Thursday 17 December, 1992:

Harry was finally able to see again when he stumbled out of the smoke-filled Great Hall and into an unfamiliar corridor. He turned around to see Lestrange shutting the door behind her, a few tendrils of blue smoke escaping the confines of the Hall.

She met Harry's gaze for a brief moment, an odd look on her face. Then she set off down the corridor, calling back to him, "Come on."

Harry had to run a few steps to catch up to her. "Where are we?" he asked, looking around.

"Teachers' entrance and exit to the Hall."

Harry looked back at the door they had come through. "And the blue smoke, was that you?"

"Yes."

When no elaboration to her answer was forthcoming, Harry opened his mouth to ask just what was going on, only for Lestrange to come to a sudden halt and turn to the right wall. Directly in front of her was a torch, which she reached up to grab. But instead of taking it out of its holder, she pulled it down like a lever. Harry gaped as the section of the wall next to it swung open like a door, revealing a very narrow spiral staircase. Apparently Lestrange, like Fred and George, was well-acquainted with the secret passages of Hogwarts.

Once again, Lestrange grabbed the back of his robes and pushed him through the opening before he could protest. Standing on the second bottom step, he heard behind him Lestrange also stepping through and shutting the secret door, thrusting the staircase into darkness.

Harry started to say, "What's going on–" when a blue light suddenly illuminated the staircase. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Lestrange was holding a large ball of blue flames in one hand, and was pulling her wand out of her pocket with the other. She tapped the banister of the staircase with her wand and without any warning, the stairs shot forward. Harry yelped, and would have fallen backwards if Lestrange's hand hadn't been behind his back to steady him.

This staircase moved much faster than the stairs in the Grand Staircase, and was moving upward in a spiralling fashion, making it an altogether more unpleasant and nauseating experience. Harry desperately wished it would stop, but the stairs were showing no sign of slowing down, and he didn't dare open his mouth to ask Lestrange where they were going in fear of throwing up.

Just when Harry was beginning to wonder if this was how he was going to meet his death, the staircase stopped as suddenly as it had started, and Harry fell forward. Yet again he was saved by Lestrange, who pulled him back upright. Eager to escape the staircase, he noticed a door a little in front of him and unsteadily climbed the last few steps to reach it. He wrenched it open and stepped through with relief, only to find himself surrounded by darkness yet again.

He once again felt Lestrange's hand on his back, this time giving him a much gentler push forward. Suddenly there was light, and Harry could take in his surroundings. They were in a small, semi-circle shaped room, the only furniture two small armchairs with a low round table between them. Hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room was a lamp, which he assumed Lestrange had lit. But the most striking feature of the room was a circular window, about five-feet in diameter, built into the curved wall opposite of the door he had just come through. Harry automatically crossed over to it and looked out. With the moonlight blocked out by the clouds, it was difficult to see outside clearly, but he could just make out the Astronomy Tower, with which they appeared to be level.

"You're a Parselmouth."

Harry spun around. Lestrange had perched herself on the arm of one of the chairs and was looking at him intently.

The word was unfamiliar to Harry. "I'm a what?" he asked.

"A Parselmouth," repeated Lestrange. "You can converse with snakes."

"I know," said Harry, walking over to the armchair opposite to Lestrange. "I mean, that's only the second time I've ever done it. I accidently set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once – long story – but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to. That was before I knew I was a wizard. "

"And once you knew you were a wizard, you never bothered to investigate this ability further?" said Lestrange, quirking an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged. "A lot of weird things happened to me growing up."

"Talk to a lot of animals, did you?" asked Lestrange wryly.

"No, but–"

"You just conflated it with all your other experiences of accidental magic," interrupted Lestrange. She sighed, and rubbed her cheek. Harry was suddenly struck with how tired she looked. He remembered that his first impression of Lestrange, when he'd first seen her over a year ago in the Grand Staircase, was that she appeared unwell. Now, he found himself wondering if there really was something wrong with her, health-wise.

"Lestrange," he asked hesitantly, "are you all right?"

She stared at him blankly for a few seconds, then let out a snort of laughter. "No, not really," she said. "But I'd be more worried about yourself if I was you, Potter."

"Why?" said Harry, confused.

"Because you just revealed to a large portion of the school that you're a Parselmouth."

"So?" said Harry. "I bet loads of people here can do it."

"No, Potter," said Lestrange flatly, "they can't. You see, the ability to speak Parseltongue – the snake language – is incredibly rare. And it's supposed to be hereditary."

"So maybe my mum or dad could speak it," said Harry dismissively. "I can ask Hagrid, he'd probably know."

But Lestrange shook her head. "Your mother was a Muggle-born, so she couldn't have been," she explained. "And if your father was – which seems highly improbable – he did a hell of a job of keeping it secret."

Harry was beginning to feel frustrated. "Then maybe–"

Lestrange cut him off. "I don't think I'm doing a very good job of explaining the situation to you, so let me try and break this down for you. Potter, being a Parselmouth is seen as the mark of a Dark wizard. Even before Salazar Slytherin, there was Herpo the–"

Harry broke in. "Slytherin was one too? A Parselmouth?"

