EDITED: September 17th, 2022.

For Procrastinator1, who realized I uploaded the wrong chapter (and the most crucial!). Now it's not missing any longer—I hope you enjoy it!

09 - Devil Take the Hindmost

I was standing in front of the door of the Great Hall, frowning.

I was missing something. I wasn't supposed to be here, not right now. I was – I was going to the library.

Yes. The library. I needed to go there.

But I was tired. I wanted to sleep some more.

I turned on my heel, shivering slightly as I thought of the warmth of my bed, of curling in my blankets –

Dark eyes glittered down at me from a handsome face. A silver badge shone at the front of his robes, not unlike Percy Weasley's. Beyond that, everything was a blur; the distance between the top of the stairs and the bottom was too long.

I stepped forward, wanting to see him closer –

Someone brushed past me. The girl's shoes clicked on the marble as she ran up the stairs. The dark blue hue of her robes and the yellow of her hood caught my eye.

She stopped halfway, and I knew she was looking at him despite facing her back. The handsome boy's eyes were now on her.

"It was you, wasn't it?" the girl yelled. She took another step forward; her wand slid down her sleeve, stopping just above her knuckles. "Tell me the truth!"

I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

A hand clapping my shoulder made me look over my shoulder and into concerned brown eyes.

"Anya, are you okay?" said Neville Longbottom. "You've been standing there for minutes."

"I –"

I looked back. They were gone.

"Yeah," I said, gritting my teeth. "I thought I saw the Bloody Baron up there."

Neville squeaked. Without waiting, I walked into the Great Hall. Its ceiling matched my mood. Dark and gloomy, with just a sprinkle of light somewhere behind the clouds.

My hand tingled. With a start, I noticed I was holding Tom's diary. A thin strip of paper was sticking out from between its pages.

I sat as far away as I could from prying eyes and opened it. My brow shot up in surprise.

Marlene McKinnon. Gryffindor. Class of 1971-1978. Quidditch Player, Chaser. Second-born. Parents: Gavin McKinnon and Aubrey Fawley. Sisters: Elena (oldest) and Daisy (youngest).

I pulled out a quill from my bag.

Tom, did you write this?

As always, the words took their time to appear.

Yes.

A sliver of cold raced up my spine. How did you do it?

Do you not remember, Anya? You went to the library in hopes of continuing your... research. But you quickly grew frustrated with your lack of findings.

That... sounded like me.

He continued: I offered my services, and you agreed. Are you sure you're all right?

I slapped the diary shut. I ran a hand down my face, trying to remember...

Yes. I had been at the library. Madam Pince had been of no use, not allowing me to see the old newspapers. A permit was needed, she'd claimed, with the Head of House's signature. Why, I wasn't sure, but I'd bolted to the deepest corners of the room before I could say something I'd regret.

That wasn't the only reason I had gone to the library though.

Parseltongue. The language of the snakes. There are very few Parselmouths recorded in history, with Salazar Slytherin taking the lead. An uncommon skill, it is known to be exclusively hereditary.

So that was what I am. A Parselmouth. And if Tom wasn't lying, so was he.

But it couldn't be. He was dead and I was not. There was no way we were related.

But he can talk to snakes... who else can do that? And how, of many topics in the entire world, could he have known to bring that up?

A book slamming onto the table made me jump. Hermione winced, touching the cover gently, and seized a napkin to wipe it.

I eyed her. "I don't think the book got a dent. They've got to be as thick as their authors, yeah?"

The comment flew over her head. "Morning, Anya," she said, still wiping. "And I didn't intend to drop it, it's just too heavy."

"Then why are you carrying it?"

"What else for? Classes!"

"We haven't even received our schedules yet," I argued.

"Yes, we have," she said, and tossed at me a small scroll. I caught it by the fingertips.

I opened it. The first thing that jumped out at me was the handful of hearts framing the DADA squares. I decided to ignore it.

