Chapter 12: Heir Apparent

Though Draco had lived in the Manor all his life, there were rooms he'd never set foot in, even rooms whose interiors he'd never so much as glimpsed. His father's study belonged to the latter category, and it was outside this door that he stood, staring as though hypnotized at a doorknob he knew was well within his reach but seemed utterly impossible to touch.

His father wasn't there. In fact, his parents were out of the country, leaving Draco to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. But he hadn't stayed at Hogwarts. He'd exhausted every avenue he could think of in the castle to glean more information about the Heir of Slytherin, and come up infuriatingly empty. This made sense, he supposed. He'd always known the opening of the Chamber had been well and truly hushed up the first time, so it would've been ridiculous to continue keeping books about it in the Hogwarts library for anyone to stumble upon. His father, on the other hand, knew a great deal about the incident even if he would share only paltry details with Draco, and surely he had to keep the information somewhere. And so, when he'd realized the Manor would be empty over the Christmas holidays, he'd made the boldest and most terrifying decision of his life.

Yes, he was quite alone aside from Dobby, and he'd made sure Dobby was occupied downstairs and across the house this morning by sprinkling dust over the silver in the drawing room. The fear tugged at the back of his mind already that Dobby might be duty-bound to tell his parents he'd flouted their orders and come home for the holidays; it wouldn't do to allow the Elf to catch him snooping around his father's study.

Of course, in order to truly be snooping in his father's study, he'd need to open the door. The trouble was, his hand was stuck in midair and the thought of moving it made his heart pound and his tongue dry up and stick to the roof of his mouth. Vivid images of what his father would do if he caught Draco in his study whirled around his mind, filling his throat with the highly caustic taste of panic. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

But he couldn't stop now, or he'd have disobeyed his parents for no reason, and then he'd probably never find the Heir and Hermione would keep up her investigation and be attacked and possibly killed, and...He stopped short. He had to get a grip. It was really quite simple, he told himself. There were two choices, and only two. He could turn the knob and push open the door, or he could walk away and never look back.

He took a deep breath and counted to five. Then, very quickly so as to allow no time to think better of it (or to think at all), he reached out, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. Once inside, his panic was momentarily forgotten and he gasped aloud.

The room was enormous, far larger than it logically should have been. The ceiling towered twenty feet over his head, and the far wall was lined with an amalgamation of windows in all different sizes. A closer look told Draco they didn't simply look out on the grounds; instead, each showed a different scene-colorful, bustling city markets, dark cliffs jutting out into the ocean, snow-capped mountains against the most beautiful and otherworldly sunsets Draco had ever seen. A delicate spiral staircase led to a small library that wrapped around the room overhead.

No wonder his father spent so much time in here, Draco thought. If it were his study, he'd never leave.

Not really sure what he was looking for, he tore himself away from the windows and gave his father's desk a cursory glance. It was tidy and empty, and something told Draco that if he were to find anything, it wouldn't be down here in plain sight. He climbed the spiral staircase, scanning the bookshelves. The library on the main floor of the Manor housed thousands of books on every subject imaginable, all attractively bound and impeccably organized. This room couldn't have been more different. Most of the books up here were in varying states of disrepair, including a few that looked so fragile Draco was sure they'd crumble if he so much as touched them. They didn't appear to be organized in any particular way-Confronting the Faceless was next to Magick Moste Evile, and many of the books had titles so worn with age that they were impossible to read, or were simply bound in blank leather. There was a small desk and chair in the far corner, invisible to anyone who stood on the floor below. It was toward this desk that Draco found himself drawn, and sure enough, a large book lay open on top with a few scattered bits of parchment surrounding it. Many of them were simply covered with his father's scrawl, rather less tidy than normal. One of them, however, appeared to be a letter. Fascinated, Draco picked it up and read.

Oh, Lucius, you do make me laugh, even at your most insufferable.