"It's why the symbol of Slytherin house is a serpent," said Lestrange. "And you'll find that the majority of Parselmouths on record in Britain since him have been his descendants. Including the last known Parselmouth to attend Hogwarts." She paused, and stared at Harry with an intensity that made him want to squirm. Then, in a soft voice, she said, "I believe you met him last June."

It took Harry a moment to comprehend this. When he did, he dropped down into the armchair, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. "You mean," he said, his voice suddenly very dry, "Voldemort?"

Lestrange nodded slowly. "It's not a well-known fact, but yes. So, given the history of Parselmouths, are you beginning to understand why everyone reacted the way they did? Obviously, I realised that you were giving the snake a command, and it obeyed, but everyone else had never heard Parseltongue before: they heard you speak it – or rather, hiss it – and panicked, instead of focusing on what you must have said."

"And Justin is a Muggle-born," said Harry thoughtfully. "He probably wouldn't have understood that I was talking to it, trying to help him." He shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe I spoke in a whole different language without realising it." Then part of what Lestrange had said finally registered with Harry, and he frowned. "Hang on, are you saying you've heard someone speak to a snake before?"

Lestrange became very still, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly.

Something clicked into place in Harry's head. "That's why you know Voldemort is a Parselmouth," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You heard him speak it."

Lestrange closed her eyes. When she opened them a second later, it was as though the glass that had encased them had shattered, and Harry was finally seeing clearly what lay behind it. The blue-grey eyes, usually so cold, were filled with a pain that seemed too large for one pair of eyes to hold. But somewhere amongst the pain was something else: an absolute loneliness that Harry recognised only too well – for it was the same loneliness that Harry had used to see in the bright green eyes that looked back at him in the mirror.

"Yes, I knew him." Her voice was quiet, but Harry, after seeing what Lestrange's eyes held, could detect traces of that same pain. "Does that surprise you?"

Harry hesitated. It was one thing to know that her parents had been Voldemort's followers, but he'd never really made any direct connection between his parents' murderer and the girl sitting in front of him. "Well," he said at last, "I suppose it shouldn't. Considering your parents..." He trailed off.

Lestrange smiled bitterly. "Yes, considering my parents were two of his most trusted Death Eaters."

This was yet another term unfamiliar to Harry. "Did you say 'death eaters'?" he questioned.

She looked at him oddly. "Yes. As in the name of Voldemort's followers." She moved from the arm of the chair to the actual seat of it. "You didn't know that?"

"I think there's not really that much I do know," Harry replied honestly. "Just that Voldemort hated Muggle-borns, and there was a war where lots of people died, and then one night he came to my parents' house and killed them. But when he tried to kill me, he couldn't, because my mum–" He abruptly stopped, suddenly unsure of whether or not to tell Lestrange what Dumbledore had told him in the hospital wing.

But Lestrange didn't push him to finish. Instead, she said, "It must be odd. To know so little about someone who had–" she paused, apparently searching for the right words, "–such a drastic impact on your own life."

Harry had never thought about it like that, but now that Lestrange had said it, he felt she was right. It did seem odd. He really knew next to nothing about his parents' killer – other than what he had seen with his own eyes. He could barely suppress a shudder as he remembered the chalky white face, the demonic red eyes–

"But maybe it's easier that way." Lestrange's gaze had wandered to the window, a pensive expression on her face. "To just think of him as some sort of – of – of personification of evil, a malevolent dark force, instead of an actual person," she mused.

Something about this made Harry feel like he was being challenged by Lestrange. He didn't know if that was her intention; nevertheless, he felt annoyed with himself, and wanted to prove to Lestrange that he wasn't comfortable with his ignorance.

"Then you can tell me more," he said, forcing as much boldness as he could into his voice. "If you knew him, back then."

Lestrange's eyes, icy once again, snapped back to him, and Harry felt his bravado begin to dissipate.

After a few seconds of silence, she spoke, her tone measured. "What do you want to know?"

Harry thought about it. Frightened as he had been by Voldemort, the Dark wizard was clearly a shadow of his former, powerful self. "What did he look like? Before the night he killed my parents?" he asked.

Lestrange's penetrating gaze remained on Harry as she started to twirl a loose tendril of hair around her finger. "A man," she replied. Then she added, "But also something else."

Harry furrowed his brow. "Like what?"

She shrugged. "Just... something else. Something not quite... human." She let go of her hair. "It's not something that can really be explained, only... seen." She bit her lip, as if debating whether to say something. Just as Harry was about to ask her what the matter was, she blurted out, "What does he look like now?"

Unable to restrain himself, Harry snorted. "Definitely 'not quite human'." He told Lestrange what he had seen when Quirrell unwrapped his turban.

Lestrange's expression had returned to unreadable. "That sounds almost..." she hesitated, before finishing, "parasitical.'

About to agree with Lestrange, Harry froze. It was as if somebody had dropped a brick from a very high height, and only now had it hit his head. He stared at Lestrange apprehensively, his whole body tense.

Noticing his change in demeanour, Lestrange tilted her head. "Potter, what's wrong?"

"I only told Ron and Hermione that Voldemort was there that night," said Harry slowly. "All the other students just think that it was Quirrell who tried to steal the Stone. How did you know that Voldemort was there too?"

