Chapter Eight: Come to Me

The following week passed uneventfully, as Harry and Blaise were still meticulously planning their great prank on Malfoy. Quidditch practice continued as usual, however, and they had it three times a week for an hour and half a day on Saturdays.

As the Quidditch team lugged back to the castle after one of their practices, Professor McGonagall met them at the entrance hall and her voice rang out, "There you are, Potter—Zabini." She walked towards them, looking stern. "You will both do your detentions this evening."

"What are we doing, Professor?" Blaise asked nervously.

"You, Zabini, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail. Potter will be with Professor Snape, scrubbing cauldrons with elbow grease."

Blaise's hopeful eyes widened. "B-But—"

"No buts, Miss Zabini."

"Can't we switch?" Blaise inquired desperately. Harry glared at her.

"There will be no switching going on, Miss Zabini. I've already talked to Miss Granger, so don't worry. If you wouldn't mind, tell Mr. Nott to meet Filch in the trophy room at seven and Miss Weasley to go to Professor Flitwick's classroom."

"What are Ginny and Hermione doing?"

"Miss Weasley will be helping Professor Flitwick clean up his classroom from the first years' charms and Miss Granger will be cleaning windows for Professor Sinistra, not that you needed to know that." With those final words she walked off.

"The one day we're tired out of our minds, too. . . ." complained Blaise.

"At least we're getting them over with."

"Good point, I suppose. But I don't have to be happy with it."

"Too right you are."

"What time is it, Marcus?" Blaise asked their captain.

He looked at the watch on his wrist. "Six-thirty."

"We've gotta go then, Harry. C'mon."

After they had found and informed Theo and Ginny of their upcoming detentions, they left the common room, going their separate ways.

oOoOo

Hermione was bored. It seemed that Peeves had decided to cover the windows in the Astronomy Tower with black ink, virtually making sure that no Astronomy lessons could take place. So she was stuck cleaning them.

Oh, well, at least she wasn't with Lockhart or Snape. She didn't envy Blaise and Harry. Or Theo, for that matter, who'd gotten stuck in the trophy room with Filch. They were a rather unlucky bunch.

But then again, eyeing the windows where the stubborn black ink was not coming off, maybe she should envy them.

Would she like to be with Lockhart, answering fan mail? Not particularly, since Ron had knocked some sense into her.

Would she like to be with Snape, cleaning cauldrons? No.

Would she like to be with Filch, shining up trophies? No.

Would she like to be with Flitwick, fixing the mess made from messed-up charms? Maybe.

Scratch that; Hermione was fine where she was. All detentions sucked.

And this did screw with her perfect record.

Damn.

oOoOo

Yep, Ginny was just having the time of her life picking up burnt feathers and sweeping up numerous piles of ashes.

Yeah, right.

It seemed that the new batch of first years couldn't do a bit of magic to save their lives. Ginny snorted.

Oh, wait . . . she was in that group of first years. But this hadn't come from her lesson with the Hufflepuffs. In fact, she had gotten her Levitation Charm right the first time. This mess must've been made by the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Mainly just the Gryffindors.

Uh, she couldn't believe they were making her clean up after Gryffindors.

It must have been that Colin Creevey who made this mess.

She would ask Professor Flitwick when he came back.

oOoOo

Theodore Nott was mad. Really mad.

Honestly, he could be in the common room, working dedicatedly on that essay for McGonagall, but instead he was stuck in the trophy room with a sponge and bucket of water, polishing trophies with Filch watching him like a hawk.

This sucked.

But here Theo was, scrubbing trophies lazily, wishing he could be working on that three foot long essay. It was due Monday, after all, and he only had half of it done.

"Scrub harder, boy, that trophy's important. Oh, how I wish I could bring out my whips. . . ." Filch barked at him.

Screw Filch. Wait. Ew! That was disgusting. . . .

Theo looked at the "important" trophy he was polishing. Tom Riddle, Special Services to the School. Theo shrugged. The guy probably just donated a lot of money.

An image of Draco Malfoy came to mind.

Theo sniggered.

"Shut up, boy, and scrub! God, how I wish I could hang you from the ceiling."

Theo glared.

This sucked.

oOoOo

When the door flew open and Lockhart beamed down at her, Blaise just knew this detention was going to last forever. . . .

She had gotten tired of the framed photographs housing the numerous Lockharts in the first five seconds.

Honestly, how could the guy wink and smile so much?

It was disgusting. . . .

I mean, he was so gay! So girly and . . . God, he was even wearing mauve robes! (Blaise didn't have a problem with gays, but this guy could get on her nerves, okay?) And she had to answer his fan mail for him. She had enough of Parkinson as it was without dealing with an older version.

