Chapter 10: Conspiracy Theories

Harry took a deep breath, then quickly flicked his wand up into the air, smoothly moving it through the required movements for the spell and shouting "Avis!" As expected, a small bird flew out of the end of his wand, and fluttered up to the ceiling. This was what he had intended to happen when he had duelled Lockhart; to show him what he was capable of, that flattening the professor hadn't been a fluke. But he'd mixed up the incantation, using a Transfiguration spell rather than a conjuring spell. Of course, the fact remained that he still shouldn't have been able to completely change Lockhart into a bird, but he was trying to pretend that hadn't happened. Lockhart had been stuck as a peacock for an entire day – although Harry was a little sceptical about how much of that was to do with his personal power and how much was to do with the staff not wanting to change him back.

Harry was slightly unnerved by his ability to conjure things. In the weeks since the duelling club (cancelled till further notice), he had tried various spells. In addition to snakes and birds, he had managed small items of food, a quill, and had managed about a quarter of a desk, although he had nearly passed out after attempting that. True, he had only managed to conjure a single grape, and the quill had crumbled the moment he touched it, but even so, he seemed to be remarkably proficient at it. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had discovered his affinity – the area of magic that he had the most natural ability in – several years earlier than most wizards and witches. This was not entirely cheering; it would be another source of comment for the gossips in the school, and he was attracting far too much attention at the moment as it was.

Harry scowled as he thought about Lockhart. There was no real way that the showboating professor could spin being turned into a bird by a 12-year old into good publicity, and he had been much cooler towards Harry than previously, which was presumably meant to hugely upset him and get him to apologise. Harry was quite enjoying being ignored in lessons now, doing his own reading rather than pay attention to Lockhart.

It would be even better if the rest of the school was ignoring him. True, the admiration he received for so thoroughly besting Lockhart was better than people thinking he was a bigoted psycho, but Harry didn't want the attention – and it was even more annoying given that only minutes before he had duelled Lockhart people had been avoiding him in fear. Would a little consistency be too much to ask for?

Still, it would be Christmas soon. A break from work, stupid professors and mysterious people attacking the local wildlife.

Harry flopped backwards onto his bed at Privet Drive, leaving his trunk in the corner. He had been back an hour, and already Aunt Petunia was annoyed. This didn't happen often to be fair to her; by and large she was a very even-tempered woman. And it wasn't because of anything Harry had done, which was a bonus. But she had not been pleased to hear about the Heir of Slytherin. She was particularly angry at Dumbledore apparently. She seemed to think that he wasn't doing enough to ensure the students safety: "Dark Wizards, three-headed dogs, dangerously incompetent staff, and now a prejudiced weirdo with a legendary monster to command. What's going to happen next year? It's a miracle no-ones been killed yet Harry, you mark my words."

Harry had to admit, he had no convincing counter argument.

And as for her reaction when she learnt that most people seemed to think that he was the Heir… Harry winced at the memory, but she had once more made some good points. Harry was a halfblood who had grown up in the Muggle world – and had grown up perfectly happily, with a loving family – and counted one Muggleborn witch as one of his best friends. He had never shown any kind of prejudice at all, let alone against Muggleborns. Given that, and his reputation, he would have thought that people would give him the benefit of the doubt. As he pondered this, the doorbell rang. Harry ignored it for a moment, but then he heard Remus' voice, and he ran down the stairs.

Remus stumbled as Harry hugged him, apparently not totally recovered from the full moon. Petunia smiled fondly, and disappeared back to her newspaper. Remus and Harry, in turn, took up position in the dining room; the Marauder had a sly grin on his face.

"So young Harry. There's a rumour that you might be rather good at conjuring. Would this be an accurate rumour?"

"Why Moony, wherever did you hear that?"

"Oh, I have my sources Harry…" Remus' eyes were gleaming almost as much as Dumbledore's; he was clearly in a playful mood, and it was at moments like this that Harry could believe that he had been one of the legendary pranksters of Hogwarts. "I also have a friend with a warded room. It'll block the Trace on you, so you can give me a little demonstration if you'd like?"

Harry smiled.