The blank mask firmly in place, Lestrange's expression gave away nothing when she replied, "I have a reliable source of information here at Hogwarts. That source overheard McGonagall discussing the whole... event, with Sprout, and then told me."

This did little to quell Harry's unease, but the very careful way in which Lestrange chose her words prompted Harry to believe that this was all she was going to say on the subject. This was confirmed only more by Lestrange checking her watch.

"You need to be getting back to the Gryffindor Tower, it's almost curfew," she said, standing up.

Harry blinked, as if waking from a stupor. No doubt Ron and Hermione would be out of their minds with concern for him – and all the while he'd just been sitting in a comfy armchair, having an illuminating chat with Lena Lestrange. The last they had seen of him was Harry revealing he was a Parselmouth to a significant section of the student population.

"Potter?" Lestrange was watching him closely. "We should go."

"People are going to think I'm the heir of Slytherin, aren't they?" said Harry quietly as he stood up too.

Lestrange hesitated for a moment, then slightly nodded her head. "I imagine so," she said, her voice soft, but matter-of-fact. "What happened at the Duelling Club will have spread around the entire school by tomorrow morning. And with the atmosphere of fear engulfing Hogwarts at the moment..." She gave him a twisted smile. "Well, being afraid tends to makes people think... irrationally."

Last year, Harry had experienced what it felt like to be hated by a large group of people, after he, Hermione and Neville had lost Gryffindor 150 points in one night. But to be feared by people...

"We're going to find out who it really is," he said suddenly, with such a fierce determination that even Lestrange looked taken aback for a moment.

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you now?" she said lightly.

"Yeah," said Harry, thinking about the Polyjuice Potion, and the visit they intended on paying Draco Malfoy. "Hermione, Ron and me – we have a plan. And I reckon we'll know who it is soon."

Saying nothing at first, Lestrange simply stared at him. Harry resisted the urge to shiver under her scrutiny. Finally, she said, "You're not one to sit by and let things work themselves out, are you, Potter?"

"No," said Harry firmly. "I'm not."

Lestrange cocked her head, the twisted smile once again gracing her face. "An attribute I very much admire," she said. "I wish you and your friends good luck." She gestured to the door. "But now, I think it really is time for us to go." She walked over and opened it, looking back at Harry. "After you."

Harry made his way over, his stomach slightly churning at the thought of going back down that staircase. The ascent hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience. He stopped at the doorway, staring down into the darkness.

"I'll be right behind you," said Lestrange softly, and Harry felt oddly reassured as he went down the first couple of steps.

He was thrust into blackness once again as Lestrange extinguished the room's light and shut the door. For a second Harry felt totally alone. Then her hand firmly grasped his shoulder.

"So, do you think it made its way to Brazil, or is there still a boa constrictor slithering loose around London?"

Harry couldn't help himself; he laughed.

Monday 21 December, 1992:

"And lastly, I'll just need your signature here."

Lena took the proffered document from Mr Inglebee, and briefly scanned it. Deciding it was all in order, she picked up the quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed it. She passed the document back to Mr Inglebee, who gave it a quick onceover, then stamped it firmly with the Ministry's seal.

"That's everything?" Lena asked him, her calm voice disguising the fact that her heart was racing.

Mr Inglebee nodded. "You are now officially the sole owner of the Lestrange Estate." He picked up one of the documents she had signed earlier and neatly rolled it up. He reached down behind his desk, pulling out a dark blue canister. He carefully placed the scroll in the canister and passed it to Lena. "Here is your copy of the property deed."

Putting the canister in her bag, Lena nodded. "Excellent." Closing the bag, she stood up, her movement matched by Mr Inglebee. She extended her hand, which after half-a-second's hesitation he took. "Thank you for your time, Mr Inglebee," she said as they shook.

Mr Inglebee cleared his throat. "Of course," he replied, letting go of her hand. "I wish you a pleasant day."

"Likewise," said Lena, and with a final nod, exited his office, shutting the door behind her. Upon it was a small gold plaque that read Josiah Inglebee, Office of Property Legislation.

She was on Level Two of the Ministry of Magic Headquarters, but despite it being ten-past-twelve on a Monday, the corridor was empty. Apparently, everybody was hard at work in their offices.

As she strode to the lift, Lena found it difficult to tear her eyes away from her reflection in the lift's doors. She barely recognised herself. The long black hair, usually so carelessly done, was pinned up in an exceptionally neat bun. Her new black overcoat (a birthday gift from Valeriya) fit her rake-thin frame in a surprisingly flattering away, and she had exchanged her worn ankle boots for a pair of gleaming black high heels. But the biggest change was that her face was covered in makeup that made her look – well, like a healthy human being, instead of someone mere minutes away from death.

The makeover had been Valeriya's suggestion. According to her, if Lena wanted to go to the Ministry and stake her claim to be the full and sole owner of the Lestrange house and its surrounding property – which now, having come-of-age, she could – then she should look like someone "who actually lived in a house". Lena had taken the insinuation that her usual appearance resembled a tramp on the chin, and had attired herself accordingly to her aunt's advice.

The lift ride back down to the Atrium was uneventful, if not oddly enjoyable to Lena – there was always something nice about being away from Hogwarts and being able to walk around without the notoriety that was attached to her at school.

