'So no one in Slytherin knows who did it?' Hermione asked.

It was Saturday, the day after Gryffindor-Slytherin, and Harry and Hermione were in the library again for their weekly study session.

'No, no one,' said Harry after he finished a sentence on an essay on Lockhart's Travels with Trolls. 'Malfoy and his friends love it, though, and so do plenty of older Slytherins. What do the Gryffindors think?'

'They think it was one of the Slytherins, of course. Ron thinks it's Malfoy and plenty others believe him.'

Harry scratched his chin with the end of his quill. 'Y'know, if I hadn't overheard Malfoy in the common room, I would agree with Ron. He loves this whole thing.'

'And you don't think he's just pretending not to know?'

'No,' said Harry. 'Malfoy loves boasting about the things he did far too much for that.'

'Well… If it's not him, then who else?' she asked. 'And how? What kind of spell causes petrification like that?'

'Some overpowered Pertrificus Totalus?' said Harry. 'Or maybe it's a potion.'

Hermione hummed noncommittally.

'We could sneak into the Restricted Section to look for it?' he suggested.

Hermione underlined a word with such force that he was amazed her quill didn't pierce the parchment. 'You might be happy to flaunt the rules any chance you get, Harry, but I'm not,' she hissed. 'I'm going to get lunch.'

They said not a word to each other on their way to the Great Hall, and Harry ate in contemplative silence, trying in vain to come up with clever tricks to get Hermione to loosen up about the rules.

He was shaken from his musings when he went back into the entrance hall after he'd finished his meal, and heard someone call his name. He looked up and saw Marcus Flint catch up with him, his broom in his hand and his quidditch outfit soggy from the rain.

'Sorry about the loss yesterday,' said Harry as a form of greeting as the out-of-breath boy drew him away from the other students.

A grimace showed how painful the memory still was for Marcus.

'We had a talk with the team,' he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse from the practice. 'I won't repeat exactly what we discussed, but the short end of it is that most of us are having doubts about our new seeker.'

Harry unconsciously straightened his posture. 'You mean…'

'We're giving him one more chance versus Ravenclaw in February,' Marcus continued. 'After that match we'll talk again, but there's a good chance you'll take over his spot.'

Harry's first instinct was to start cheering right there in the busy hall, but he forced that reaction down.

'Wow, I…' he began, unsure of what to say to their captain, who was clearly still grieving from the result yesterday.

'I'll let you join our practices from time to time,' said Marcus. He smirked at Harry's barely-restrained happiness. 'Just stay sharp, alright?'

'Of course,' Harry promptly replied. 'Is anyone using the quidditch pitch at the moment?'

'You've got an hour before the Gryffindors start training,' replied Marcus with a knowing grin. 'Catch you later, Harry.'

And he hurried into the Great Hall to eat before lunch hour ended. Harry remained there for only a fraction of a second before he squashed his urge to finish Lockharts essay, and he practically sprinted to the common room to retrieve his broom.

Entering his bedroom, he threw on an extra jumper and thick cloak and grabbed his broom from his trunk. He then hastily renewed the charms on his door, sprinted down the stairs ‒ and came to an abrupt halt when the entrance to the common room swung open and he came face to face with Daphne Greengrass.

'Potter,' she drawled, crossing her arms but not moving from the entranceway.

'Greengrass,' he said, out of breath from his exertions. He held his broom close to him and made to squeeze past her, but she grabbed the back of his cloak and stopped him.

'Off to go fly, are we?' she asked, dragging him back into he common room.

'Err, yeah?' he said, nonplussed, still clutching his broom and yanking his cloak loose from her grip. 'Listen, Daphne, it's good to know that you can apparently talk to people other than Tracey or Sophie, but I –'

'I know it was you who set the Weasley twins on Draco,' she interjected.

It was as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown over him, dousing his giddy mood in an instant, and he stared at her while a jolt of worry spread through him.

Her lips curled up in a self-satisfied smile. 'Busted.'