You cannot possibly believe I would leave such a crucial artifact unguarded in my unfortunate absence. The wretched cup is safer than your puny mind could possibly comprehend, and I would seriously caution you not to go looking for it, for if you seek beneath our floors a treasure that was never yours...as they say. Don't think for a moment I'm powerless just because I'm locked up in here. If I find that you've attempted to steal the honor that justly belongs to me...you can imagine perfectly well what I shall do, can't you, you wretched man. You've been warned.

Hugs and kisses!

Bella

P.S. You might consider getting out that book of yours before you come sniffing after what's mine.

As Draco lowered the parchment, a shiver went down his spine. He'd heard whisperings of his mad aunt Bellatrix, but he'd always assumed they were exaggerated. By the look of it, he'd been wrong. The letter read like a response to one sent by his father, and it was dated April of last year. So, sometime during his first year at Hogwarts, Draco's father had written to his aunt in Azkaban, but why? Could it be connected to the business with Quirrell and the Sorcerer's Stone, or to whatever his parents had been arguing about last Christmas? And, now he thought about it, what was this letter doing sitting out on his father's desk if it was half a year old?

Draco shook his head slightly to clear it, and laid the parchment carefully back down exactly where he'd found it. Everything about the letter gave him the creeps, and besides, it wasn't what he was looking for. He glanced over the open page of the book. The parchment was moldy in places and yellow with age, and the ink had faded to such a degree that it was scarcely legible. "On Horcruxes," read the script at the top of the page, and as Draco's eyes traveled downward, he nearly vomited. The words might have been faded, but the illustrations were much clearer, and they showed the most explicit depiction of a brutal murder that Draco had ever seen, accompanied by images of people who looked...off somehow, twisted and dark, almost inhuman. Without bothering to try reading the text, he closed the book. Secrets of the Darkest Art, read the front cover. He'd known his father often conducted research on things that turned his stomach, and he didn't have to know what Horcruxes were to be quite certain they fell into that category. With a shiver, he turned away from the desk. On the wall behind him, he found the one corner of this upper story that wasn't covered in books. Instead, it was hung with an enormous tapestry, and upon closer inspection, Draco realized it showed the (quite interconnected) family trees of the surviving old Pure-Blood families. Suddenly, he felt quite stupid. How could he not have thought to consult a family tree? True, Slytherin had lived over a thousand years ago, but it was worth a look.

At the top of his eyeline, he could read mainly names he'd heard before: Prewett, Longbottom, Weasley...the Blacks and the Malfoys took up nearly half the tapestry, but he glossed over these names impatiently. There wasn't going to be anything here he hadn't heard five hundred times before. Scanning upward now, he began to spot less familiar names. Potter melted into Peverell as the dates crept back into the 16th century, and then, abruptly, he saw it. A series of dotted lines indicating incomplete information linked Camdus Peverell to Marvolo Gaunt, a name Draco was sure he'd never heard before. Above Gaunt, however, connected by another thin, dotted line, was Salazar Slytherin. Heartbeat quickening slightly, Draco followed the line from Marvolo Gaunt to his two children, Morfin and Merope Gaunt. Morfin, it appeared, had died childless, but Merope had a son, Tom Marvolo Riddle. There were no other lines connected to Salazar Slytherin, and the line of descent ended there. Draco frowned; this was odd for a few reasons. First, "Riddle" didn't sound like the name of any Wizarding family Draco had heard before, and there was no indication of this Tom Riddle's father anywhere on the tapestry, which could only mean one thing. Whoever his father was, he wasn't a Pure-Blood wizard. Finally, Tom Riddle had been born in 1926, making it completely impossible he would be attending Hogwarts this year. Draco studied the tapestry until he thought his eyes would fall out, searching for any chance he'd missed something, but he hadn't. Unless this Tom Riddle had a child who wasn't depicted on the tapestry, it appeared Draco had found the Heir of Slytherin.

Hours later, Draco still couldn't make sense of any of it. Though he'd searched his father's study for as long as he dared, he'd found nothing else remotely related to the Heir or the Chamber. Worrying that Dobby would come looking for him if he disappeared for too long, he'd resigned himself to spending the rest of the afternoon in the library, trying to do his homework.