She made her way through the Atrium, which was considerably more busy than the corridor on Level Two, and departed using the Visitor's Entrance. She emerged out of the telephone box into the street, a gust of cold wind hitting her face. Lena stood still for a moment, just taking in the fresh, cold air. Then she set off in the direction of Charing Cross Road.

It had certainly been quite a morning for Lena – and one with a fair bit of paperwork. Before she had gone to the Ministry, she had been to Gringotts to claim her sole right to the Lestrange Vault.

According to British Wizarding Law, there were only two circumstances in which the progeny of a still-living wizard or witch could take possession of their parent's assets – in the case of lifetime imprisonment, or permanent mental incapacitation. If either of these situations were applicable, then once the child came-of-age, they could stake their claim. Lena had filed her application in the name of the former – although she personally thought the latter circumstance was just as valid.

Prior to this day, Lena's access to the Lestrange Vault had to be heavily monitored by both her guardian and a Gringotts' employee. Now, her financial situation was entirely under her control.

She finally reached the Leaky Cauldron. As she walked through to the entrance to Diagon Alley, she could feel Tom the barman's eyes following her warily. No doubt her change in apparel had raised some curiosity within him, but he said nothing. He rarely ever did, despite the regularity with which Lena entered and left his pub during the school holidays.

Lena tapped the pattern out on the bricks, and Diagon Alley appeared before her. It wasn't as crowded as it usually was during summer, but there were still a fair number of wizards and witches strolling up and down the street. Lena assumed quite a few of them were trying to cross items off their Christmas shopping lists.

Knockturn Alley was less busy, but there were still several residents and patrons of the shops out in the narrow street to give Lena odd looks, which she either ignored or acknowledged with an icy stare. Before she knew it, she'd arrived back at her and Valeriya's flat.

"It's all done, then?" said Valeriya, not looking up from the kitchen table at which she was sitting. Sheets of parchment and notebooks were spread out in front of her. Lena suspected she was updating her accounts.

"Yes, both the vault and the house," answered Lena, walking to her bedroom. She removed the overcoat and lay it on her bed, smiling as Mortimer, who appeared to have just woken from a nap, scuttled over to greet her. "Hey," she whispered, holding out her hand, and the Bowtruckle climbed onto it.

"When are you going to the house to redo all the protective enchantments?" Valeriya called out.

Lena put Mortimer onto her shoulder. "I was thinking later this afternoon," replied Lena, kicking off her shoes. She sighed with relief once her feet were flat on the ground again, and decided that high-heels were not going to become a regular choice of footwear.

She walked back out to the kitchen, where Valeriya was holding out an envelope.

"Before I forget – a letter came for you while you were out," she said.

Lena took the proffered item and tore it open. Unfolding the enclosed letter, she sat down opposite her aunt. "It's from Rolf," she told Valeriya, scanning the letter. "Newt's invited me to have lunch with their family on Christmas Day." She looked up at Valeriya. "Would you mind?"

Valeriya, already refocusing on her bookkeeping, waved a hand carelessly. "Of course not, go."

"Thanks," murmured Lena, still reading the letter. The corners of her lips turned up slightly. It seemed that Rolf's excitement about Christmas did not diminish from year to year.

"I thought we'd just have the leftover soup for lunch." Valeriya's voice pulled Lena away from Rolf's words, and she looked over at the stove, upon which sat a pot. "Unless you wanted to go out again and–"

"Soup's fine," interrupted Lena.

Valeriya nodded, still engrossed in her work. "Should be hot enough in five minutes or so. How are you planning on getting to the house this afternoon?"

Lena shrugged. "I guess I'll take the Knight Bus. Why?"

Valeriya finally put down her quill and looked up at Lena. "I thought that perhaps you could Side-Apparate along with me, and once all the... housekeeping, is in order, it might be a good opportunity to start teaching you Apparition."

"Apparition?" said Lena, furrowing her brow. "But I'll start lessons back at Hogwarts next month."

Valeriya arched an eyebrow. "I assumed that, like every other part of your education, you would want to get a start on it before the rest of your peers. And the Estate would be a good place for lessons – private, but big enough to provide you some challenges once you grasp the basics."

"Oh." It was an unexpected offer, but one for which Lena was grateful. "Thank you."

Picking up her quill again, Valeriya nodded. "I should be done with all of this in another hour. Shall we say departure at two o'clock?"

"Sure," replied Lena, her head slightly spinning.

"By the way, were you planning on connecting the house to the Floo Network?"

"Erm, no, not at present," said Lena distractedly. Claiming the Lestrange Vault and beginning Apparition lessons was enough to make one day momentous – but on top of that, it would be the first time in over eleven years that Lena had set foot in the Lestrange house. And in the house resided her childhood bedroom, where for almost two years she had spent every Friday afternoon receiving lessons from Lord Voldemort.

She rubbed her cheek tiredly. For so many years, Voldemort had loomed in the back of Lena's mind like a shadow – constant, but manageable. But ever since looking in that damn Mirror, it was like he was right in front of her, no matter which way she turned.

The conversation she'd had with Potter after the Duelling Club had made her old teacher's presence particularly felt – especially when the boy had recounted his meeting with Voldemort six months ago.