"Not bad." I frowned. "We've got double periods with Slytherin again though. Professor Dumbledore's either blind or he's pushing us purposefully into murdering each other."

Neville sat close to us. I ignored him, still feeling a little miffed that he'd cut me off from... whatever the hell that little episode had been.

Half an hour later, Harry and Ron finally arrived. Hermione's greeting was stiff, while Neville's and mine were a little cheerful.

"Mail's due any minute," Neville announced. "I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot."

He was right. A pack of owls streamed in a moment later, circling the hall until they found their owners.

I spotted Otto right away. Next to Malfoy's eagle, he was the biggest avian of the lot. The old bird landed gracefully next to my plate and took with his beak the piece of bread I'd prepared. There was no letter tied to his leg.

I felt a wave of resentment towards Natasha. She still had nothing else to say.

A thud surprised me. I looked up; Neville Longbottom was touching his head with a small scowl. A box was on his lap. It had bounced from his head. I turned sympathetic when he opened it and pulled out five books of varied sizes. It must have really hurt. Their titles weren't familiar, but I knew they were about Herbology, judging from their covers with printed plants.

I yelped. Cold juice drenched my skirt. The Weasleys' owl gave a few turns, spraying my drink all over Ron. The bird finally gave up, stopping on its back and with its legs hanging in the air. It was also clutching a red letter in its beak.

"Errol!" Ron moaned.

I wasn't feeling particularly kind. "Is it even alive?" I prodded the owl's stomach with my spoon. Hermione slapped my hand away.

"Oh no –" Ron groaned.

"Don't worry, he's fine," Hermione said as she gently prodded Errol with her finger.

"It's not that – it's that."

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary like any envelope to me, but the expressions Ron and Neville shared told me I was wrong. Again.

"Hey, look!" said Seamus from a few seats. "Weasley got a howler!"

The table began to laugh and look at Ron.

"What's a howler?" Harry asked. He received no answer, as Ron was backing away from the red envelope. He looked terrified.

"You'd better open it, Ron," Neville advised in a timid whisper. "It'll be worse if you don't. My Gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and," he gulped, "it was horrible."

I raised an eyebrow, looking at the pair of petrified faces. By this point, only Harry, Hermione, and I remained in the same space. Everyone else had moved away from Ron – or rather, the red envelope.

"It's a red envelope," I said flatly. I was ignored.

"Open it," Neville urged, watching as the corners of the envelope began to smoke. "It'll all be over in a few minutes –"

Ron stretched out a quivering hand, eased the envelope from Errol's beak, and slit it open. Neville promptly stuffed his fingers into his ears.

"RONALD WEASLEY!" A voice so familiar roared, making me topple back on my seat and away from Ron. The letter sure had exploded, and instead, I found myself staring at what looked like a floating mouth with white teeth and a long tongue. Mrs. Weasley's screams rang loudly in my ears. I resisted the urge to hide under the table.

"— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —"

The voice seemed to get louder at each word the letter uttered, so loud that plates and spoons started to rattle on the table, making the sound echo deafeningly off the stone walls. Heads turned around to see from where the ruckus came from. Ron already had sunk so low in his chair that I could only see his blushing forehead.

"— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —"

I had wondered if Harry's name was going to be brought on, but Mrs. Weasley didn't add further.

"— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME."

The howler suddenly floated to where Ginny sat and said in a much softer tone, "Oh, and Ginny, dear. Congratulations on making Gryffindor. Your father and I are so proud."

As its last act, the red envelope returned to face Ron, blew a raspberry at him and burned itself. The ashes fell on Ron's food.

My ears were ringing. I put my pinkies inside them and twirled them thoroughly. Slowly, the lull of conversations returned.

Hermione closed her book with a snap and looked down at Ron's hiding figure.

"Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you –"

"Don't tell me I deserved it," Ron snapped.

I was suddenly glad I didn't have any family. Better have all my senses with me when the time for arguing came.

•••◘◘◘•••

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair. There was usually a large amount of dirt on her clothes, but this time, there were bandages around her arms and a few long scratches on her kind face.

