Thank you for the reviews on both the Interlude and Chapter 9! I'll put up review responses in my LJ later today.
I didn't like writing this chapter. I think I did it well, but it hurts.
Chapter Nine: That Sharp Spark of BetrayalHarry's hand darted out, snatching the Snitch as it tried to bolt around him, and Flint bellowed twice, signaling an end to the Quidditch practice.
Harry turned and dived towards the ground. He barely remembered to pull up at the last moment. Part of him wanted to keep going, to see how low he really could skim over the grass before gravity and momentum caught up with him. His blood was thrumming, filling his veins the same way that the air filled his lungs. The broom the Malfoys had given him was brilliant. Harry had never known that a different kind of broom could make such a difference in the way he flew, adding an extra lightness to his turns and an extra speed to his motions.
He landed with a light roll and flip off the broom, and turned to see the Quidditch team staring at him. Harry paused for a moment. They hadn't been that pleased with him, particularly Flint, when Harry had had to admit at the first practice a week ago that he had a Nimbus 2001 broom now, and hadn't told anyone. They had got over that soon enough, but from their expressions now, Harry wondered if they were remembering it.
Then Flint grinned, an expression that made him look like a bulldog, and said, "We're going to pound the Gryffindors into the ground next Saturday." His gaze traced around the team. "We've got the toughest Beaters, the fastest Chasers—of course—the meanest Keeper, and the best Seekers." His eyes came back to Harry. "Don't we, Potter?"
Harry looked back calmly, undaunted now. He hadn't worked out exactly how he was going to throw the next game back to Connor, but he knew he was. Connor was flying beautifully. Harry knew he wouldn't have to do much to make it look as though Connor had beaten him on sheer skill alone.
Then Flint leaned forward and said, "It's obvious now, the way that you were holding yourself back in the first game last year. I know you didn't do it in the other matches, Potter, but this time you're not going to do it in all of them. Slytherin plays to win."
Harry figured it was best to back down for now. He bowed his head, as though Flint had managed to convince him, and murmured, "Of course."
Flint drew back, satisfied, and made his way towards the showers. He said something to Adrian Pucey that made him laugh loudly, and the rest of the team bunched up close behind, leaving Harry to walk slightly on his own. That suited him just fine. He'd seen the shy figure lurking around the edge of the Pitch during practice, and Harry wanted a chance to speak with him.
"Harry," came the expected voice from the side.
"Connor," said Harry, turning around and smiling at his brother. "Coming to spy on our practice?" He smiled even more widely, to show it was a joke.
Connor jerked, once, but didn't let the teasing distract him. He was looking at the broom in Harry's hands. "When were you going to tell me that you had a Nimbus 2001?"
Harry sighed. "The day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin game, if I could."
"Why?" Connor lifted his head and met Harry's eyes. "I thought that you weren't going to lie to me about anything any more."
"It would have caused a lot of arguments during the summer," said Harry. "And you had enough happen to you then. We still don't know who sent that house elf, do we? And I know about the other things now," he added. "You should have told me if you felt you couldn't sleep, Connor. I could have helped."
Connor stared at him for a long moment. "What are you talking about?"
"Ron told me," said Harry. "That's how concerned he was, that Ron willingly talked to me without you around."
"He likes you—" Connor began defensively.
"No, he doesn't," said Harry. "I know he doesn't. But just listen to me, all right? He told me that you were having nightmares about Voldemort's attack last year, and that you'd been taking Dreamless Sleep Potion to combat them." He shook his head. "At least now I know why all those owls came with packages for you last summer. I thought there were only sweets in them."
Connor lowered his eyes. "I didn't want to disturb you," he muttered. "And the potion handled the nightmares. I slept without dreaming for most of the summer." He abruptly raised his head and stared Harry down. "And what about you, anyway? Why did you wake up and sneak outside so many times at night?"
"To play with Sylarana," said Harry. "That was when I didn't think you could stand to find out that I'm a Parselmouth."
Sylarana stirred lazily on his shoulder. "He can't stand it," she said. "He never looks at me."
You're under my robe right now, Harry pointed out.
"That is no excuse."
Harry glanced up and surprised a disgusted expression on his brother's face. Harry shook his head. "Is she really any different from the magical creatures that you go with Hagrid to see?" he asked Connor.