Infuriatingly, however, the harder he tried to focus on Charms and Transfiguration and whatever inane drivel Lockhart had assigned, the more his mind wandered. He'd thought it was unlikely the Heir was a student, but that didn't explain how a man who would now be nearly seventy years old could enter the school undetected. Draco could see several possibilities: Riddle might have entered the castle in disguise, though that seemed unlikely. It was supposed to be very difficult to get into Hogwarts without having clear business there. Perhaps, then, he wasn't acting alone, but having someone with business in the castle carry out his bidding. Finally, it was possible that the tapestry had it wrong, and Riddle had, in fact, had a child. All of these possibilities meant the same frustrating thing: Draco was no closer to working out who was opening the Chamber.

"Is Young Master wanting his dinner?" Dobby's high-pitched voice startled him out of his thoughts, and looking around, Draco realized dark had fallen outside.

"Er-I'm not hungry," he said vaguely. "Thanks, Dobby."

"Young Master is not eating for hours and hours," said Dobby fretfully. Draco laid aside his Charms essay and turned to face the Elf, suddenly struck by an idea.

"Can I ask you about something?" he said slowly. Dobby looked frightened.

"Young Master may ask whatever Young Master wishes," he squeaked, with a small bow. Draco paused. He'd tried getting sensitive information out of Dobby before with decidedly mixed results, but this had to be worth a try, didn't it?

"Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?" he asked. "The first time it was opened, I mean?" Dobby froze, eyes so large they took up nearly half his face, batlike ears standing on end.

"Dobby is knowing some things," he said carefully, backing slowly away from Draco. "But Young Master is ought to be staying very far away from such things, very far indeed…" Draco frowned.

"What things?" he asked, a bit more forcefully than he'd intended. "And stop running away," he added irritably, for the Elf had nearly reached the door now. Dobby stopped dead in his tracks. After a very long pause he opened his mouth to speak, but then abruptly hurled his own head into the door frame with a sickening crunch, screaming "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Very bad Dobby!"

Draco felt his heart drop all the way into his shoes. He tried to seize the Elf and drag him away from the wall, but his legs didn't seem to work and he could only watch, horrorstruck and sick with a strange sort of guilt he'd never felt before.

"Stop!" he cried. "Stop it, please, I just-" his paralysis broke abruptly and he stumbled across the room and wrenched Dobby away from the door, heart pounding painfully against his ribcage.

"Dobby has frightened Young Master," panted the Elf, looking desperately contrite. Draco willed his heartbeat and his breath to slow. He tried to speak, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, so he simply nodded slightly.

"Dobby had to punish himself, Sir," said the Elf grimly. "Dobby is forbidden to speak to Young Master of such things, Sir."

"Why d'you have to punish yourself?" asked Draco, scarcely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

"If Dobby has already punished himself, Sir, then Dobby need no longer fear Master's punishments, Sir," said Dobby, with the air of an old professor conveying his wisdom to his young pupil. Draco felt a tight, dry ache in his throat, as if he were about to cry.

"Please," he breathed, scarcely above a whisper. "If you know anything, I've got to know what it is. A girl died, didn't she? Last time? And my best friend, she-" he broke off. He'd be sick if he tried to say any more. Dobby, however, was looking up at Draco then as if he'd never seen him before.

"Young Master is being friends with a girl of Muggle parentage?" he squeaked.

"Yes, and I can't get her to stop looking for this Heir of Slytherin person, even though she's putting herself in danger!" He had no idea why he was telling Dobby this, but couldn't seem to stop himself. "So I've got to find out everything I can before she does, because it's not dangerous for me the way it is for her! I can talk to the Heir without being attacked, so I've got to be the one to find them, and she's brilliant, Dobby. She's the smartest person I know, so if I don't find out who it is soon, she'll have found them first and then...Then I can't even think about what's going to happen," he finished, staring at a spot on the floor.

"Young Master is wanting to stop the attacks," came Dobby's high, squeaky voice from somewhere behind him. "Young Master risks his own life to save his Muggle-born friend."

