When he told his parents about his encounter with the Dark Lord, this time it was Will who was ready to jump down Dumbledore's throat. Hannibal served as the rational one, reminding his husband that the official story was Quirrell had been after it, and they only had Harry's word that Voldemort had been involved. Of course they believed him, but others would not be so quick to do so. They would have to be patient.
In other news, Gringotts had finally completed an audit of all his accounts, and found his parents' wills in the process. A reading had been scheduled for the second week of July to give the goblins time to send out all the notices.
But that begged the question… "Do you think they put a guardian for me in their wills? Are you gonna have to fight a custody battle?"
"We might," said Hannibal, "but we do have the blood adoption on our side. The goblins implied it would give us a leg up on anyone else who might be named, save your late relatives."
Abigail hissed quietly at the mention of the Dursleys, as she often did. She was actually the reason they had hunted the family in the first place, even their spoiled brat of a son despite his youth. Dudley had run out into traffic, and the Dursleys had blamed her for nearly running him down instead of themselves for not keeping a closer eye on him, and been unforgivably rude in the process. The three of them had spent weeks stalking the human family before finally making the kills. It was only then that they discovered Harry.
"And if you do have relatives in the wizarding world," Hannibal continued over Abigail's prolonged hissing, "why didn't they step forward before now? Or during your first year? – Settle down, Abby."
"Sorry, dad."
Harry had a full summer that year, between his muggle schoolwork, summer work for his Hogwarts classes, and corresponding with all his friends. Even so, he found time to spend with his sister, his parents, the dogs, and the snakes in the woods, letting some of the last into the house to clean out the inevitable vermin that found their way in. Hannibal had let the snakes in over the winter, too, but he couldn't talk to them like Harry could.
Then it was time for the will reading. Will had forbidden Hannibal from making any puns, cannibalism-oriented or otherwise, on their way to Diagon Alley and Gringotts beyond, which had made both Harry and Abby nearly howl with laughter. It was going to kill the eldest Wendigo, seeing openings for his own particular brand of doubletalk and not being able to take them.
They arrived at Gringotts fifteen minutes early, together with Neville and his grandmother, and they all were escorted into a private room. The adults socialized while the boys chatted about what they were doing over the summer.
Other people trickled in, including Professor Snape, much to their surprise – and his own, if his expression was anything to go by. Dumbledore wasn't far behind, followed by a bone-tired-looking older man, who froze upon spotting Harry, looking like he'd seen a ghost.
The will reading proceeded without any major incidents, everyone accepting what they received from the deceased Potters – until they got to Harry's custody arrangements. It was there that Lily and James explicitly stated that he was not, under any circumstances, to be left with Lily's sister. Lily herself actually wrote that she would rather Harry be raised by Voldemort himself than let that happen – quite a statement from people who had opposed him so vigorously.
The will's chain of custody was thus: his godfathers Sirius Black and Remus Lupin (the haggard man from earlier), Frank and Alice Longbottom, Severus Snape, and then any – any – magical family, Light, Dark, Order of the Phoenix (whatever that was), Death Eater; it hadn't mattered to Lily and James as long as the family in question understood and respected the position they had taken and given their lives for. The same went for Harry himself – they didn't care which side of the war he picked or if he even picked a side at all, as long as it was his choice and he was happy with it.
(Harry would never, ever admit it, but he relaxed upon hearing those words. Some part of him had been worried what his biological parents would have thought of him, but now that part was at ease. Still, he wasn't about to announce that he'd met and made a deal with the Dark Lord.)
Severus ("Only outside of school, Mr Potter." "Harry." "…Harry.") agreed that it would be best for him to remain with the Lecters since he was busy all the time, and Lupin was a werewolf and so not a fit legal guardian in the eyes of the Ministry. He looked surprised and a little upset when Abigail took that information and nearly jumped the man, quizzing him about werewolf resources for her college roommate.
Since they were already in Diagon Alley, they decided to get all of Harry's school supplies while they were there – leading them to stumble into the middle of a very tense stand-off between the Malfoys and the Weasleys. Fortunately, their arrival seemed to diffuse some of the tension, letting the children escape into the crowd.