'You've known the whole time, haven't you?' he demanded. 'What d'you want?'

'First of all ‒'

'‒ Out of the way, midgets!' Their confrontation was interrupted by a few seventh-year boys entering the common room and shoving him and Daphne out of the way.

With one last indignant glare at the group, Daphne grabbed Harry's arm and dragged him with her as she marched through the common room to a secluded spot at the far end of it. These secluded recesses, wedged between two thick granite pillars, were normally used by couples desiring some unintruded snogging without risking Filch's wrath, but Harry had to acknowledge – as he followed Daphne into one of them – that they were also pretty good places for secret conversations. It was rather fitting that the Slytherin common room had a few of them.

'No one can hear us here,' said Daphne. 'Now explain yourself.'

This part of the common room was underwater, unlike the elevated area where Harry usually liked to sit, and a nearby window cast the recess in a fluid green light that made Daphne's brown hair look even darker.

'Why should I tell you?' he challenged, sullenly leaning back against the stone wall.

Daphne raised an eyebrow. 'Because I'll tell Professor Snape everything if you don't give me a very good reason. I might just do that anyway ‒ it's you who should be in detention every Saturday for the rest of the term, not Crabbe.'

'Why don't you go straight to him now, then?' Harry challenged, barely able to keep his voice to a whisper as his anger spiked.

Daphne's brown eyes were unreadable, and they shone in the eerie light. 'Start talking, Potter.'

Harry sighed. 'I did it because he bought his way onto the team. If he had played by the rules and came to the try-outs, he wouldn't have stood a chance against me. I even bought a broom for it because Marcus Flint told me I could get into the team.' He gestured at the broom that he'd placed on a nearby table. 'But then Malfoy's father bought everyone on the team a Nimbus 2001, to get his son a place on the team. All I did was expose how bad Malfoy really is. He did something unfair, so I did something in return. Nothing more than that.'

'So just because of your rivalry with Draco, you made Slytherin lose the game, and you gave the password to Fred and George Weasley of all people,' Daphne surmised, her voice dripping with contempt.

'Well – yeah,' said Harry, feeling his cheeks redden. 'But, I mean ‒ you got to see Theodore sporting an ugly old witch's nose because of it, didn't you?'

Maybe it was just the green light making it seem that way, but he was sure that Daphne cracked a smile – if only for a brief moment.

Feeling boldened, he asked: 'Why did you lie to Snape and tell him it was Crabbe or Goyle?'

Daphne frowned and looked past him, into the common room. 'Well… it had the added benefit of making them stop writing the password on pieces of paper. It was bound to end up in disaster sooner rather than later…'

'Can't disagree with you there.'

'… But mostly it was because you now owe me, Potter,' she continued. She smiled again. But this time there was no humour, only a predatory gleam in her eye. Harry swallowed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

'So ‒ what d'you want me to do?' he asked.

She tapped her chin in thought. 'Hmm… Good question. I'll think of something and let you know.' She stepped out of the alcove with that same mirthless smile that spelled nothing but trouble. 'Or maybe I'll just leave this hanging over your head and let it fall on you when you least expect it. Have fun flying, Harry!'

And she skipped away to meet Tracey and Sophie, who had just entered the common room and were staring at him and Daphne exiting from the alcove. Slowly Tracey's mouth spread into a grin, and Sophie looked just as amused. Now thoroughly puzzled, he picked up his broom and left the common room. Hopefully flying would help him figure things out.

That Sunday the weather was particularly awful, and the sound of rain lashing against the small window of his bedroom kept him from falling asleep late into the night.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, his eyelids felt so heavy that it was as if two fingers were pressing against them. The rain and howling wind faded away, morphing into the sounds of a busy crowd. Rather than the ceiling of his four-poster bed, he was now looking at an overhang of a building, and rather than blankets covering him, he was pressed in among a tightly-packed crowd. They were all looking at a barn in the distance, their agitation sparking Harry's unease at being so close to so many people.