An hour later, and Harry and Remus were standing in the basement of a house just outside York. Harry suspected that Remus' friend was an un-registered werewolf; there were a few knocking around, and they generally had somewhere heavily warded to hide the massive outburst of magic that accompanied a transformation to keep the wizard or witch alive. Whoever he was, he had a healthy sense of discretion – either that or Remus just knew where the spare key was and hadn't bothered to tell his friend he was coming round.

The basement was incredibly dingy, and Harry could barely see his hand in front of his face. Remus conjured some light so that he could see what Harry was doing, and then beckoned Harry to begin. Harry began to work up from the simpler items, creating a bunch of grapes out of thin air. Remus looked mildly impressed by this, but this gradually changed to outright incredulity as Harry went on. Quills, parchment, a plate and knife and fork – it was true that they all eventually faded away, but it was still a major achievement. And then Harry conjured a snake.

In truth, Remus had not known what to expect when he had given Harry this spell. He had doubted that Harry's classmates could manage it, but Harry had the advantage of a great deal of power – he could just force a spell to work if he tried hard enough. In addition, Remus had read a rumour that Parselmouths had an advantage with snake based magic. Whatever Harry's conjuring abilities in general, he might have been able to conjure a snake regardless. But Harry was standing there, casually creating living creatures on a whim. Again, they all faded away eventually, but at one point Remus would have sworn that there were about a dozen snakes slithering around the basement. However you looked at it, that was incredible. He realised that Harry had stopped, and looked up at him. His ward had a nervous expression on his face, clearly seeking approval. And Remus was more than willing to give it to him.

"Harry that – that was just astonishing. How the hell can you do that?"

"I'm not sure. It seems to come fairly easily though. I was wondering if… if it might be my affinity?"

Remus fell silent, pondering this. It wasn't unheard of for someone to discover their affinity during their childhood – Dumbledore for instance, and Remus himself had discovered that he had a gift with magical creatures during his time at Hogwarts – but it was fairly rare. And given Harry's reputation it would be bound to cause comment, particularly as it was such a clearly light based affinity. It would be more fuel to the fire that the Light zealots sought to ignite under the dark culture if it was made public knowledge.

"I don't think we can rule it out. But you're good at lots of things Harry, don't jump to conclusions. Give it a few years at least. Even if this is your affinity, there are…political reasons for keeping it quiet."

Harry nodded, showing his understanding. Then he grinned nervously.

"Is it really that good Moony?"

"Harry, it is the single most impressive act of magic I have seen in the last decade, taking everything into account. You should be proud."

Harry practically glowed.

There had been no snow over Christmas, but by the time term started once more, it was falling heavily, and the carriages back up to the castle were extremely cold, and extremely slow. The Thestrals didn't seem to like the cold anymore than their passengers. Harry could hear them snorting heavily, a deeply disquieting noise. The start of term feast was surprisingly pleasant, as few people were staring at him. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Heir of Slytherin business, or at least put it to the back of their minds.

Of course, by breakfast the following day people had seen the message on the wall on the second floor, which no-one had managed to remove yet, and had seen Filch, still wearing his black arm-band, and had been reminded of the unknown attacker stalking the school. However, all in all, the first few days of term passed fairly pleasantly.

However, one evening Harry was alone in the library, finishing up some charms homework. He was replacing some books on the shelf when he heard someone say his name. Frowning, he walked to the end of the aisle, listening intently. There was a small group of Hufflepuff students sitting round a table. He recognised Ernie Macmillan, and the girl he had bumped into shortly after his last encounter with Zacharias Smith. They were talking animatedly, yet in hushed tones, to several other students, who Harry vaguely recognised as being first to third years, all in Hufflepuff robes. As he watched through a gap in the books, Ernie slammed his hands onto the table.

"I'm telling you, it must be Potter! It couldn't be anyone else!"

"And precisely what evidence for this have you got Macmillan? You won't tell us, so why should we believe you?" said a boy – a third year – who Harry didn't know.

The girl he had bumped into cut in.

"At the beginning of the year he was talking to Justin – you know Justin, in my year. They got talking about Lockhart, and Justin said that Harry could be just like him if he tried hard or something. And he swears blind that Potter's eyes turned red when he said that. You must admit that's suspicious."

The third year boy still looked sceptical, but some of the others looked more uneasy now.