"My life's not at risk," groaned Draco. "Please, if you know anything at all, you've got to tell me." Dobby was quiet for what felt like a year.

"Young Master is knowing as much as Dobby, Sir," sighed the Elf. "Dobby is knowing of the poor girl's death, and Dobby is knowing that the attacker was caught, Sir." Draco's head shot up, and he turned to face Dobby again.

"And where is...the attacker...now?" asked Draco, hardly daring to hope for an answer.

"Ah, Sir, Dobby is not knowing, Young Master, Sir," said the Elf sadly. "Young Master is very brave to want to protect his friend, but Young Master would be doing much better to leave this in the hands of Professor Dumbledore, Sir." Draco gave a start. He'd never heard Dobby mention another wizard outside the family before, and the Headmaster's name sounded wrong in his high-pitched voice.

"Professor Dumbledore hasn't done anything except keep the attacks out of the Daily Prophet," he said bitterly. "I can't leave it to him."

The next few days passed in much the same way. Draco combed every inch of the library, but found nothing else related to the Chamber or the Heir. He considered going back into his father's study, but each time he approached the door, the horrible images he'd seen in the Dark Arts book filled his mind and he thought better of it. Dobby mainly stayed out of his way-Draco had a suspicion that the Elf was keen to know as little about what Draco was doing as possible, which was fine with him.

One afternoon, he'd resigned himself to finishing the ridiculous essay Lockhart had set them (discuss, with examples, your favorite of Gilderoy Lockhart's heroic triumphs over an inhuman spirit or beast), and had the eerie feeling he was being watched. He looked around sharply, but he was quite alone in the library aside from a marble bust of a wizard whose name he'd long since forgotten. He shook his head slightly and turned back to his parchment, which was blank aside from his name and a few absentminded doodles in the upper right-hand corner. He flipped Gadding with Ghouls open to a random page and found himself halfway through a lengthy, rambling anecdote about the kindly old witch who'd left everything she owned to Lockhart in her will after he'd got rid of a troubling horde of pixies in her attic. He'd donated it all to charity, he noted boastfully, except the old woman's favorite tea strainer, which he'd found he couldn't bring himself to part with and would later use to trap the ghouls for which he'd named the book.

Draco groaned aloud. Not one word of this could possibly be true. For one thing, he thought savagely, he couldn't imagine anything about Lockhart's handling of the pixies he'd released on his Defense Against the Dark Arts class would inspire an old woman to leave him anything at all in her will, and-there it was again, that feeling that he was being watched. He turned more quickly this time, determined to catch whoever it was, but once again found himself alone. With a grunt of frustration, he rose from his chair and strode across the room toward the bust, turning it sharply to face the wall before returning to his ill-fated essay.

What were ghouls, anyway? Were they monsters? Spirits? He didn't know, but whatever they were, he hated them for inspiring such an asinine book. He slammed Gadding with Ghouls shut furiously and snatched up Year with the Yeti to begin the whole wretched process again. He was on the point of throwing the book out the window-he didn't care that Lockhart's favorite color was lilac, and in fact, he realized now that he hated lilac, and all other shades of purple, for that matter-when he felt it again. This time he could've snapped his neck, he turned so quickly, but still he saw nothing. Swearing under his breath, he tore across the room once again, this time to slam the door shut, but upon glancing out into the corridor, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Lurking just beyond the door frame, eyes twice their normal width, was Dobby.

"Christ, you scared me half to death," he snapped.

"Dobby is most apologetic, Young Master," squeaked the Elf, and Draco frowned. Dobby was looking at him as though someone had died.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, softening his tone considerably.

"Young Master has been in Master's study," said Dobby mournfully. Draco's blood froze.

"No, I haven't," he said at once, knowing as the lie left his lips that it was no use. Dobby began to wring his hands.

"Young Master is moving his father's books," he wailed. "Dobby is telling Young Master that he must leave the Chamber of Secrets in the hands of Professor Dumbledore, Sir, but Young Master did not heed Dobby!"