One person approached the large structure and leaned over a low wall to watch it more closely, and Harry eagerly stepped out of the crowd and joined the man. He was tall, dark-haired, pale, and he wore shabby robes. He vaguely looked like Harry himself, only much more grown up ‒ maybe ten years older. But then Harry glanced at the barn again, and his apprehensive thoughts crashed to a halt at the sight.

The barn, impossibly stuffed with people, was the scene of a massacre. In the entranceway stood a group of men in harnesses, wielding great muskets and firing them into the teeming, writhing, screaming crowd that was inside. And as more people in similar harnesses charged inside, his dream cruelly decided that he needed a more up-close perspective and took him inside as well.

He saw every excruciating detail: musket-fire and sabres mowing down the fleeing crowd of people, who desperately tried to flee, clambering over the shapeless, blooded mess of bodies, limbs and unrecognisable remains, to evade their executioners. One woman kneeled in the middle of this pandemonium, her knees drawn up to their chest. She sobbed and held a child close to her, trying in vain to shield it from the all-consuming death that reigned around her. Someone tried to crawl away into a corner but one of the attackers grabbed his arm from behind, tugged at it until it bent back at a sickening angle, and hacked his sabre into the man's unprotected neck. There was a preacher in the middle of mayhem, standing on some crudely-built altar, pleading desperately to the people clambering past him onto the attic and even into the rafters of the roof. But one of the murderous assailants had counted on that, and he had snuck around the barn to shoot at anyone trying to escape onto the city walls there.[1]

The church bells rang in the distance, flocks of birds flew up, and the harrowing scene disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and Harry woke up, staring once again at the ceiling of his four-poster bed.

The wind and rain were still beating against his window. His breathing was ragged and his cheeks and eyelashes were stiff with dried tears. Blood pounded through his head, and he felt a headache coming on, as if there were too many thoughts and images flying through his head, and were pushing against his skull to make more room.

He rubbed his face with his clammy hands, turned to lay on his side and curled up to hug his knees to his chest.

Much like the woman in that barn had done.

A sob escaped his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. He stayed in that position until he heard the others wake up and get ready for the day.

The Great Hall was abuzz with whispered rumours and worried glances, and Harry only had to lean closer to Adrian Pucey and Marcus to find out the cause of the unrest.

'It's the Weasley twins,' mumbled Adrian. 'Petrified. Just like Mrs Norris, as if they saw something that was so terrifying it turned them to stone.'

'Did this happen last night?' asked Marcus. By now all the other Slytherins nearby were listening as well with bated breath.

'Yeah, they were serving detention. Celebrated too much after quidditch so Filch had them clean up the trophy room. That's where he found them later, lying stiff as a board right there in front of a trophy cabinet they'd just polished. But get this…' The others leaned in closer as one. '… Cormac told me that Filch said there was a pile of burnt up old parchment next to them. Flitwick took a look at it this morning and found out that there must've been some powerful charms on it.'

'What kind?' murmured Marcus.

'He couldn't tell, it was too damaged,' Adrian replied, an agitated expression on his face as he told them this.

'Maybe this was revenge for the Great Jinxing?' Gemma Farley suggested. 'So that confirms that this really is the Heir of Slytherin, doesn't it?'

'I mean, I did intend to feed them a hair-loss potion,' said Marcus, shaking his head. 'But this…'

'It's mad,' whispered Adrian, but Harry couldn't tell if he was scared or in awe. 'Whoever did it is mad.'

'Who did it, though?' asked Gemma.

'They can't have had much sleep last night, that's for sure,' said Adrian.

Harry hastily rubbed his eyes and glanced away as they started to look up and down the Slytherin table, hoping that the bags under his eyes were less pronounced now than they had been when he'd looked in the mirror earlier.

His gaze fell on the Gryffindor table. Fred and George's brothers Percy and Ron were huddled together. Lee Jordan and the Gryffindor Quidditch team sat nearby, their eyes distant and glassy from the shock. Ginny Weasley looked even smaller and paler than she already was, her freckles standing out so vividly that he could almost see them from the Slytherin table. She looked on the verge of tears and sat a bit of distance away from her brothers. None of them offered her any comfort, though. In fact, none of her housemates did.

