love,
Kore.