"Welcome to Greenhouse Three, Second Years," she greeted us warmly. "Today, we will be repotting Mandrakes." I noticed Harry slip between Hermione and Ron. He had been held back by Gilderoy Lockhart a few minutes ago. "Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"

To nobody's surprise, Hermione's well-prepared hand was the first in the air.

"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," she said, her voice sounding as if she had recorded the information. "It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state."

"Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?"

Hermione almost hit Harry in the face with her hand again.

"The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it."

"Precisely. Take another ten points. Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young."

I shuffled on my spot to get a better look at the row of deep trays. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green, were growing there in rows.

"Everyone, take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy. I wisely stood behind, knowing that fluffy meant zero chances of ending deaf.

"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on."

I snapped the earmuffs on place. As I thought, the fluff seemed to shut out all noise. Professor Sprout put on her own pink pair and rolled her sleeves over her arms; she tightened the straps on her gloves, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

I'd seen these creatures before in the library when my friends and I were searching for Flamel. Mandrakes were small roots shaped like babies with ugly faces. They were pale green, and like the book warned, the one Sprout held in the air was bawling at the top of its lungs. I heard nothing, but I saw a few wince.

Taking a large plant pot from under the table, Professor Sprout plunged the Mandrake into it, burying it in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. She dusted off her hands, gave us all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs. The sounds of the Mandrake's cries were muffled under the dirt.

"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill you yet," the woman said calmly, as though what she'd just done was no more exciting than watering a house plant. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it's time to pack up."

"Now, four to a tray - there is a large supply of pots here - compost in the sacks over there - and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething."

Once finished, Sprout gave a sharp slap to a spiky dark red plant that had sneaked over her shoulder. As I turned around, I saw a tall Hufflepuff boy on my seat, next to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I frowned and was about to snap at him but there was a tap on my shoulder. I whirled to see Neville looking shyly at me.

I almost sighed. Dealing with Neville this morning had been easy but working with him terrified me. It wasn't just the fact he was terrible at everything he did – I had also hurt him. To save the Philosopher's stone, I'd petrified him and left him to be found at the common room. He must've forgiven me since then, because there had been a week where he very obviously avoided me; now, he even dared to smile at me.

How Gryffindor of him. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

"Okay," I said, bracing myself for whatever would happen today.

•••◘◘◘•••

Transfiguration usually was a challenging class. Dwelling on the questions and hypothesis that arose with each transformation was a hobby of mine that kept me awake most of days.

The Tom came along, and everything I'd struggled with – the theory, the wandwork – became easier. Eventually, it also became boring. My hands itched to do more; to test my limits.

Today's work should've achieved that, except it quite didn't match what I had expected.

Transfiguration was one of my trickier subjects because it required a lot of focus and wandwork. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and the result could be catastrophic. Thankfully, the second years' course didn't have to face human transfiguration; instead, we dealt with small animals. For the first class of the year, we set out to transform beetles into buttons.

Sometime before, I had figured out transfiguration didn't aim to do big things. Instead, it used the target's own aspects to transform and adapt to its new purpose. In other words, they had to be transformed to something that was as similar in size and in appearance.

Beetles into buttons? Quite easy to do.

The thing that bugged me was that I'd unconsciously thought of that girl, the one in blue and yellow robes... and the buttons came out green. As in, neon green.

Professor McGonagall awarded me fifteen points. Hermione was jealous. But none of that satisfied me.

It could have been better. I should be better. If not, then what was the point of having a private tutor at all? I should be able to do extraordinary things, things like the ones Natasha was able to do. Transforming buckets into flowers. Wordless magic. Coming back from the dead.

I shook my head. No. I didn't want to be like her. Natasha had wasted her entire life away in who knew what. Despite being a legend in the wizarding world, dying had not been worth it.

"Did you practice beforehand?" Hermione hissed after McGonagall left. She had been prodding and chanting the incantation for ten minutes to no avail.