"Yes," huffed Connor, crossing his arms. "They aren't snakes."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I think we should see what Hagrid makes of her, myself. I know that you visit him on Saturdays. Are you going there? Can I come with you? I think it's time I met him properly, and thanked him for carrying me back to the school last year."
Connor nodded at him, looking baffled. "I'm not staying for very long. The Halloween Feast tonight, you know. But I did say that I'd visit him. And—well, he probably would like to get a look at a real live version of that thing," he said, glancing at the arm that Sylarana wasn't coiled around, an expression of distaste twisting his mouth.
"Would he like to look at a real live Locusta bite?" Sylarana asked. "That can be arranged."
Harry gave his own shoulder a light smack to shut her up, and then nodded at Connor. "Let me get changed, and then—"
"Harry!"
Harry turned in surprise. He hadn't seen Draco watching the Quidditch practice, but evidently he had been, and now he was jogging across the pitch towards them, looking as wind-blown as though he'd been flying. He halted beside Harry and gave Connor a cool stare, as much to ask, What are you doing here?
Connor curled his lip. "Malfoy," he said.
"Draco," said Harry. "I'm not going to be long. I'll see you at the Feast."
"Such a welcoming committee," Draco drawled, his eyes half-lidded and every bit of his attention on Connor. "It's Saturday afternoon, and I haven't spent any of the day with my best friend." Here, his glance came back to Harry, whip-quick. "I don't want to talk to you just at the Feast, Harry. I'd much rather play Exploding Snap with you this afternoon. And talk about your private lessons with Professor Snape," he added, as a warning, Harry supposed, that he wouldn't let Harry put it off much longer.
Harry still hadn't explained who had possessed him to Draco, and so hadn't explained why the Occlumency lessons were necessary. He didn't want to, either. Draco's father had been a Death Eater. It was possible that he was still obeying Voldemort's commands, in whatever form the Dark Lord could send them, and his being in possession of the diary argued that. Harry was not going to make Draco choose between his family and Harry. It would end up happening anyway, of course, if Draco insisted on staying friends with him, but then the War would break out, Harry would fight at Connor's side, and Draco would choose the Malfoys with a clear conscience. It was not going to happen like this, when Draco might feel horrified at what Lucius had done, and torn between his friend and his family.
Harry hadn't been sure how he would avoid Draco's probing questions, but luckily he didn't have to, now. "I'm going to shower and then visit Hagrid with Connor, Draco," he said. "I promised. I have to thank Hagrid for what he did for me, anyway, after the encounter with Voldemort last year." He noticed with private amusement that Draco still flinched at the Dark Lord's name. "I'll see you at the Feast."
"No, you won't," said Draco.
"Going to spend the night sulking in your rooms?" Connor mocked.
Draco didn't sneer at him, but gave him such a cold and piercing look that Connor's smile faded and Harry felt a snake of uneasiness coil in his belly.
"Another snake?" Sylarana half-unfolded herself from his shoulder. "Where? You're my human. Don't forget that."
It was a metaphor, Harry explained, and then looked at Draco. "Do you want to explain what you mean by that?"
"I'm coming with you to visit Hagrid," announced Draco haughtily.
"I—but you can't!" Connor said. He was actually spitting as he said it, and Harry winced and was glad that there were no potential allies around, to see Connor looking as bad as that. "Hagrid doesn't like you!"
"He's never met me," said Draco, all aristocratic iciness.
"You're a Malfoy," said Connor. "You're impossible to like."
"My father's influence at the Ministry argues otherwise." Draco curled his lips in a smug smile. "As does my friendship with Harry." He moved sideways until his shoulder bumped Harry's.
Connor met Harry's eyes and held them. Harry sighed. "Can you give me a few minutes?" he asked.
Connor nodded. "You'd need them to shower, anyway," he said, still staring at Draco. "I'll be waiting for you at the edge of the Pitch." He turned and walked away, shaking his head.
"Don't start, Harry," said Draco, before Harry could try to persuade him not to come. "You spent the first three weeks of term ignoring me, and now you want to spend more time with your brother than me. No." His face was stubborn, and sulky. Harry let out a little hiss.
"If you insist—"
"I do."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Wait here, then," he said, and went in to shower.
"She's beautiful, Harry," said Hagrid appreciatively, caressing Sylarana's scales. He looked as though he were barely keeping himself from picking up and cuddling the Locusta, much to Harry's surprise. It seemed that Hagrid really did love magical creatures, no matter how dangerous, no matter how unpredictable. The half-giant looked up, beaming. "What does she say abou' me?"