He was shaken out of his observing when Daphne sat down next to him.

'What are you staring at?' she bluntly asked.

'Nothing,' Harry replied immediately. 'What do you want?'

Millicent, seated nearby, was looking at them in curiosity, but Daphne glared at her until she blushed and ducked her head.

'I need to ask you something,' she then said to him in a lower voice, 'before Transfiguration. Hurry up!'

They ate a quick breakfast and sped out of the Great Hall, to the still empty corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom.

'Did you do it?' she asked him bluntly.

He blinked in surprise. 'Err ‒ do what?'

'Did you petrify the twins?'

'What? No, of course I didn't!'

She looked him in the eyes, and he met her stare without flinching. 'Are you sure?' she asked. 'You look like you didn't get any sleep last night, and I know you have some way of sneaking around at night without being detected.'

His eyes widened in shock. 'How d'you know that?'

She answered with a sly grin. 'I didn't know it for sure,' she said, 'but thanks for confirming it anyway. Besides, it seemed logical to me. How else could you have talked to Fred and George without anyone noticing?'

Harry sighed. 'Just… what do you want from me exactly?'

She quirked an eyebrow. 'I told you: I'll let you know.'

Harry looked down and nodded.

'You're hiding something,' she said. Harry's head snapped up again, but he only just stopped himself from blurting out the horrible dream he'd had that night.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he snapped instead.

'Fine. But you look like you've seen a ghost, Harry.' The corners of her mouth quirked up. 'Or maybe the monster of Slytherin?'

'I haven't –' Harry began, but then their classmates came around the corner. Malfoy, walking at the front, narrowed his eyes at the pair of them. The arrival of Professor McGonagall prevented him from saying one of his usual disparaging remarks.

Harry took his usual place next to Sophie, and took out his Transfiguration textbooks.

'You look like you haven't slept much,' she muttered to him.

'I haven't,' he replied curtly.

'Do you know anything about what happened to Fred and George?' she asked.

Harry glanced at her. The look in her dark brown eyes wasn't curious, more… accusatory.

'I didn't do it!' he hissed at her in frustration. 'Honest! I just had a bad night's sleep.'

She frowned.

'Sophie, when have I ever done anything to make you think I would do something like that?' he whispered.

'Good morning, class,' said Professor McGonagall before Sophie could reply. 'Before we start: I know that you are all shocked at what happened to Fred and George Weasley. But while I recommend you stay on your guard, I will remind you that they are otherwise unharmed, and they will be woken up as soon as Professors Sprout and Snape have prepared the Mandrake Draught. Now, while we do take these incidents very seriously, the lessons will still continue as usual, and you are not exempt from homework. That is all I have to say on the matter.'

Harry was still weary and distracted. He was supposed to be turning the mice on his table into mittens, but instead of practicing the spell, he spent most of the lesson preventing the mice from escaping as his thoughts fluttered wildly in all directions except for Transfiguration.

Sophie didn't have much luck either, and as Harry looked around the classroom, he noticed that neither did anyone else. Only Malfoy and Daphne were able to turn their mice into something that faintly resembled a pair of mittens by the end of the lesson – an effort that got each of them five points for Slytherin.

'For those of you who were unable to master the spell,' said Professor McGonagall as they packed up their wand and textbook again, 'don't be discouraged: we will be practicing it again tomorrow and on Thursday.'

As Harry exited the classroom along with the others, he wondered whether he would be able to shake his distractedness by then. Because as they walked through the corridors towards their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, he could almost smell the fear in the air. People talked less loudly and looked downright scared as they hurried along to their next lessons. No, Harry thought, it would be tricky to find focus during the lessons the coming week.

His prediction came true: the news that Fred and George were lying as for dead in the hospital wing lead to fear and suspicion throughout the castle. Nobody dared to walk through the corridors alone anymore, and, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade of talismans, amulets and other protective things was sweeping the school.