I looked at her beetles. They were blue, the shade that everyone chose for babies. For some reason, I thought they were prettier even if they were the same insects as mine.

"Yes."

But Tom could make them prettier. And so should I.

•••◘◘◘•••

There were times I admired Ron, though most of those times happened to be when Hermione was acting insufferable. Her childish-looking buttons were pretty, but I didn't think they deserved the long spiel she'd been going on about for the last five minutes. Ron had tried to stop her, showing us his broken wand, and moaning about his mother killing him when she found out.

If you asked me, a broken wand was better than a broken neck, but I could understand Ron's fear.

"What have we got this afternoon?" Harry asked, looking bored. The bickering, while amusing, did get tiring after a while.

Hermione beamed. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."

We stared at her. Ron was the one to seize her schedule. His purpose had been to check the subjects, but he recoiled.

"Why have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?" he demanded.

After eating lunch, we went out into the courtyard. Hermione promptly sat on the stone step, took out Voyages with Vampires, and buried her nose in its pages. In the same fashion, I dropped on the floor and after hesitating, I took out Tom's diary.

Instead of talking, I began to draw. Five lines later, I had a butterfly full of ink smudges all over the corners. Somehow, the black ink gave it an edge I hadn't considered before. One that didn't sit well with me.

As if feeling this, the pages absorbed the ink. Soon, the butterfly was gone.

Tom, I wrote. Then hesitated.

Yes?

How did you know where to look into? No need to explain what I was talking about.

The Pureblood Directory, Anya. It is difficult at first, but as I have already worked on a similar project, I knew where to prod.

Another surprise. It was a wonder he still affected me.

And it dawned on me, and I felt really stupid.

Your parents. You looked for them.

He hesitated. Then: Anya, sometimes there are things that should remain buried. Whatever it is that you are looking for, it will not be what you expect.

I know that, I wrote irritably. But my mother was killed because of my best friend. And I need to know WHY. And I need to know beyond Alec Barton and not just the facts.

A pause.

Barton? Your name is Anya Barton?

A funny clicking sound made me look up. I was more surprised to see a camera than the boy holding it. He was such a little thing, with brown eyes and blond hair. His robes had the Gryffindor crest.

I recognized him from the Sorting. When he realized all our eyes were on him, he turned beet red.

"All right, Harry? I'm – I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly as he took a step forward. Harry unconsciously took one back. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think – would it be all right if – can I have a picture?"

"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly, looking at Creevey's camera suspiciously.

"So I can prove I've met you," the first year said. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead, and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures will move.

"It's amazing here, isn't it?" said Creevey letting out a shuddering breath of excitement. "I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic 'till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" — he looked imploringly at Harry — "maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

Normally I would laugh. I had when Ginny told me about this dream of hers to become Harry's charming princess (because charming princes were so overrated and anyway, Harry needed to be rescued at least once). But Colin Creevey was shaking so hard that, had there been any wind, he would've keeled over.

"Why don't you do it? It wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?" I murmured to Harry, shrugging at the incredulous look he threw me.

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"

I threw my head back and sighed loudly. "Just once. Just once!" when I looked down, Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle had already crowded Colin Creevey.

"Everybody line up!" Malfoy yelled. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"

"Want a copy, Malfoy?" I snapped. "Then get your arse out of our sight and place it in your puppy den. Won't be that difficult, considering your dad always makes you wait." Not my best, but it was something I had noticed. Draco's expressions spoke millions whenever he received a package from either of his parents.

"Shut up, Barton," he snapped, flushing. "At least I –"

"– have a father," I cut him off, mocking. "As if I hadn't heard that one before."

Harry stepped forward, glaring. He never did like it whenever Malfoy mocked me about my father.

"You heard her," he said.

"Don't tell me you need Barton to fight your battles, Potter? Then again, being the Boy Who Lived must take a toll, I bet."

"You're just jealous," said Creevey. For some reason, he looked excited.