There had been another attack the day after that conversation. The victims had been the ghost Nearly Headless Nick and Justin Finch-Fletchley – the boy who had nearly been attacked by the young Malfoy's conjured snake. By the evening, the rumour had spread throughout the entire school: Harry Potter was the heir of Slytherin, and responsible for all the Petrifications.

Lena wondered how Potter was doing at the moment. If he had stayed at Hogwarts over the break, there wouldn't be many other students there, so it might not have been so bad for him. But once they all returned in the New Year – well, she didn't doubt there would be some unpleasant encounters for him.

She was curious as to what the 'plan' for discovering the identity of the heir exactly was. Evidently, if he and his friends had been capable of finding out about the Philosopher's Stone and getting through the teachers' obstacles last year, they were certainly more competent than most children their age were. But Lena found it difficult to believe that the three Second Years would be able to solve the mystery and capture the culprit all by their selves.

"Soup should be ready now."

Lena blinked, snapped back to reality by the mundane announcement.

"I'll get some bowls," she told Valeriya, standing up and going over to the crockery cupboard. As fascinating as Harry Potter was proving to be, today wasn't the day for dwelling upon him – there were plenty of other things to occupy her mind.

A momentous day indeed.

Sunday 28 February, 1993:

It wasn't until the end of February that Lena discovered what Potter's plan had been, and by that time, his Muggle-born friend had become another one of Slytherin's monster's victims.

Lena had just left the Great Hall after lunch when she'd heard the sound of someone running towards her. Turning around, she'd come face to face with Potter, who'd asked if they could talk. For a moment, Lena had simply stared at the boy's face; it just seemed so... lost.

"Of course," she had finally replied, which was how she found herself walking to the edge of the Forbidden Forest with Harry Potter by her side, telling her the intriguing story of how he, Weasley and Granger had brewed the Polyjuice Potion.

"And Snape was positive that it was me who caused Goyle's Swelling Solution to explode, but there wasn't any way he could prove it," Potter was saying. "Mind you," he added, "even if it hadn't been me, I bet he still would have blamed me. Prick," he muttered under his breath.

Lena snorted. "Tell me about it," she said. "I saved the greasy twat's life, and he still looks at me as if he can barely stomach the sight."

"Snape doesn't like you?" asked Potter, puzzled. "I thought he only hated students who weren't in Slytherin."

"Yes, well," said Lena wryly, "I'm something of an exception to the rule."

"But when did you save his life?" questioned Potter.

"The Halloween before last," answered Lena. "When Quirrell let in the mountain troll. Snape went to check on the trapdoor, but almost got mauled to death by the three-headed dog."

"Fluffy," said Potter automatically. Lena gave him a strange look. "The dog's name," he hastily explained. "Hagrid called it Fluffy."

Lena rolled her eyes. "That seems about right. Well, I went to the third-floor corridor too, just in time–" She broke off when she saw Potter's distracted, forlorn expression.

'Of course,' she realised. 'He's friends with Hagrid.'

The news that Hagrid had been taken to Azkaban the previous night had been making its way around Hogwarts that day. It made Lena feel sick. She might not have known Hagrid well, but she knew that he didn't deserve to be locked up in the same place as her parents. But even though she knew it wasn't the gamekeeper who had opened the Chamber fifty years ago, there wasn't anything she could really do – she had no actual evidence that the real culprit had been the young Voldemort, just the word of her grandmother.

About to attempt to comfort Potter, Lena suddenly had the peculiar sensation of feeling as though she was being watched. She looked back over her shoulder, and was immediately vindicated: several hundred yards back stood a small figure. Lena squinted. Although she couldn't be sure, she thought it looked like a girl, a redhead.

At this point, the unknown watcher must have sensed she'd been detected, because she quickly turned around and hurried back towards the castle. Lena looked down at Potter, but he didn't appear to have noticed anything. Lena filed the incident away in the back of her mind to consider later; she doubted it was a pressing matter.

"So," said Lena, hoping to take Potter's mind off his very large friend for at least a short while, "you got all the ingredients you needed out of Snape's private stores – very ingeniously, I must say – and were able to complete the Polyjuice Potion?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," said Potter, a little brightness returning to his brilliant green eyes. "But we had to wait a month for it to be ready."

"And then you would be able to enter the Slytherin Dungeon," said Lena, recalling what Potter had told her earlier. "Did you have a particular suspect in mind?" she asked, curious.

Potter nodded. "Yeah, Draco Malfoy."

Lena couldn't contain a snort of amusement. "Really, Draco?" she drawled. They were close to the edge of the forest by now. "Potter, my cousin might be a little shit, but he's not Slytherin's heir. He certainly doesn't have the drive or the patience to carry out these attacks. Or the competence."

Potter came to an abrupt stop. "Malfoy's your cousin?" he asked, looking up at her in disbelief.

"His mum's my mother's sister," confirmed Lena. Her mouth twitched at the sight of Potter's stricken face. "We can't choose our relatives."

Potter's expression changed from revulsion to understanding in an instant. "Yeah," he muttered, "I know what you mean."

Lena quirked an eyebrow. "I take it you find your Muggle relatives... less than savoury?" she inquired.

The mirthless laughter that came out of Potter was surprising to Lena – she hadn't realised he was capable of such bitterness.