"That he had better not stop doing that," said Sylarana, arching, as Hagrid stroked her behind the head.
"She really likes being petted," said Harry, feeling a sense of unreality take him over. He had never touched Sylarana as much as Hagrid was, and watching his Locusta twine around someone else's hands with that kind of enthusiasm, and no sign of biting, made things odd.
Even odder was the fact that Connor and Draco had been in Hagrid's house for half-an-hour, sipping tea and munching biscuits only a little less hard than rocks, and hadn't yet drawn wands on each other. Oh, they'd come close a few times, when Draco made a remark about pureblooded wizarding customs and the absolutely shameful lack of them in Gryffindor House, or when Connor muttered something about Narcissa Malfoy looking as if she needed to be scrubbed inside and out to be freed of the taint of Dark magic. But so far it was going…
Well, Harry thought firmly. It's going well.
"Hagrid," he said again, "I'd like to thank you for carrying me back to Hogwarts last year—"
Hagrid waved one hand at him, blushing, once again not letting Harry complete his thanks properly. The other hand remained occupied with Sylarana, who now uttered the sort of crooning hiss that Harry had heard in the past only when he offered to let her bite something. "Don' be silly, Harry. Yer Connor's brother. And yeh were sick." He leaned forward abruptly and peered at Harry. "What did yeh get into, anyway? I never did get the chance to ask."
Harry coughed a bit. Connor had told Hagrid about You-Know-Who, as Hagrid would put it, but not that Harry had suffered Crucio at the end of Quirrell's wand. Harry didn't think he'd been able to hear the exact curse under Voldemort's cage spell. And Harry had not told anyone else, either. It was enough that Snape knew, and that he had used the weakness the curse inspired that night to give Harry Veritaserum…
He caught the anger that memory inspired and tossed it into the box with practiced ease. The box had come in handy the past weeks, allowing him to slide past the Occlumency lessons and the times that he had wanted to get angry at his brother or Ron.
There was another reason he wasn't about to tell anyone now, he thought, looking up, and catching Draco's intent stare out of the corner of his eye. Draco would fuss, if he knew. Perhaps Connor would, too, though he was more practical about things like that; it was done and past, he would say. Draco never seemed to understand that part.
"A spell from You-Know-Who's wand," he said, avoiding Voldemort's name out of deference for Hagrid's sensibilities. "I'm not sure what it was."
"Of course you aren't," said Draco from the side.
Harry glared at him. Draco never flinched, and never blinked, either. Harry looked away. Draco bothered him lately. He wanted to spend time with Harry all the time, and Harry no longer believed that it was solely to keep him away from Connor. That left the problem of what it was, though. It couldn't be true friendship, Harry thought, even if Draco thought it was, because that would mean that Draco would have trouble breaking away from Harry when it was time and rejoining his family. He understood the Slytherins' behavior not at all in general, of course, but Draco was the worst of them.
"Ah, well," said Hagrid, with a sigh. "I'm glad yer out of it now, Harry. And yeh, too, Connor," he added, with a nod to Connor. Then he looked back down, and a goofy, blissful smile widened across his face. "Would the beautiful Locusta like some eggs?" he crooned at her.
"Tell him the beautiful Locusta would indeed like some eggs," Sylarana instructed Harry, turning so that the sunlight falling through Hagrid's window glinted off her scales. "Phrase it exactly like that."
Harry shook his head and phrased it exactly like that, determinedly not looking at Connor and Draco again. At least the afternoon was a success for two of them, he thought.
Harrysped up a little as they came closer to Hogwarts. Connor and Draco had started to bicker on the way back from Hagrid's cottage, and it was growing steadily louder and more annoying. That they were bickering about him only increased Harry's annoyance. He didn't understand why they would. He'd made it clear where he stood with them—Connor first, Draco second; Connor his brother, Draco his friend; Connor his family, Draco his Housemate. Harry had said that outright on more than one occasion. Draco had even seemed to accept it when they made up after their fight in September.
And now, this.
"But he really should have been in Gryffindor," Connor was saying. "Everyone knows that."