Malfoy's brow rose. "Jealous?" he repeated. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."

Many nearby Slytherins sniggered.

"Eat slugs, Malfoy," Ron snarled.

"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Malfoy. "You don't want to start any trouble or your mommy will have to come and take you away from school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "If you put another toe out of line –"

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this. This encouraged Malfoy.

"Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter. It'd be worth more than his family's whole house –"

"That's it!" I hissed, whipping out my wand and pointing it at him.

"Look out!" Hermione hissed, suddenly appearing beside me and shoving down my arm with her copy of Voyages with Vampires.

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart strode into the scene, his ridiculous turquoise robes swirling behind him like a shiny waterfall. "Who's giving out signed photos?" And he stopped behind me. Brilliant.

Harry didn't even have a chance to speak as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and jovially said, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again Harry – and what's this? Ah, Miss Barton!"

To my utter horror, he threw his other arm over my shoulders and jostled me to his side.

"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart with a dazzling smile. "A triple portrait, can't do better than that, and Harry and I'll sign it! Make sure to make another copy, though, I'm sure Miss Barton's aunt would appreciate such a modest gift from myself!"

"Modest," I repeated flatly. If anything, Natasha would use it to crack a blaze on St. Louise's main hearth. I blinked as a bright light flashed.

"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with the two of us. Right now, I wished I could do a Vanishing Spell.

"A word to the wise, Harry," said Lockhart paternally as we entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me and Anya here, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much..."

Deaf to Harry's stammers, Lockhart swept us down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but," he gave a little chortle, "I don't think you're quite there yet."

I was glad to finally arrive at the classroom. The moment Lockhart let go of us, I ran down straight to the back of the room. Soon, Harry joined me, but he hoisted up all his Lockhart's books and pushed them in front of him. Instead of hiding him, it brought more attention to his table.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of us.

"You could've fried an egg on your face," said Ron. "You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harry Potter fan club."

"Shut up," Harry groaned. Despite my earlier embarrassment, I managed to laugh at that.

"You're so lucky, Anya," said Hermione with a dreamy sigh. I eyed her for a second and moved my chair a bit to the left.

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own winking portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

The girls giggled. I was embarrassed on their behalf.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in –"

When he had handed out the test papers, he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes – start – now!"

Of all things I could've expected, nothing prepared me for this.

1) What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite colour?

2) What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3) What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

The questions continued on for three pages, front to back, with the final question being:

54) When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

It was ridiculous. Lockhart was ridiculous and nothing but a joke. I could almost feel my IQ dropping from this.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected our papers, tutting very loudly when he saw my blank sheet.

"Miss Barton, Miss Barton – I've heard marvellous reviews from your other teachers, but it appears their judgment may have been too hasty. Not to worry, however! We've got the rest of the term for you to read each and all of the class' bibliography!"

He shot me a winning smile, ignoring my horrified expression. Afterward, he riffled through all the papers, giving out each correct answer. By this point, I was starting to wish I'd written he needed a brain.

"...but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions – good girl! In fact –" Lockhart flipped her paper over, "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

She raised her hand, trembling all over. Lockhart awarded her with a smile that shone even brighter than the ones before.

"Excellent! Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so – to business –"

I straightened as he bent down behind his desk and brought out a large cage, covered with a red blanket. It shook violently, making the students at the front lean back.

The class began to murmur. Lockhart gestured for us to fall silent, and we obliged.

"Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

I was impressed against my will. Maybe Lockhart wasn't much of an airhead after all. He placed a hand on one corner of the fabric and waited until laughter died out.

"I must ask you not to scream," Lockhart said in a low voice. "It might – provoke them!"

As the whole class held its breath, he whipped off the cover.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish Pixies."

Seamus couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.

"Well, they're not – they're not very – dangerous, are they?" he choked.

"Don't be so sure!" Lockhart said, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilishly tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies looked like gremlins, but smaller. Their blue skin made it difficult to tell just how many they were, and their black, beady eyes glinted as they bared their teeth at us.