"My uncle and aunt made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven," he said grimly. "So yeah, I guess you could say that."

"That's..." Lena searched for an appropriate descriptor, "unconventional." Potter gave her an impressively withering look, and Lena hurriedly added, "And horrible. Come on, we're almost at the spot." They began to walk again, and arrived at the place where she often had picnic lunches with Maggie and Rolf.

Lena wrinkled her nose. The ground was still slushy from the morning's frost. A solution, however, quickly presented itself to her. Pulling her wand out of her jacket pocket, she non-verbally Summoned a log from within the forest, which soon came flying out and landed with a thud in front of her and Potter.

Potter eyed them, confused. "What are you–"

Pointing her wand at the log, Lena said in a clear voice, "Sedifors." She smiled slightly as Potter's eyes widened as the log was Transfigured into a wooden bench, the sort of thing found in a park.

After a pause, Potter said, "That's a useful spell."

Taking a seat on one edge of the newly made seat, Lena chuckled. "I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for NEWT level classes to learn that one."

Potter sat down next to her with a sigh. "That's if there is still a Hogwarts by then," he said gloomily. He looked up at Lena desolately. "Whoever's setting the monster on Muggle-borns has to still be around. There's no way Hagrid's responsible for this." He looked away, and Lena almost missed him mutter under his breath, "Not this time, anyway."

Lena eyed the boy curiously. So he knew why Hagrid had been expelled, then. He really was remarkably well-informed.

"I agree," she said quietly.

"You do?" Potter seemed a little surprised by the fact.

Lena shrugged. "Of course," she said, "it's completely illogical." She didn't tell him that she also happened to know that Hagrid had been innocent fifty years ago, and was framed by Voldemort. Instead, she asked, "So, what's you next move?"

"What do you mean?"

"To find out who the culprit is," elaborated Lena. "The Polyjuice Potion didn't work, so what are you planning to do now?"

Potter's shoulders slumped. "I don't know, Hermione's the smart one," he said sadly. "She's the one who had the idea for the Potion. Without her..." He gestured helplessly.

Hesitantly, Lena put a hand on Potter's shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. When Potter didn't shrug it off, she took it as a sign that he was appreciative of the sentiment.

"You'll get her back soon," she told him softly. "The Mandrake Restorative Draught will be ready before the end of the school year, I'm sure of it."

Potter made a noise of frustration. "Yeah, but what else could happen between now and then?" he said. "And now that Dumbledore's gone..."

Lena had to admit there was something concerning about the fact that Dumbledore had been removed from the school – particularly when taken into account that, as far she could recall, the previous Hogwarts headmaster had not faced any repercussions after a student had actually been killed under his tenure.

"You're sure you haven't stumbled upon anything else?" she asked Potter. "There's no way to keep moving forward?"

He appeared to mull this over in his head for a short while. "Well," he replied at last, "it's possible there might be something... but it might turn out to be nothing," he added with a shrug.

Just as Lena was debating whether to ask Potter outright what this possible lead might be, Potter spoke again.

"I just realised," he said, "that I never answered the question you asked me in Knockturn Alley last year. You know, the one about whether the reason I was surprised you'd helped me was because you were in Slytherin?"

"I remember," said Lena, a little thrown by the sudden change in topic. "What made you think of it?"

"Well, yesterday, after Professor McGonagall came to our common room to tell us about the latest attack and the new rules, Lee Jordan said that because no Slytherin had been a victim, that it's 'obvious all this stuff's coming from Slytherin'," explained Potter, "and that all the Slytherins should be kicked out."

"I see," replied Lena after a momentary pause. "That's certainly... a somewhat radical solution."

"Before I started my first year," continued Potter, "Hagrid told me that every witch or wizard who went bad had been in Slytherin while at Hogwarts. Then Malfoy and I had a..." he hesitated before saying, "... an argument on the train, and then he was sorted into Slytherin. So I guess–"

"You made the rather broad assumption that 'Slytherin' and 'evil' equate to the same thing," finished Lena, not unkindly. "I can understand that. And Salazar Slytherin was undoubtedly a blood purist who practised the Dark Arts, so he wasn't exactly a paragon of virtue." She shifted so she was angled more towards Potter. "But what you have to remember," she stressed, "is that the Sorting isn't a process of quantifying a person's goodness. It's about identifying the attributes that represent them most. And none of those attributes are inherently good or bad. It's how a person uses them that determines their character. For instance, ambition could drive a person to find a cure for a fatal magical malady. And an undying loyalty to a cause is only righteous if that cause is just. Also," she added as an afterthought, "people very rarely remain the same person that they were at eleven for the rest of their life. In fact, a lot of people change quite a bit in just the seven years they're at Hogwarts."

Potter didn't respond immediately; he appeared to be carefully considering Lena's words. At last, he asked, "So, do you believe that there are such things as 'good' and 'bad'?

Lena tilted her head to the side, smiling drily. "You're developing quite the philosopher's mind, Potter."

He bit his lip, and shrugged. "It's just something Quirrell said to me last year, something Voldemort told him. That there is no good and evil, there is only–"

"Only power, and those too weak to seek it," completed Lena unthinkingly. Then she froze as she realised what she had done.

Potter was staring at her in shock. "How did you – did you know – that– that was..."