"Someone forgot to tell the Sorting Hat," said Draco, his voice smug. "And Headmaster Dumbledore. And Professor Snape. And me. And—"
"Whatever, Malfoy," said Connor. Harry didn't need to look back at him to know he would be waving his hand, as he did whenever he wanted to clear away what he thought was a stupid line of argument. "I saw the broom that your parents bought for Harry today. Do you really think it'll make that much difference when it comes to the match next week?"
"Of course it will," said Draco. "But that's not why they bought it, you halfblooded prat. They bought it for Harry because he's my friend, and because it was his birthday, too, not just yours."
"I'm wondering just how much longer he should stay your friend," Connor said, and lowered his voice. Harry, pausing near Hogwarts's front doors, looked back at them in irritation. Connor had his face close to Draco's. As Harry watched, he whispered, "You know that he would stop being your friend if I asked him to."
Draco's eyes widened, and for a moment he didn't seem to know what to do. Then he drew his wand.
Harry snarled and sprinted back towards them, ignoring Sylarana's complaints as she was jostled. Connor had his wand out, too, but luckily, Harry darted in between them before either could fire a spell. He put his back to his twin. He trusted Connor not to do something sneaky behind him more than he trusted Draco.
"Both of you are acting like first-years," he said, his anger nearly choking him. He thought about putting the anger in the box, but he didn't think he could. He had to spit it out instead. If nothing else, it might help them understand the simple concepts that they just refused to grasp so far. "Or babies fighting over a toy, at that." He darted a glance back at Connor, who flushed. He particularly hated being called younger than he was, one reason Harry had chosen this line of reasoning. Harry looked back at Draco, whose face was burning with unshielded fury and who still had his wand up. "I said I was your friend," said Harry. "I meant it. And I said Connor was my brother, and I meant it. What part of this don't you fucking understand?"
His rage left him breathless. He shook his head. He had to calm down, or he would say something he really regretted, and not just something unfortunate.
He stuffed this anger into the box, too, and sighed at how that cleared his head. He looked back at Connor, and found his brother's cheeks even more flushed. He opened his mouth to speak.
Harry shook his head again. "I don't want to hear it," he said. "I'm your brother, Connor, and that's not ever going to change. You know it, so stop acting like an idiot around me." He glanced at Draco. "And Draco, I'm your friend. We've been over this before. You know the limitations and the necessities of our friendship. Have I ever lied to you about that?" he added quietly.
Draco lowered his wand and rubbed his face with one hand. "No," he whispered. "But, Harry—"
Harry took a slight step forward. Connor would be fine, and so it would cost him nothing if Harry listened to Draco right now instead. "Yes?" he asked.
He never got to find out what Draco would have said—at least not right then—because someone came flying out of the school screeching at the top of his lungs. "Malfoy!"
Harry swung around. It was Ron, and he had his wand out and pointed at Draco. With a small groan, Harry reversed himself, so that he got between Draco and anything Connor's enraged friend might throw.
"Something wrong, Weasley?"
Harry grimaced at the tone in Draco's voice. This wasn't anything like the enmity Draco had for Connor. It was pureblood hatred. Whatever feud lingered between the Malfoys and the Weasleys—and none of the history books Harry had read explained the origins of that feud—both families were feeding and encouraging it.
Then Harry looked into Ron's red, tear-streaked face, and thought he knew what was wrong. This round had almost certainly gone to the Malfoys.
"You want to know what's wrong, Malfoy?" Ron bellowed, halting a few feet away from Harry. "You want to know what's wrong?" He was breathing hard now, and his hand was clenched so tightly around his wand that Harry feared it might snap. "Your father got mine sacked!" Ron yelled at last. "That's what's bloody wrong!"
"Ron!"
Harry shook his head as Hermione hurried out of the doors. He didn't think she'd be able to intervene this time. He only hoped it wouldn't come to hexes.
"Ron," he began soothingly, "if you think about it, that was Lucius's fault. He must have—"
Ron wasn't listening. "Tarantallegra!" he shouted, and the spell flew from his wand and towards Draco.
Harry brought up a hand. "Haurio!" he said, without much time to make the decision. He couldn't use Protego; that would reflect the spell right back at Ron, and there were no professors around to shield students from the effect of the hexes this time.
A dark green shield formed in his palm and spread rapidly outward from there. The light of Ron's hex hit it and vanished. Harry let out a short breath. Haurio worked as he'd read it would, then, absorbing the spell instead of bouncing it back.