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!"

He swung the cage's door open with a flourish. The pixies didn't waste any time to rush out, knocking Lockhart on his arse.

Every girl around me was screaming. The pixies, giggling, had shot off in every direction, but many had drifted to those whose hair was long and pulled at different locks. Those who hadn't had smashed against the windows, breaking them and showering us in glass.

When this happened, I thankfully had been dragged by Hermione under a desk. Across us, Harry and Ron were doing the same, but they were watching the ceiling, open-mouthed.

I leaned out slightly. Neville was struggling as many pixies lifted him to the chandelier, hanging him by the back of his robes. He swung dangerously, the iron trap dipping as one of its chains broke with his added weight.

A pixie appeared over my shoulder and I instinctively rose, hitting my head on the edge of the desk. I groaned, falling out from under my cover. More pixies appeared and seized a handful of my hair, tugging and biting.

God, if they cut off something, I would kill them.

I tried to grab them, but every time I slapped one away, a different one would replace it.

"Get off me!" I yelled.

"Stop! Stop – hold still!"

I stopped. From the corner of my eye, I saw a book swing in my way and I shrieked, closing my eyes.

Instead, I heard several squeaks of pain. Peering with one eye, I saw more than one pixie sliding down the wall.

"Thanks," I breathed, accepting the book Harry handed over. One of Lockhart's, the picture on the cover was rubbing its clothes with the upmost expression of distaste.

"Come on now – round them up, round them up, they're only pixies!" the real Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

Absolutely nothing happened, and one of the pixies took advantage to seize his wand and fling it out of the broken window.

Overhead, the chains and strings holding the dragon fossil sizzled. Many ducked as the bones landed on a heap close to the entrance door.

The bell rang and all the class got out in a rush, running around the fossil to make their way out. Just as Hermione, Harry, Ron, and I were about to leave the room, Lockhart suddenly straightened up and pointed at us.

"I'll ask you four to just nip the rest of them back into their cage!" He swept past some flying pixies and shut the door of his office quickly behind him.

"Can you believe him?" Ron roared as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.

I used a many of Lockhart's books to smash the pixies.

"I know! What was Dumbledore thinking?" I looked around. "Hang on; I think there's a spell that can stop all of them." I dived under the desks, looking for my bag.

Hermione's voice came from far away. "He just wants to give us some hands-on experience!"

"Hands on?" Harry repeated incredulously. I kept crawling, cheering up when I spotted, not my bag, but Tom's diary. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing –"

"Rubbish," snapped Hermione back. "You've read his books – look at all those amazing things he's done –"

I flicked page after page, hoping, praying the words hadn't faded yet –

"He says he's done," I heard Ron mutter. "Stop hiding and help us out, Anne!"

"Yes!" I cheered. The spell was right there, as well as the wand movement. The ink had begun to fade, but not completely.

It looked like a mountain. I practiced the movement twice before jumping out, waving my wand above me.

"Immobulus!"

Hermione had been using the Freezing Charm well before it had occurred to me. But the thing about my version – Tom's version – was that it didn't work with a single target. So the moment the spell left my lips, a blue light shot from the tip of my wand and stopped mid-air. Then, like an electric net, many tendrils of light went after every pixie, freezing them.

Their black eyes roamed nervously as they turned upside down.

"What was that?" Hermione asked slowly.

"The Freezing Charm," I answered, beaming. I discreetly tucked Tom's diary under my skirt's belt-line.

"No, this isn't the Freezing Charm," she argued, touching one of the pixies that drew closer to her. She hissed as it sparked, and the pixie dropped unceremoniously.

"Does it matter what it is?" Harry grinned. "It stopped them, didn't it? Brilliant, Anya."

Ron spoke. "Yeah, brilliant, but have you got a spell that helps us get Neville down?"

We looked up. The candelabrum was moving around slowly, and Neville was obviously trying not to move to not break it.

"Why is it always me?" he asked.