Lena ran a hand through her hair, internally screaming at herself. 'Stupid, stupid girl.'

"Because he once told me the same thing," she finally said. "Voldemort, I mean. Not Quirrell."

The green eyes were watching her apprehensively. "After the Duelling Club, when you said you knew him..." started Potter, suspicion tainting his voice.

"Don't, Potter."

He folded his arms. "Don't what?" he demanded.

Lena let out a shaky breath, and for once, allowed vulnerability to show in her eyes. "Don't ask me to talk about it," she implored. "About him." She swallowed. "Please."

There was a flicker of something in Potter's eyes, something Lena couldn't quite place, and he tore his gaze away from her. "Right," he mumbled. "Sorry."

Lena closed her eyes, and internally sighed in relief. She just wasn't ready to tell Potter – one of the few people at Hogwarts who didn't look at her with fear, distrust or hatred – just how close she had been with Voldemort.

"So do you agree?"

Lena blinked. "Sorry?"

"About there being no good or evil," clarified Potter.

"Oh." Lena began to play with her hair as she searched for the right words. "I think," she said slowly, "that they are very small words for very big ideas."

Potter nodded, and continued to look at her expectantly. When further elaboration didn't occur, he raised his eyebrows. "And?"

Lena let out a small bark of laughter. She leant back, and stretched out her legs. "We could have a very lengthy conversation about this, Potter, but in all honesty – am I really the sort of person you think you should discussing this with? I don't exactly have a reputation of impeccable morality," she pointed out.

"I don't care about your reputation," said Potter stubbornly. "I want to know what you think. And in more detail than 'It's complicated'," he added hastily.

Lena had many, many thoughts on the concepts of good and evil. But there didn't seem like much point in talking about it with Potter at this time. She felt he was too young to truly understand what she might say – he needed to see more, to experience more of life. Perhaps it was patronising, but Lena didn't really care; it wasn't a conversation Potter immediately needed to have.

Wanting to discuss something else, she gave Potter an answer. Just not one to the most recent question he had asked.

"Because I thought it was the right thing to do," she said, looking out towards the castle.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Potter's confused expression. "Huh?'

"You gave me an answer – well, of sorts – to the question I asked you back in Knockturn Alley," she said nonchalantly. "So there's the answer to your original question, which if I remember correctly, was why I helped you if, like everybody says, I'm one of Voldemort's supporters, and I'm supposed to hate you." She glanced back at Potter. "Because I thought it was the right thing to do." She smirked. "That a good enough answer for you?"

"Oh, right," said Potter. He sounded surprised. "Erm, yeah. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And, just for the record, Potter–" she reached out to gently brush off a beetle that had landed on his shoulder, "–I don't hate you."

Briefly, Potter looked down at his shoulder where her hand had been, and then back up at her. He seemed to be considering her words. Then he bit his bottom lip, and said, "I don't hate you either." He hesitated, then added, "Which I suppose means you could call me Harry, instead of 'Potter'."

Lena stared at the boy sitting next to her, unsure of how to immediately respond. Finally, she smiled. Genuinely. "Then I suppose that means you could call me Lena."

Harry returned the smile. "Yeah," he said, "I suppose it does."

For the next three months, there were no more Petrifications at Hogwarts. Slowly, the atmosphere of tension and fear began to lift. Lena, however, found the lack of activity by Slytherin's monster plain unsettling. The heir (or whoever it was responsible) must have been biding their time, she felt. Why?

But extended dwelling upon this question was not an option for Lena; she had more than enough on her plate. Persistent appeals from her housemates to increase the frequency of her DADA classes had resulted in Lena adding two extra sessions a week to their usual Sunday lessons. She had to admit, she felt oddly proud of her peers; their progress in the subject was quite staggering. There was also something rather pleasing about seeing them regularly outdo their Ravenclaw classmates in their official DADA classes whenever they did some actual work. Then there was also the fact that she was studying eight different subjects at NEWT level, and continuing to help Maggie and Rolf in all of theirs as well.

Another factor in her busy schedule was her tentative friendship – if it could be called that – with Harry Potter. Hermione Granger had been his regular go-to when he needed someone to check his homework, but with her lying still as a statue in the hospital wing, Lena had offered to be her substitute. She was finding a particular joy in ensuring that Harry's Potions essays were flawless. According to Harry, it was infuriating Snape that, despite Hermione not being around, his least favourite student was positively flourishing in his class.

She hadn't told Maggie and Rolf about the growing bond between her and the Boy Who Lived, and she was fairly certain that he hadn't told anyone either. It was just something that felt too... private... to share with anyone else, or at least at this point. Their usual meeting place was the secret room at the top of the tower, where they had first spoken after the Duelling Club.

The other thing that was affecting Lena's time was her insomnia, and the subsequent exhaustion. It was worse than it had ever been. The moment she would close her eyes to sleep, images – predominantly of Voldemort, her mother, and Hecate's Orb – would take hold, and rest would prove elusive. The exhaustion that constantly plagued her meant that Lena's mind was almost always functioning at about half its full capacity.

Luckily, Lena, at her best, was brilliant. At half her best, she was simply very, very good.