"I didn't move his books," said Draco, perplexed.

"Ah, Young Master is finding his father's book that talks of the most foul deeds known to Wizardkind, Sir!" howled the Elf, clearly in great distress. "And Young Master is closing the cover, Sir, and Dobby is finding it when Dobby is cleaning in Master's study!" Oh. Draco couldn't believe he'd made such a stupid mistake.

"I won't do it again," he muttered, hating how very much he sounded like an eight-year-old.

"Young Master is ought to stay very far away from his father's study, very far away indeed," Dobby went on earnestly. "There is things Young Master cannot understand, Sir, things-" he broke off abruptly, eyes darting around madly. Draco's mind flashed back to the Elf smashing his head into the door frame.

"All right!" he said quickly. "I won't go in again. I promise, Dobby. All right?" Dobby stopped cold.

"Young Master...makes Dobby a promise?" he said wonderingly, now gazing up at Draco instead of searching the corridor.

"Yes," he repeated, very relieved. The Elf nodded, still looking quite bewildered, and began to walk unsteadily back down the corridor. Watching him go, Draco felt something tug at the back of his mind. He hadn't paid any attention to the date since he'd been here, but he was almost certain he'd been at the Manor for five days now, which meant...

"Dobby?" he called. The Elf turned.

"Yes, Young Master?"

"What day is it?" Dobby looked surprised.

"Why, t'is Christmas Day, Young Master!" he squeaked. Draco nodded, then frowned.

"Why are you cleaning my father's study, then?" he asked.

"Master's study must be clean, Sir," said the Elf, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. Draco, however, suddenly felt profoundly wrong, though a search for a logical explanation yielded nothing.

"But it's Christmas," said finally, painfully aware of how very childish he sounded.

"Yes, Young Master." And with a shrug, the Elf turned and was gone.

Draco stood still in the corridor for a few moments. He couldn't explain why the realization that today was Christmas had shaken him so much-it wasn't as though he had any particular attachment to the day itself. As a child he'd awaited extravagant gifts with feverish anticipation, but last year the elaborate celebration had simply left him with an odd sense of empty melancholy. Now, though he was at a loss to explain why, he felt the powerful urge to do something-anything-to commemorate the occasion. The trouble was, he hadn't the foggiest idea what.

He wandered aimlessly into the living room, and as he looked around, memories flitted through his mind of past Christmases, gone almost as soon as he'd glimpsed them. There was the year he was six-he'd gotten his first broom, and scarcely spent any daylight hours inside for the next several weeks. The year he was eight, and his father had taught him to light a fire in the fireplace with magic. He'd managed to light a fire, he recalled, but quickly lost control of the flames. Idly he searched the floor for the burn marks, but found nothing; Dobby must have fixed them, he supposed. There was last year, when his parents had scarcely been speaking to one another and he'd retreated upstairs early in the evening to write a letter to Hermione.

The lack of decoration hadn't bothered him thus far-it made sense, as his parents believed no one would be there to appreciate it. Now, however, the room seemed unbearably gloomy.

He crossed to the fireplace, wishing for the first time in his life that he had any clue how to light a fire without magic. Sighing slightly, he turned and wandered out of the living room and found his feet carrying him, as if of their own accord, toward yet another room he'd never set foot in: the kitchen.

Once there, he stood frozen in the doorway for a few moments, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. The room was enormous, and everything in it seemed large and shiny and mysterious, as if it could kill him if he so much as looked at it the wrong way. He shook his head slightly, knowing this was ridiculous, and took a few cautious steps inside, not really knowing what he was looking for.

"Young Master should not be here!" came Dobby's high-pitched voice, laced with alarm, from behind. Draco fought to hide his startled jump and turned toward the Elf.

"I wanted-" he broke off. No end to that sentence came to mind, and eventually he gave a helpless shrug.

"Oh, Young Master is ought to be going upstairs," wailed Dobby. "Bad things is happening, very bad things indeed, if Masters knew that Dobby has allowed Young Master in the kitchens, Sir!" Draco shook his head slightly, bewildered.