Ron didn't give him much time to congratulate himself. "Petrificus Totalus!" he tried this time, and the Body-Bind Curse also made excellent food for Harry's shield. Ron huffed out a breath. "Drop the shield, Harry!" he screamed. "Let me at him!"
"No," Harry said, and then felt slight movement behind him. "Draco, if you fire a spell at him, I will drop the shield, and then I'll hex you," he added.
Draco stopped moving. Harry glanced backward briefly to make sure he was all right, and found Draco, oddly, smiling at him.
"My hero," he said.
Harry rolled his eyes and turned to face Ron. Ron was aiming his wand, but Harry saw something he didn't and relaxed.
"Expelliarmus!"
Ron's wand soared through the air and settled firmly into Hermione's hand. Ron swung around. "Hermione!" he yelled, his rage appearing to change direction mid-flight. "You were supposed to—"
"Calm down, Ron," said Hermione. She'd come up beside him and was panting. Harry imagined her chasing Ron all the way from Gryffindor Tower and winced. "It'll be all right," she added softly, rubbing Ron's back. "We can go to talk to Professor Dumbledore. I'm sure he'll—"
"Harry."
Harry snapped his head abruptly back around. Connor hadn't said anything during the battle, and Harry had thought he would be content to let Ron and Draco fight it out—or not, as the case might be. Now, though, he stepped forward. His face was intent, and Harry shivered at the expression on it. He supposed, distantly, that it was an expression he had wanted his twin to wear: one of awareness of power, composed and testing. He was seeing how much he might be able to order someone around, because he was the Boy-Who-Lived. He would need to get used to taking command if he was going to save and lead the wizarding world.
Harry really, really wished that Connor hadn't decided to be commanding now.
"Harry," said Connor. "Step out of the way and let Ron have him. What Malfoy's dad did to Ron's dad was horrible. You have to see that."
Harry closed his eyes. He felt Draco's hand touch his shoulder. Where are the prefects when we need them? Harry thought. Where are the professors?
Probably getting ready for the Halloween Feast, of course. That Harry knew the answer didn't comfort him.
"I see that," he whispered. "But, Connor, I can't. Ron would hurt him. Or Draco would hurt Ron. Or they would hurt each other. I don't want anyone hurt." He didn't dare open his eyes and look at Connor again.
"Harry, look at me."
Shit.
Harry managed to force his head up and his eyes open. Draco's hand was clenched on his shoulder now, and Sylarana was silent. Then she said, in Harry's mind, I am going to kill him. Her voice was quiet and resolved.
No! Harry said, but he couldn't think of much more than that. He was caught by the look in Connor's eyes. Love and loyalty, yes, but there was a calculating edge there as well, as though Connor were really seeing Harry for the first time.
"Harry," said Connor softly, "if you really think that you should have been a Gryffindor, step out of the way. This is Gryffindor vengeance. You've got to see that. And Draco had his wand out first."
"Connor, we're not supposed to use magic on each other outside of classes!" Hermione tried to intervene.
Connor raised a hand. "Well, Harry?" he asked, calm and implacable. "What do you think? Should you have been a Gryffindor?"
Harry was breathing fast, his thoughts near to being caught up in the maelstrom again. If Connor said something about him, it was true. He knew that. He had used it to reassure himself both last year and this one, when Connor had said he couldn't be evil for being Sorted into Slytherin or speaking Parseltongue. He clung to it.
If Connor said he should step out of the way or that would prove that he wasn't really Gryffindor—
And if Connor said that being a Gryffindor, Sorted into the wrong House by mistake only, meant that he was still good—
Harry wanted to run and scream and vomit. Of course, one of those would involve him stepping out of the way, one would involve bending, and he thought that he wouldn't be able to stop if he started screaming now.
But he stood there. And wasn't that really his choice, after all, made and proclaimed in the open where anyone could see it?
He looked up in time to see Connor nod, once. His eyes were sharp with betrayal as he stared at Harry.
"The Sorting Hat wasn't wrong after all, I see," he said, and then turned around and walked over to Ron, escorting him back into Hogwarts. He didn't turn around, not even when Harry tried to call after him, in a hoarse, strangled voice that didn't sound like his own.
Hermione lingered for a moment, looking at Harry and biting her lip. Harry thought she was trying to decide what to say, without making it look as though she either sympathized with Draco or was betraying Connor.
At last, she shook her head, whispered feebly, "He didn't mean it," and ran back into Hogwarts after Ron and Connor.