The last Friday of May saw Lena awaking late in the morning after once again passing out the previous afternoon. Fortunately, her first couple of class hours on Fridays were free periods. A quick look at her watch told her that if she hurried, she would make it in time to her first class, Potions.

Twenty minutes after waking up, Lena was in the Potions classroom, seated at a table with Farley, Bletchley and Kahn.

An unforseen consequence of her DADA lessons had been the desire of her housemates to sit with her during other classes. Initially unsettled by the increase in social activity, Lena was begrudgingly coming around to it.

Today, however, while the other three quietly chatted, Lena was too groggy to join in.

Until Farley said something that drew Lena's attention.

"I don't know, I wouldn't be surprised if they wake up tonight and say Hagrid isn't the real culprit."

Lena, in the action of cutting Asphodel stalks for her Hiccoughing Solution, paused. "Tonight?" she inquired.

Farley looked at her, confused. "Yeah, tonight. Or tomorrow. Whenever the Restorative kicks in."

"The Restorative Draught's ready?"

It was Kahn who answered. "By tonight. That's what McGonagall said at breakfast, didn't you hear?"

"I wasn't there," muttered Lena, starting to cut her stalks again. Her mind whirred as unease took hold. How could this be it? Just four Muggle-borns, a cat, and a ghost. Fifty years, and that was all this 'heir' had wanted to accomplish?

"Petrification is such a weird way to attack people," Farley was saying. "All you're doing is incapacitating the victim for a few months, then someone gives them a potion, and they wake up, ready to tell you who their attacker was."

Kahn snorted. "Yeah, it's not something murderers have to worry about," he said. "'Dead men tell no tales', and all that."

"Well, unless they come ba–" Lena began to say, but stopped. Her knife slipped from her grip and fell to the floor with a clatter, but she barely noticed.

Kahn, Farley and Bletchley stopped what they were doing and stared at her.

"Lestrange?" asked Bletchley. "You okay?"

Lena ignored her. Inside her head, everything had fallen into place.

Dead people couldn't tell you how they died. Not unless they came back as a ghost. And there was one ghost at Hogwarts who had died during their time as a student. The only student, as far as Lena knew, to have died at Hogwarts. Because she had been killed by Slytherin's monster fifty years ago.

'How didn't I make the connection before now?' Lena asked herself, stunned. She had never felt so stupid in all her life.

She needed to talk to Moaning Myrtle.

Unable to focus on anything else, she walked over to where Snape was sitting at his desk. Hearing her approach, he looked up, and narrowed his eyes at her. Any hope that the animosity between the two of them would lessen had disappeared after the Duelling Club. He'd known that the dark blue smoke had been her doing, but was unable to prove it. So yet again, she had escaped any punishment.

"Sir," she said to him, trying to remain calm, "I need to go to the bathroom."

Snape glared at her. "There is still another hour and a half of class left, Lestrange. You will have to wait until then."

But Lena hadn't been asking. "No," she said simply, "I won't." She turned on her heel and strode to the classroom door.

"Lestrange," Snape snarled after her, "I have not given you permission to leave this class. Lestrange!"

Lena ignored both him and the stares she was receiving from the other members of the class, and exited the room, the door slamming shut after her.

She broke into a run, her head spinning as she ascended the dungeons' stairs.

Myrtle tended to stay around the first-floor girls' bathroom. What if that was where she had died? The heir's message had been written on the outside corridor wall – maybe the proximity was significant.

An image of one of the taps in the bathroom flashed in Lena's mind, and she wanted to smack herself in the face.

Over the years, Lena had used the first-floor bathroom frequently, because the other female students rarely did. And because she used it frequently, she knew which taps worked. Only one didn't: the one with a tiny snake scratched onto its side. Lena had never noticed such an image on another tap at Hogwarts, and her instincts were telling her that it wasn't just a simple case of graffiti.

'It's too much of a coincidence,' she told herself. 'The Chamber of Secrets has to be connected to that bathroom, it has to be."

Reaching the first-floor, she hurtled through the corridors, unconcerned if anyone saw her. But when she turned into the corridor directly outside the bathroom, she came to a sudden halt.

Standing there, holding a small black book, her hands covered in red paint, was a small, redheaded girl – the youngest Weasley, if Lena's memory of the Sorting at the beginning of the year served correct. On the wall, another message under the first was written.

HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOR EVER

Lena's mind, which just a moment ago had been buzzing with thoughts, went blank. Of all the things she could have expected to find, this was not one.

Then the only thing that Lena could have expected even less happened. The Weasley girl, who was staring back at Lena, opened her mouth, and Parseltongue came out.

Stunned, Lena took a step back. 'How?' was all she could internally scream. 'How the fuck–'

She noticed Weasley's eyes. There was something wrong with them – like although they were open, she wasn't looking through them. But someone else was.

Possession.

Lena's hand delved into her robe pocket to grab her wand. Just as she was grasping it, she heard something else, and froze.

Hissing.

Something was coming. Something large. Something slithering.

Lena finally knew what Slytherin's monster was. And for the first time in a very long time, she was completely and utterly terrified.

She reacted without thinking, shutting her eyes tightly so she would be safe from the Basilisk's deadly gaze. What she wasn't safe from was the possessed young girl.

Lena felt the spell coming the split-second before it hit, but there wasn't enough time to stop it. And then she was falling.