"And Dumbledore said only someone of great power could have Petrified Mrs Norris like that. Well, no-one really knows what happened the night You-Know-Who was destroyed, but Potter must be powerful to have survived it. I heard a rumour from my aunt that he didn't just beat Quirrell, he destroyed him. Burnt him alive. And what he did to Lockhart… Potter is not normal. And he's always fighting with that Theodore Nott, so he's clearly got a violent streak in him."

"Ok Susan. I'll admit that there are some things about Potter that are a bit dodgy, but you don't have any real evidence that he's the Heir. He was passed out by Filch's cat, like he'd been attacked."

"Magical exhaustion. He didn't have a scratch on him did he, so he can't have been attacked. Filch tried to put him in detention a few days before his cat was attacked. Hagrid upset him when he told everyone in Hogsmeade about what happened in the Forbidden Forest. He's got motive for both of the attacks so far."

"Actually, Hagrid's one of my closest friends."

The students around the table fell silent as Harry stepped out of the dark aisle, a coldly furious look on his face. He walked straight up to Ernie and the girl, Susan, and stared at them intently.

"I am not the Heir of Slytherin. I don't know why I didn't have any injuries at Halloween, but I assure you, I was attacked. I can remember that much. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop spreading lies about me."

"Or what, you'll set your pet on us?" said Ernie, attempting to appear unafraid, and failing miserably.

"Or I'll show you that I don't need a monster to express my displeasure with people."

And with that, Harry turned on his heel and left the library. He headed straight to a classroom that he knew was filled with furniture that had aged or been damaged even beyond the ability of magic to repair, locking the door behind him. He took a deep breath, and then flung a blasting curse at one of the broken chairs, shattering it into several pieces with a crack. Peter had recommended the technique over Christmas, telling him to focus on using his magic when he was angry rather than let it build up; this way he at least had some control over what would happen, rather than allow anything random to happen. And destroying something was always a good way of calming down. Another broken chair, and Harry was able to think about what had been said without wanting to go back and curse them.

It wasn't so much that he was surprised. He had known that people suspected him, and in his calmer, more rational moments, he did have to acknowledge that there was a fair bit of evidence that made him the most likely suspect. Of course, and this sounded like someone whispering in his ear, there was a far greater amount of evidence that suggested he was one of the least likely candidates. Merlin take Justin anyway. Why did he have to tell people about his eyes? Ron had been right, who gave a damn what anyone thought about him? His friends trusted him, that was all that mattered.

There was a noise, and a shout, cut off almost immediately.

Harry walked out of the room slowly, wand raised. The noise was coming from the adjoining corridor, and he walked towards it carefully. As he approached, his scar began to burn, and he gasped in pain. Then he heard the voice again.

"I must feed, I am hungry!"

"Someone is coming. Be silent! You have plenty of food – and I want this one found…"

There was a dreadful noise, something sliding over the smooth stone, and the sound of running feet. The pain in his scar lessened, and Harry ran round the corner and groaned.

Justin Finch-Fletchly was lying on the floor, a look of horror on his face. He had been Petrified. Floating next to him was Nearly Headless Nick, who had somehow been Petrified as well. There were scorch marks around their bodies. Harry stared at his prone classmate, and then his gaze shifted to the wall above him, and the blazing message carved into it: It begins.

And then McGonagall arrived, talking to Ernie Macmillan and the girl named Susan.

"Miss Bones, I find it highly unlikely that Mr Potter was not provoked; I have seen the way some of you have been watching him – Oh my goodness!"

Harry looked at her, a resigned expression falling across his face.

"Professor, I had nothing to do with this, I just found them –"

"Caught in the act!"

"That will do Macmillan." McGonagall stared at Justin, a look of something like despair on her face. "Miss Bones, will you and Macmillan take Mr Finch-Fletchly to the Hospital Wing? Potter, come with me."

"Professor, I –"

"Just come with me Potter."

Harry walked past the two Hufflepuffs with his eyes closed to avoid their accusing stares. He could feel their gaze on the small of his back all the way down the corridor. McGonagall said nothing to him all the way until they reached Dumbledore's office. She escorted him up the stairs, and then left him, with one last, sad look at him. Harry sat down, nervously anticipating what was going to happen. Dumbledore knew what had happened the last time, he wouldn't get the blame surely? Then he saw the Sorting Hat, perched over the Sword of Gryffindor behind Dumbledore's desk. An idea occurred to him, and he hurried over, placing the ragged hat on his head.