Harry closed his eyes and stood still, body tensed as though to absorb a blow. He had to put this into perspective. He had to try to tell himself that just because he had a fight with Connor didn't mean that he'd disobeyed his twin or taken the opposite side against him. Sometimes he'd had to disagree with him, in the past, when Connor was wrong, like last year when he'd insulted Hermione on Halloween, and Draco on the Hogwarts Express.
He'd seen those hazel eyes filled with shame before, he argued with himself.
But never betrayal.
He'd done things Connor didn't want him to before, when Connor was wrong.
But always before, he knew he was in the wrong at once.
Harry lowered his head and drew in a few deep breaths. He jumped when a pair of arms wound around him in a fierce hug. Finally, he let the Haurio shield go and turned to face Draco.
"My hero," said Draco. "I meant that, Harry. Thank you."
Harry nodded. He didn't think he could speak. Luckily, Draco seemed to understand that.
"Do you feel up to going to the Feast?" he whispered.
Harry shook his head. Draco sighed. "I'll escort you back to the dungeons, then," he said. "And we'll talk after you've had some sleep."
Harry turned blindly towards the Slytherin common room, Draco's arm around his shoulders. He did want to sleep, he thought. He waited for Sylarana to make a comment on that.
"I want him dead," Sylarana said.
You can't, said Harry wearily. That would make me hurt worse.
"I know," said Sylarana. "I did not promise that I was going to kill him. I promised that I wish to."
Harry thought about questioning her on that point, but in the end, let it go. They made it through the Slytherin common room and up to their dorm, drawing no more than a few curious glances. Draco pushed Harry into his bed and hovered over him for a moment.
"I'm going to the Feast," he whispered. "I'll tell the others what happened."
Harry opened his eyes and glared at him, as much as he could in the dim light of a bed with curtains mostly drawn. "Don't hex Ron."
Draco only nodded, gray eyes solemn. "I won't, Harry." His hand descended, smoothing over Harry's shoulder and tangling briefly in his hair. Then he gently drew the curtains and walked out of the room.
Harry lay where he was, breathing, for a moment. Sylarana crawled out and coiled on his chest.
"Can you weep?" she asked. "I think it would make you feel better if you could."
"I can't afford to," Harry muttered, and set about the long process of tucking up all the anguish, all the pain, all the exhaustion, and putting them into the box.
Harry blinked and woke. He didn't know how much later it was, though judging from the cramped state his body was in, he'd slept without moving for a good long time. On his chest, Sylarana hissed at him.
"I didn't know you could do that," she said.
"Do what?" Harry asked as he stretched. He had to admit, he felt refreshed, more than he usually would after a session with the box. That let him function, but did not give him his strength back.
"Put me to sleep like that," said Sylarana, arching her neck luxuriously. "I admit, I needed it, but I'm the one who influences your thoughts. Not the other way around."
Harry lazily stroked her neck. "Do you want to go see what's left of the Feast? Or we can go to the kitchens and beg food from the house elves if you want." Sylarana had sniffed out the way to the kitchens the second week of school.
"Let's," said Sylarana. She slid under his jumper, and Harry stood, smoothing as much of his hair as possible. He wondered if putting Sylarana to sleep was part of the reason he'd slept so well. He really had needed to rest.
His mind turned back to the fight as he exited the Slytherin common room, but he forced himself to put it in perspective. Yes, he had done something else that Connor found wrong, and he would have to find his brother and apologize. But that didn't mean he'd chosen his allegiances and set them in stone. He would fight with his brother if necessary, to make him see that. He would point out that Ron would certainly have lost Gryffindor House points and landed in detention if he had succeeded in hexing Draco. He would say—
He froze and glanced around carefully. There was a strange—sensation in the air. That was the only word Harry could think of for it. It felt like a mixture of Dark magic and a powerful earthy scent.
"I smell it," hissed Sylarana, and once again, there was no humor in her voice. "Coming from upstairs."
Harry hurried. He had reached the second floor when Sylarana poked her head out from under his sleeve, swinging like a compass. "To the left."
Harry turned the corner. Then he halted, fighting hard to keep from crying out.
He stood outside a girls' loo, just beyond a massive puddle of water. Above him, cut into the stone, letters the color of blood declared: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware!
Beside the puddle, just under the writing, lay the motionless body of Luna Lovegood.