•••◘◘◘•••

I walked down a dark chamber, knowing the way despite the lack of light. I ignored the way the statue serpents' eyes glinted at me, counting all the way up to Salazar Slytherin's marble figure.

When I took step number two hundred and twenty-two, green flames sprung alive around me.

"Anya," a voice called.

I didn't move. I waited until the other person walked all the way around to face me.

It was the handsome boy. He looked worried.

"What are you doing here? You can't be."

Now that he was this close, I could see that he was nothing but a mere shadow. A ghost fraying on the edges.

"Tom?" I asked. "Tom Riddle? How – where am I? What is this place?"

"This is my home," he said, gazing around critically. "Not exactly a palace, but... we get what we deserve."

"How long have you been here?"

"You said the year is 1992. For me, it has always been 1943."

I sputtered. "But – but that would make you fifty years old!"

"Sixty-seven, actually." He smirked.

"Will this happen to me? Has it started?" I stared at the place, at him, at myself. From what I could see, I was the only thing brighter in this place. The green flames were as faint as Tom. "No, it hasn't, obviously." I frowned at the ground. "I've got to get rid of it."

Tom frowned. "Get rid of what?"

"What else – the diary! Ginny was right, I should've contacted her brother – there's still Dumbledore, though. He'll know what to do. He can help you."

"No, he can't," Riddle said coldly. "Do you think it did not occur to me as well, speaking with him? He dismissed me, Anya, and he'll do the same to you."

"He won't," I said stubbornly. "He isn't like that. Maybe he thought you were joking or something, but he will believe me."

But Tom was shaking his head. "I can't take that risk again, Anya." He took a step closer. "But you could help me. I trust you."

"Trust me?" I repeated. "You shouldn't. I'm out of my depth here – I don't even know if you're real or not!"

I turned on my heel, stopping as Tom was now standing close to me. Very, very close.

I staggered.

"Not real," he said softly. "That is truly the cruellest thing I've ever heard. How can I not be real, Anya, when I remember living? How can I not be real, when I still feel despite not having a corporeal form?

"Perhaps you're right. We don't know each other. But I truly believed –" his face twisted, "I thought you would understand. All my life, I had no purpose, no sense of where I was going. I lived every day wondering if there was point in my existence, and forty-nine years later, I still ask myself if my parents had been unkind for leading me to this fate.

"I'd achieved little back then, but I was happy. Now... now I have nothing. Nothing, except you." His fathomless eyes glittered.

My throat constricted.

"Help me," said Tom, "and I will help you. There is little I can offer, but if you help me overcome... this... I can help you find about your parents. I can become your eyes and ears, your mind and heart."

He extended his arm. His spindly fingers beckoned me to him.

"It hurts, doesn't it? Not knowing, not being able to do anything. Without even realizing it, you've been trapped in a cage all this time, singing for everyone but yourself. But if you allow me, if you let me – I can make it stop."

I stepped forward cautiously.

"You're the first person to tell me I need help," I murmured. "But how can I be sure? How can I know we won't reach a point where you believe I need to be kept in the dark for my sake?"

"Safety is an illusion," he said harshly. "Fooling ourselves into thinking otherwise leads to nothing but ignorance and danger. I shan't place you in that position."

I held my breath. "No secrets?"

He nodded. "And it must go both ways. If I am to aid you, then you have to tell me everything about yourself. I know I am asking a lot, but it will be crucial for our plans."

Everything. It was daunting as it was exhilarating.

No more secrets. At least not with one person.

No more holding back.

Before I could back out, before I could begin to think of everything that could (would) go wrong –

I took his hand.

"No secrets," he whispered. A tendril of light spread down his hand and over to mine, twisting, tightening. While it stopped moving, the glowing didn't.

"No secrets," I agreed.

The light died, leaving behind a scar so thin it wasn't visible to the eye unless you were actively looking for it.

Tom smiled at me. His dark eyes flickered, brightening slightly. His shaky image became still.