The size of the crowd was unusual but explained by a sign near the door of Flourish and Blots that some author or another was going to be signing copies of his autobiography. Apparently he was also the one who wrote all the books for their defense classes that year, but Harry only needed to glance through them to know that he would be self-teaching this year. Unless their teacher was using this Gilderoy Lockhart as an example of frauds, there was no way they could learn anything. The books were well-crafted fiction, he'd give them that, but they were still fiction; with just a cursory glance through a few, he was able to find more than a few points that didn't match up with something the author said elsewhere.
He was spotted on his way back to his parents (Will having somehow gotten the Weasley and Malfoy patriarchs to commiserate over the incompetence of another Ministry department). Gilderoy Lockhart himself roped Harry into an impromptu photoshoot and announce that he would be teaching classes for DADA that year.
Hrry used the ruckus that caused to slip the man's grasp and find his parents and friends – yet as he tracked his family's dark and bloody presence through the horde, he would have sworn he felt a familiar brush of magic somewhere amidst all the people.
Voldemort's magic.
"So," Will said quietly, after they all returned home, "What should we do about the will?"
"I spoke to Lucius while all of that was happening," Hannibal hummed, flipping slowly through his recipes, "He knows people who know people, of course. He gave me the contact information for a wizarding lawyer, and informed me that the wills should have been opened by Harry's magical guardian as soon as possible after his parents' deaths to see if there were instructions as to who was to take over the guardianship."
The High Wendigos exchanged glances, eyes turning pale. "He had to have known," Will said, "what they wanted. He didn't look surprised, just a little resigned."
Hannibal let out a hum edged with a growl. "And I can't imagine that his motivations were entirely altruistic. He had a lot to gain if Harry grew up in an abusive household. He would naturally latch on to the first people who showed him kindness – as he did with us. If we hadn't found him…"
"He would have controlled the narrative, even indirectly. Purebloods – or at least quote-unquote 'dark' purebloods – are very insular and wouldn't approach the way 'light' families would." Will scowled off into space, a ripple of black passing over his skin for a second. "Harry would most likely have been disinclined to make friends outside of that, not wanting to lose the friends he'd already made.
"But that's not all of it. I can read that from him; he genuinely thought that putting Harry with the Dursleys was the best thing for him, that he was protecting him somehow. What I don't know is how and why."
Harry met up with all his friends on the Hogwarts express, all of them managing to fit into a single compartment with their trunks and animals (somehow). Draco and Hermione were discussing how magical families learned things like reading, writing, and basic maths. Ron was regaling Crabbe and Goyle with the tale of some adventure or another that Fred and George had dragged him into. Neville seemed to be evenly split between both conversations, same as Harry, commenting where appropriate.
But Draco and Hermione's conversation interested Harry more. He remembered what he had seen in the Mirror of Erised, of the books he might write to bridge the gap between the pureblood and muggleborn communities, to teach each about the other. He decided then that that was absolutely something he was going to do – that was something he wanted, a way to make a new name for himself (and possibly improve the magical world at the same time).
He would need to talk to his parents about what kind of background he would need. Science and history, at least. He'd also need to talk to a lot of pureblood families to learn about their traditions, perhaps in the guise of trying to connect with and understand his own. Something to consider.
Then he felt it again, the barest brush of Voldemort's presence somewhere nearby. He did his best not to react in front of his friends, but he did stick his head out into the hall as if he was looking for the trolley witch. There was no sign of anyone who could have been the Dark Lord, but his presence had grown stronger than when last he felt it and seemed to be moving with the train, somewhere on it. It was a shame he couldn't get more specific than 'nearby' for a direction; he would have liked to know the other's opinion of this 'Gilderoy Lockhart.'
Harry's own already-low opinion of the man plummeted towards 'abysmal' after just one lesson. Really? Really? The man had trouble with pixies? And Peskipiksi pesternomi? Was that even a real spell? He would up spending nearly six inches of parchment complaining about him to his family in their weekly letter, and asking if they couldn't invite him to dinner at some unspecified future date – the man had implied that Harry had wanted his fame, and was trying to use it for his own gain! The young Ravenclaw had almost snapped that he hadn't asked for the Dark Lord to murder his biological parents, but he held his tongue and lay in wait.
But it wasn't just the first class that was a joke – it was all of them, to the point where Harry and Hermione (who had eventually come around) looked up what they were supposed to be learning and made their own curriculum. They followed it religiously, and it wound up propagating outward to the rest of their group, then most of their year. Some members of other years were inspired to do the same, especially the fifth and seventh years. With their OWLs and NEWTs on the horizon, none of them could afford to fall behind because of an incompetent teacher.