Many people thought it was revenge for their stunt in the Slytherin common room during the Halloween Feast. Loudest among them was Ron, who had concluded that Malfoy was behind it. Malfoy himself didn't help matters either by insisting that Fred and George were filthy excuses for Purebloods and enemies of Slytherin. He and Ron had almost come to blows before potions that week, but the arrival of Snape had nipped the fight in the bud.

Harry was interested to see that each Weasley reacted differently: Percy had taken to patrolling the corridors at every available moment, hunting for students that behaved even the slightest bit suspiciously. Ron didn't calm down after his spat against Malfoy and looked permanently ready to fight someone, if not for Dean and Seamus holding him back and calming him down as best as they could. Ginny, on the other hand, seemed to withdraw into herself. He'd seen her a few times, walking through the corridors with a diary in her hand, all alone. She was so small and so quiet that at times he wondered if he was the only one who even noticed her.

Whereas most of the students from other houses pointed to Malfoy, many Slytherins on the other hand seemed to suspect that it was Harry.

'Everyone noticed that you looked tired on the day after Fred and George were petrified,' Sophie had explained when he'd asked her about it. 'Then there's also the protections you cast on your bedroom. Those are charms we're not supposed to learn until fifth year. Plus, you're the Boy Who Lived, and a new book just came out about you… well… about the Boy Who Lived. Anyway, my point is: you just… stand out.'

While some Slytherins had become wary around him, there was a larger group who seemed to appreciate him more for it. Whenever he sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall or did his homework in the common room, there were always one or two admiring glances sent his way.

And then there was Daphne, who was always hovering near him. She sat within sight-range of him in the library, she sat near him during mealtimes and in the common room, and now that he paid more attention to her, he also noticed that she occasionally followed him at a distance through the corridors. It acutely reminded him of the debt he owed her and the threat that she could step to their head of house at any given moment.

And as if that wasn't enough, he'd also received a letter from Ricardo that week which said that he would be spending Christmas in Brazil to meet new contacts for the Ministry and to spend time with his family. And with the fearful atmosphere gripping the school, the prospect of spending the Holidays here seemed a lot less pleasant than it had done before.

Needless to say, Harry failed his mice-to-mittens transfiguration, and McGonagall gave him extra homework for the weekend.

That Saturday, Harry convinced Hermione to come to the unused classroom on the third floor to finally talk about his dream. But as soon as he closed and locked the door, Hermione turned on him.

'Did you do it?' she asked, hands on her hips.

'Not you too! No!' shouted Harry in frustration. 'Why in the bloody hell do all of you think it was me?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Hermione. 'Hardly anyone in our house suspects you. But I know you had something to do with what Fred and George did in your common room and during that Quidditch match, and don't try to deny it. Because I saw you spying on them for a while in the run-up towards that match.'

Harry crossed his arms, but said nothing. A second later, Hermione's eyes widened in realisation.

'Oh!' she exclaimed. 'You were angry at Malfoy, weren't you? Because he bought his way into the Quidditch team. So you convinced the twins to hunt him during the game… and in exchange you gave them the password to the Slytherin common room.'

Harry sighed and hung his head.

'I'm right, aren't I?' said Hermione, sounding a bit too smug to his tastes.

'Yes,' he reluctantly said. 'But Hermione, I swear I had nothing to do with their petrification.'

She was silent, and for a moment he felt an intense fear at the possibility that she would stop being friends with him because she thought he was a dark wizard. But then her posture relaxed.

'Alright, I believe you,' she said, and a weight he hadn't known was there before this conversation was lifted from his shoulders. 'But do you know who it really was, then?'

'No.'

'Almost all of Gryffindor thinks it was Malfoy,' she continued. 'Ron thinks it was his idea of revenge.' She looked away for a moment. 'He's really upset about what happened to his brothers, actually.'

'I didn't know him and you started talking to each other,' said Harry.

'Ron's not as bad as you think he is, Harry,' Hermione admonished him.