"What bad things?" he asked, but Dobby simply quivered in the doorway, looking positively stricken.

"Young Master must be going upstairs now," he said firmly, after a very long pause. "Dobby will bring Young Master his hot chocolate." Struck by a sudden need he would never quite be able to explain, Draco stayed where he was.

"Show me," he said quietly. "Show me how to make it." Dobby looked horrified, but Draco didn't move. "I won't ever tell them," he added, trying to sound as calm and reassuring as he could. "Please. I promise." Dobby studied him with his large, round eyes for what felt like an eternity. Finally, very slowly, he nodded. The Elf tottered across the room, opening cabinets to reveal hundreds of powders, herbs, and small silver instruments whose purposes Draco could only imagine. The tremble in his voice grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Listening to Dobby explain, in great detail, the process for making hot chocolate, Draco felt an indescribable warmth creep over him. Strange though it seemed, he thought this was the best Christmas he could've asked for.

On the last evening before he took the train back to Hogwarts, Draco remembered Hermione's book. Rationally, he knew there was no chance of his parents ever finding out he'd brought it into their home, but he still locked himself in his bedroom before he slipped it out of his bag. He felt more secure that way.

The wrapping fell to the floor, revealing a demented-looking woman wearing enormous gloves and towering over a crowd of small children. The Witches, read the title, and he grinned in anticipation. He opened the book, and almost at once, he wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. Hermione had told him it was silly, and she hadn't been lying. It was the story of a small boy who lost both of his parents and went to live with his grandmother. The boy quickly began to annoy Draco; he asked stupid questions and didn't have a fraction of Matilda's brilliance. His grandmother, on the other hand, was a disgruntled old Norweigan woman who smoked cigars and told thrilling (albeit ridiculous) tales of her time as witch hunter in her youth. She was quite funny, but more than that, her love for the little boy shone through in a way that made his heart ache. The story was a convoluted and enthralling one, and it wasn't until he'd finished the book that he noticed a pair of large, green eyes surveying him from the doorway. He jumped and nearly dropped the book in alarm.

"Christ, Dobby!" he exclaimed, fighting to slow his heartbeat.

"Dobby is very sorry indeed, Young Master," said the Elf. Draco sighed and closed the book. Instinctively he shoved it out of sight under his pillow, and as he did so, the horrible thought that had lurked in the back of his mind all week returned. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to be prepared.

"Er-Dobby?"

"Young Master is needing something?" squeaked Dobby.

"I wondered...well...I suppose you'll have to tell my parents? That I was here, I mean?"

Dobby regarded Draco then with the deepest, most solemn look he'd ever seen in his life. Wordlessly he held up his hands, and Draco's heart shattered in his chest. The Elf's fingers were covered in raw, angry burns which he'd made a poor attempt at covering with a few filthy makeshift bandages. Tears stung his eyes and sick, acrid guilt cut him to the core. He'd been so selfish, coming here in defiance of his parents' wishes without a thought to the trouble he was causing for Dobby. Dobby, who'd done nothing but care for Draco for as long as he could remember. It ought to be his hands burned beyond recognition.

"Do not be sad, Young Master," came Dobby's voice from his left, and he realized the Elf was beside him now. "Dobby is not sad. Is Young Master knowing why?" Draco shook his head. He couldn't speak.

"Dobby is bound to serve his masters until Dobby dies, Sir," said the Elf, and he once again sounded like a wise old professor. "Dobby upholds the family's honor, and Dobby keeps their secrets and his silence for them, Sir." He paused, like a speaker waiting for his words to have their intended effect. "Dobby is bound to keep their secrets and his silence for Young Master's parents, Sir," he concluded earnestly, "but if Young Master's secret is that he cares for his friend, Sir, then Dobby is proud to keep his secrets and his silence for Young Master, Sir."

The Elf swelled with pride then, but Draco couldn't look any longer.

"I'm so sorry, Dobby," he gasped, and it was all he could do to force the words out. He turned and buried his face in his pillows, sobbing until he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.