He actually mentioned that in a letter to his parents at a later date – 'At least I know he's not involved with the Dark Lord – even Voldemort must demand a certain level of competence and skill from his followers.'
But thinking of that brought his mind back to the man himself. Harry had continued sensing his presence intermittently since the start of term, but there had been no contact made. Which Harry found very odd; didn't he want to know if Harry had discovered anything over the summer? (He hadn't, not really, though he had owled Lucius Malfoy to see if the Ministry had an archive of past prophecies, or if it was just one and done and hope someone heard it. The Malfoy patriarch had not yet responded.)
But then Halloween rolled around.
Draco was in the process of explaining an ancient Samhain – Halloween – ritual that wizarding families used to do, a kind of blood ritual that put the land to sleep for the winter but also steeped it in power for the next growing season. Since it involved blood, it was illegal to perform now, of course, but even Ron was listening to the story Draco spun, riveted. Harry was, too, until he became aware of a voice, a hissing coming from inside the walls.
"Kill… need to kill… been so hungry for so long…"
"Harry?"
Harry blinked, and found that he had stopped in the middle of the hall on the first floor, not too far from the stairs down to the entrance hall. "What's the matter, Harry?" Hermione asked, speaking for all of them.
"I don't think… we should be out in the open…" he murmured, reaching up to touch one of his ears. He pushed energy into his auditory canal and listened, trying to strip away familiar sounds and zero in on what didn't belong – until he encountered a very odd heartbeat not too far away, strangely stiff, like the heart was having to fight hard to pump blood.
He dropped his hand and pulled out his wand, advancing slowly, carefully down the hall, feeling like when he was being play-hunted by the Wendigos. His friends did the same, sticking close – they rounded the corner –
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Below the glistening letters, Mrs Norris, Argus Filch's beloved cat, hung by her tail from a wall sconce, her stiff form reflected in the pools of water on the floor.
"We need a teacher," Harry managed, trying to take in as much detail as he could, trying to reconstruct what had happened the way Will was teaching him, but he didn't know enough – this was no mundane kill, or even a kill at all. Mrs Norris was still alive, barely. "We need a teacher – or the headmaster."
Neville nodded and took off at a sprint, wand still in hand. Harry looked down at the puddles of water on the floor, trying to see if there was anything resembling footprints left behind if someone had walked through them. He found them all right, too many, but he couldn't even begin to estimate how long they'd been there or even the right time frame for the attack; most of the school walked through that hall on their way to lunch and dinner.
Footsteps. Neville came jogging around the corner with Dumbledore and half the staff in tow, including Filch – and Lockhart.
Harry stepped back to let the headmaster pass, trying not to scowl at the defense professor, and watched as Dumbledore examined the cat briefly, then carefully detached her from the sconce. "All of you, come with me."
They went to Lockhart's office, generously offered by the man himself, since it was the closest. Some of the teachers stayed behind to divert the students away from the hall, or at least keep them moving.
The professor's office was full of paintings of himself, some of them dodging out of sight in nightclothes and rollers. The real one hovered while Dumbledore examined the cat, the students gathered close to one another but with a clear view of the desk. At last, Dumbledore straightened and interrupted Lockhart's blathering, saying, "She's not dead, Argus."
The conversation that followed went mostly over the students' heads, but Harry learned that Mrs Norris's state was called 'petrifaction,' and only advanced dark magic could put someone in such a state. But the biggest surprise of the night was yet to come; when Filch accused Harry of petrifying his cat, Snape spoke up in his defense. "I saw all of them at the feast, Argus," said the potions' master, "They sat together at the Slytherin table, and while they did leave early, they weren't gone long enough to petrify your cat. Even for the Dark Lord, it would not be an easy thing."
Harry blinked at the man standing in a shadowed corner. Their odd ceasefire had not been greatly affected by the will reading and continued on into the new school year, along with Snape's odd, strangely sad looks whenever he saw him together with his friends. Still, he hadn't expected the professor to speak up on his behalf. Perhaps the fact that Draco was included in the group was what gave him the final push.
Soon after, they were all sent off to bed. Harry didn't even get a chance to tell his friends about the voice (a serpent?) in the walls before he entered the Ravenclaw dormitories and climbed into bed.