'He stopped talking to me just because I was sorted into Slytherin,' Harry argued. 'And he says all these rotten things about you.'

'That was last year, Harry. He stopped doing that, and he's actually a lot nicer to me now. And I know, it wasn't nice of him to just reject you because you're a Slytherin, but he was eleven at the time.'

'But I was eleven too! And I didn't just reject people based on the colour robes they wear.'

'Yes, but we didn't grow up as wizards, did we?' said Hermione, a touch of exasperation in her voice. 'Look: all his life Ron has heard tales of how there wasn't a wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. That can't be easy to just unlearn as soon as you get to Hogwarts.' She paused. 'Anyway, enough about him. You're still sure that it isn't Malfoy?'

'Yes,' said Harry, grateful that they could stop talking about Ron. 'Malfoy gloats about everything he did and didn't do. Last year when we had those flying lessons, he could not stop making up all these ridiculous stories of how good he is on a broom. Whenever he bullies some first-year Gryffindor, it's guaranteed that he'll tell the whole common room about it. And every time he has a higher mark for a test than me, he rubs it in my face.'

Hermione's lips twitched. 'I'm glad I don't share a common room with him like you do,' she said.

'You learn to tune him out with time,' said Harry, grinning ruefully. 'So no, I don't think Malfoy did it. He would've mentioned something by now. Even if he tried to keep it a secret, he would've still let slip some details here and there. Instead he just keeps saying he wants to shake hands with whoever did it, along with suggestions for who should be petrified next.'

'Charming,' she said. 'Let me guess: me?'

'Right in one,' said Harry. 'And me, of course.'

'Of course,' she repeated. Her gaze grew pensive. 'But if it's not Malfoy, then who else could it be?'

Harry spread his arms. 'Who knows? There are hundreds of students in the school. And some Professors who I do not trust at all. But putting that aside for now: there's something else I wanted to talk to you about.'

And he shared his newest vivid dream with her, haltingly, with some pauses as he tried to gather his troubled memory of the horrific scenes he'd seen. Hermione looked pale by the end of his tale.

'Who would do such a thing?' she asked with a shaky voice. 'And who would paint a painting of it?'

'I haven't found any paintings yet that match the last scene I saw,' said Harry. 'For all we know, we could be completely wrong with our theory.'

'We could be,' said Hermione doubtfully.

'But you don't think so, do you?'

'No,' she said. She spun around and began pacing around the teacher's desk. 'Honestly, something about this is really troubling me. I've re-read Hogwarts: A History so many times, but there's no specific chapter on the paintings inside the castle, and I haven't found anything in the library that even remotely describes what these dreams are.'

'I still wonder whether it's just us who are having these dreams,' Harry commented.

'So do I,' said Hermione as she paced. 'But surely other people would have mentioned it if they were having these dreams, would they?'

Harry frowned. 'I don't know.'

They left the classroom, deep in thought, and it was only Hermione's insistence (and her reminder that he had extra Transfiguration homework) that led them to the library to work on their essays. The schoolwork distracted him, but he still couldn't shake the troubled feeling that this mystery was too important to just leave unsolved.

Mid-December brought excitement in the shape of a Duelling Club. It was the talk of the day, and Malfoy would not stop boasting about all the duelling that he had done in his family estate, and all the spells that his father had taught him.

'I can't imagine growing up as a Muggle, and missing out on all the great tutoring that I've gotten,' he said loudly, making a show of looking at the solitary table where Harry was trying to transfigure the tarantula that McGonagall had given to him for the weekend, into a quaffle. Pansy, Goyle, and Theodore snickered. It was enough to make Harry wish that he would be paired up with Malfoy at the Duelling Club, just so that it would give him a perfectly legal chance to make him eat his words.

By eight o'clock that evening they went up to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. Most of the school was her and a buzz of excitement was tangible among them. Ginny Weasley, standing quite close to him in the crowd, seemed to be the only exception.