"Something wrong Potter?"

"I was wondering… if you could tell me anything about the Heir of Slytherin?"

"Afraid not. I can tell it's not you though. The kind of magic the Heir would have to use to petrify someone like that leaves a distinctive trace, and there's no sign of it."

"I already knew it wasn't me thanks. But you don't know who it could be?"

"It could be anyone from a magical background. I'm sure you know that most people are related in some form, however distantly."

"But you can't see anyone's family background when you look inside their heads?"

"Memories sometimes. But I haven't seen anything relevant. Why don't you ask Dumbledore if you're so worried? You can trust him you know; I can see that there're a few things he'd like to know."

Harry wrenched the Hat off his head. Dumbledore would probably be very supportive if he found out Harry was a Parselmouth. That didn't mean he was going to find out. Harry was quite happy keeping some secrets. As Peter had told him once, the more that know, the more that will. And if it got out to the school at the moment, he'd be facing physical assault within hours.

"Do be careful with that Harry. It's rather valuable."

Dumbledore walked into the office, a grave look on his face. He gestured for Harry to sit down, and sat down himself behind his desk, looking at Harry over steeped fingers. There was no twinkle in his eyes.

"Sir, I didn't do anything, I swear."

"Calm yourself Harry. I know perfectly well that you are not the Heir of Slytherin. You may not be aware Harry, but the Chamber has been opened before, fifty years or so ago. There were similar attacks on the school roosters, but only one attack on a student. She was not as fortunate as Mr Finch-Fletchly however. She was killed instantly."

"How?"

"By whatever the monster in the Chamber is. I would prefer not to go into the details Harry; it is bad enough that I have to remember her body without afflicting you with such an image."

Harry swallowed. All of a sudden he didn't want to know.

"Did you find the Heir professor?"

"A student was expelled for the crime, but I do not believe that he was the true culprit. I believed at the time, and still do, that he was framed."

"Why sir?"

Dumbledore stared at Harry for a long moment, before sighing deeply.

"Several reasons. The creature that the student was caught with was certainly dangerous, or would have been once fully grown, and should not have been in the school, but it had nothing to do with the girls death. Because I have a great deal of trust in the student who was expelled. Because the expelled student was 'caught in the act' by the boy who grew up to become Voldemort."

There was a long silence. A chill ran down Harry's spine, and he was intensely glad he was sitting down.

"But – but it can't be him now can it? And he didn't have any relatives did he?"

"You assume that the Heir is simply a blood heir Harry. It could be far more complex than that; a political heir, a magical heir, or simply someone with a similar intense hatred of Muggleborns. Sadly, that does not narrow the field as much as I would like."

"People already think it's me. Can't you say anything?"

"What would you have me say Harry? That the most likely candidate is a wizard who is probably dead? Or at the very least in absolutely no condition to unleash a monster on the school?"

"What do you mean probably?"

"I have long been aware that Voldemort took certain steps to ensure his survival. But I promise you Harry, he cannot come back, not of his own accord. And none of his surviving supporters – that are not imprisoned in Azkaban – are powerful enough to help him return."

"You told me last year that he was dead, you told me!"

"I told you that he was defeated, and that there was a crucial difference."

"But – but everyone else thinks he's dead."

"To all intents and purposes Harry, he is dead. He certainly doesn't have a body anymore."

Harry sat there, almost numb with shock. In all honesty, he had forgotten the ambiguous discussion they had had about Voldemort after Quirrell's death the previous year; it had never occurred to him that he would have to deal with something similar so soon, if ever.

"Harry?"

He looked up, meeting the headmaster's gaze once more.

"Was there anything you wanted to tell me?"

Harry stared at Albus Dumbledore, met his kindly gaze, and he froze. Thoughts ran through his head of crimson eyes, of strange voices, of his Parselmouth abilities, of his new found talent for conjuring. He thought of Voldemort, and he realized that he was scared. And he spoke.

"No. there's nothing sir."

A disappointed look flashed across Dumbledore's face, as if he knew that Harry was lying, and he waved Harry out of the office. Harry made his way back to the Gryffindor common room in a sombre mood, with a single word flashing through his mind.

Coward.

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