His gaze was drawn back to the stage when none other than Gilderoy Lockhart strode onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape.

'Can everybody see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent,' said Lockhart. 'Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions – for full details, see my published works.'

Lockhart and Snape then demonstrated a duel to the students, which resulted in the former being thrown across the podium. Many Slytherins cheered and Harry found himself grinning despite himself as Lockhart scrambled to his feet, thoroughly dishevelled.

'Enough demonstration!' Lockhart said then. 'Let's crack on with things: blocking spells! Let's have a volunteer pair this time – Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you?'

'A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,' said Snape. 'Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest of spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox. How about two of my own house? That way at least we can expect some semblance of competence. Potter and Malfoy?'

Harry stared at his head of house, trying to discern if he had just inadvertently given him a compliment

'An excellent idea!' Lockhart cried, ushering Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the Hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

'Now, Harry,' said Lockhart, 'When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.'

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it.

'I know how to do a shield charm, Professor,' said Harry as a flustered Lockhart picked up his wand.

'You do? Oh, fantastic!' he said. He leaned over to whisper: 'And add a nice bit of flair, Harry. Give them a show.'

That, Harry could agree with. He tightened the grip on his wand, mentally going over all the spells he'd learned during the practice sessions with Ricardo last year.

'Scared?' muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn't hear him.

'You wish,' said Harry from the corner of his mouth.

'Ready?' Lockhart asked, moving away from the pair. 'Three – two – one, go!'

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and shouted: 'Expelliarmus!'

'Protego!' Harry bellowed. A shield shimmered in front of him, and it bore the brunt of Malfoy's disarming charm. 'Expelliarmus!'

Malfoy hastily ducked out of the way. 'Tantallegra!' he shouted.

Harry blocked that spell as well, and rather than the quick-step his legs should have done, they just twitched weakly.

He then remembered Lockhart's words: 'Give them a show.'

Harry grinned and shouted: 'Accio Malfoy's robes!'

Malfoy's eyes widened as his robes twisted and tugged at him, sending him spinning and sprawling to the floor as his robes desperately tried to free themselves from him. Laughter rang from the crowd, and Harry sent a Toenail Curler Jinx after him for good measure while Malfoy wrestled against his robes at his feet.

Harry turned to the crowd near him. 'Which hex d'you want me to use next?' he asked loudly.

But as their audience began shouting ‒ Dean Thomas' suggestion to do Snape's robes next the loudest of them all ‒ Harry glanced back at Malfoy struggling on the floor. An infinite amount of curses he could choose to cast, and all he did was curl up his toenails? Those robes looked rather flammable… He pointed his wand…

'Finite incantatem!' Malfoy screamed, dragging Harry out of his disturbing vision. He smirked as the boy clambered to his feet. But then Malfoy narrowed his eyes, aimed his wand again, and shouted: 'Serpensortia!'

The end of his wand exploded. Harry's smile slid from his face as a long, black snake shot out of it and fell onto the floor between them. It raised itself, ready to strike.

Harry, thinking back to Dudley's eleventh' birthday party, stepped forward and said: 'Stop!'

And – miraculously – it worked. The snake stilled and dropped docilely to the floor.

Harry looked up and saw Malfoy staring at him in shock. A surge of white-hot anger shot through him.

'Depulso!' he cried, his wand aimed at the snake. 'Bite him!' The snake hissed in anger as it was lifted up and sailed through the air towards Malfoy. Snape raised his wand just in time, and the snake disappeared right in front of Malfoy's nose with a small puff of black smoke.

The sounds of laughing and shouting died out. Snape was looking at him with a shrewd and calculating look. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering between the students. Behind him on the podium, Lockhart was also staring at him in shock. Had he taken it too far by banishing the snake towards Malfoy? Had they somehow seen into his thoughts?

'Err – an excellent show, you two!' Lockhart then, his jovial tone clashing horribly against the stares and the murmuring. 'Well done! Yes, I think that will do for tonight. Err – thank you all for coming! Remember what I taught you, and see you next time! Harry – might I have a word with you?'

And Harry found himself being steered out of the Great Hall, Lockhart pinning him against his side like he'd done in Flourish & Blott's last summer, his flowery perfume so strong that Harry had trouble breathing. They walked through several corridors until they were alone, and only then did the professor relent his grip.

'Harry, Harry, Harry,' he then said, shaking his head as they faced each other. But his usual jovial tone wasn't there, and his mouth was set in a tight line. 'I think you took it quite far, there. But it's all my fault, of course – it was me after all who told you to give the audience a show. But I didn't know you would do that, of course. Deary me, deary me.'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry. Banishing the snake towards Malfoy had definitelybeen too much. 'I just… lost my head, I s'pose.'

'Yes, I could see that,' said Lockhart, shaking his head earnestly again. 'And you were doing so well, too! I mean – that trick with his robes was splendid! Couldn't have done it better myself! And banishing that snake towards them was a fine touch of drama and flair as well. My, but I was just gasping for air! Obviously I would have done the same thing if I were in your shoes!'

Then he sighed. 'But speaking Parseltongue was not the cleverest idea, Harry. No, now everyone is going to think that it's you who is behind all these attacks. Which you aren't, of course.' He suddenly looked quite worried. 'You're not, are you?'

'Err – no,' said Harry, confused that it apparently wasn't him sending the snake to Malfoy that was the problem. 'Wait, what's Parseltongue?'

Lockhart stared at him, baffled. 'What's Parseltongue? My dear boy, you don't know what that is?'

'No?'

'Why, it's only a very rare and almost mythical talent that very few people possess! In all my years I think I've only ever met one of them. She was a sorceress from India, you see.' He frowned. 'But it's not a well-loved talent at all, Harry. Especiallynot now, with all these rumours about a Monster of Slytherin roaming around the castle. Why, Salazar Slytherin himself was a Parseltongue, which is why our house identifies with snakes so much. So now people are probably going to be thinking that you're the Heir of Slytherin.' He snickered at the very idea, while Harry's insides seemed to turn to ice. Lockhart stopped and frowned. 'You're not, though – are you?'

'Err…'

'Anyway,' he coughed and forced a plastic smile on his face. 'Harry – my dear boy – let's put that spot of bother behind us for now, and remember my suggestion to make more friends! Especially now you need to show people that there's that charming, magical you behind the cunning, talented exterior. And let's hope that people will forget about this, er… little incident soon.'

'Thanks,' said Harry quickly. He stepped back in a daze and said good-bye to him before he practically sprinted away.

Parseltongue… he could speak to snakes… Salazar Slytherin himself was a Parseltongue… The Heir of Slytherin… Those robes looked rather flammable…

Harry's legs carried him all the way back to the common room, and he found his usual solitary place on the raised platform at the end of the room, overlooking the lake. The Slytherin common room. His common room.

The water was inky black and thick clouds raced through the night sky. It was beginning to snow and Harry could faintly see the shadowy forms of the snowflakes racing towards the restless water and disappear as they touched down.

Was this why the Sorting Hat had placed him here? Because he could talk to snakes? But he wasn't the Heir of Slytherin like Lockhart had said… was he? His parents had both been Gryffindors, after all.

A nasty voice inside him said that Slytherin lived so long ago that it was impossible to be sure that he was not indeed a distant descendant.

But then again, he reasoned, is that such a bad thing? He was a Slytherin, after all. He felt fairly happy here, if a bit lonely. So what if he wasSlytherin's distant, distant heir? It only meant that he could speak Parseltongue, and nothing about that seemed particularly dark to him.

That same nasty voice inside his head reminded him that he had been close to setting Malfoy's robes on fire, and he wondered whether those shocking impulses were somehow related to that strange feeling of remembrance he'd had at Borgin & Burkes last summer. It was as if there was something inside him, stirring and rearing its head from time to time, that wasn't quite him.

[1] Jacques Tortorel and Jean Perissin, Le Massacre de Vassy (ca. 1570).