Nuh-uh.

Not Blaise Cyrilla Zabini.

She was too good for this!

"You can address the envelopes! This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her—huge fan of mine—"

Blaise hated her already.

And so she got to work. Every now and then Lockhart would pop up saying something like, "It really was nice of Harry to befriend you," and "To be the best friend of one so famous . . . I wonder what it's like. He must be doing you a huge favor, being your friend."

Blaise suppressed a yawn.

But then he said, "But I'm sure that he really appreciates you. Enough to ask you to marry him when you're old enough, you know. You are quite pretty."

Blaise blinked.

Hmm . . . what would it be like if Harry asked her to marry him? The wedding would be lovely, of course. He would wear a tuxedo and she a sparkly white gown. Ginny could be her Maid of Honor, and Theo could be Harry's Best Man. Perhaps Hermione and that Mandy girl could be two of her bridesmaids, and—

Stop, Blaise. No daydreaming allowed.

But daydreaming was so nice.

Especially that daydream she had had in History of Magic that day that Harry kissed her. That one was so sweet.

But Harry was never to know of this stupid little crush.

So no daydreaming allowed.

oOoOo

Harry could not believe Snape was making him scrub the cauldrons of the fifth years (who had been making Veritaserum, and failing horribly, according to Snape). Some of them were even filled with this crusty purple goop.

This work shouldn't be forced on anyone!

So Harry set about doing the task and letting his mind wander.

He had had a very nice daydream in History of Magic that he finally got the courage up to kiss Blaise. It was amazing.

Harry blushed and hoped Snape didn't look up.

And that dream he had had this morning, with the green silk sheets, that was Blaise beside him. He just knew it, because that was what her shampoo smelled like, lilies and lavender.

He hadn't gone snooping or anything, he had just smelt it in her hair.

And taken a few whiffs of it, too. . . .

But that was beside the point.

And it was awkward, having dreams of his best friend in his bed. (Even though they hadn't even done anything!)

The point was to get his mind off this menial task, and the thought that he could be a stalker was not helping.

Then Harry realized he couldn't daydream about what it would be like to be with Blaise, because he had decided long ago that daydreaming wasn't allowed.

It put ideas into his head; bad ideas.

Or some would say perverted, for a twelve-year-old boy. . . .

Nope, daydreaming wasn't allowed.

But he couldn't control his dreams.

Oh, God.

Harry blushed.

Then he sneaked a look to see that Snape was still grading essays.

You could never be too sure, these days.

Then he heard something. It was a voice, a voice to chill the very bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

"Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . ."

Harry gave a huge jump and his goopy purple sponge fell from his hand.

"What?" he said loudly.

"What, Potter?" Snape looked up.

"It—I heard a—a voice."

"A voice, Potter? And tell me, Potter, what did the voice say?" Snape snorted.

"It said . . . come, come to me. Let me rip you, let me tear you . . . let me kill you."

"I think, Potter, you've been reading too much science fiction," Snape said, a curious look seen in his obsidian eyes.

"I'm not lying, Professor!"

"I didn't say you were lying, Potter; just hallucinating."

"Like that's much better!"

"Its better hallucinating than hearing voices, Potter. It's a very . . . bad thing to hear voices, even in the wizarding world."

"I kinda figured that," Harry mumbled.

But when he thought about it, the voice reminded him of talking to Sneak. It wasn't the same voice, of course, but the same manner of speaking. It was hard to describe. But it was the same, he just knew it.

It was the voice of a snake.

oOoOo

The four Slytherins met back in the common room after detention, Harry having arrived there first (because of his close proximity to the dungeons) and collapsed into an armchair near the dying fire.

"So, how was Lockhart?" he asked Blaise when she came in and collapsed beside him.

"Horrible . . . kept saying I should be grateful I had you as a friend. How was Snape?"

"I'll tell you when Theo and Ginny get here."

Blaise raised her eyebrows. Must be important then, if he only wanted to say it once.

Theo and Ginny came in together, Theo ranting, "Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch cup before he was satisfied. The same with some Special Award for Services to the School. Took me ages to get the dust off to his expectations. . . ."

"Oh, hey, Harry—Blaise. How were your detentions?" Ginny asked.

"Lockhart was horrible."

"I heard a voice."

Heads turned in Harry's direction.

"A voice?" Blaise asked.

"Yeah, it said . . . come to me, let me rip you, tear you . . . kill you."

"And only you heard it?" asked Theo.

"Yeah," Harry said, rubbing his forehead.

"Harry . . . that's bad," Ginny added hesitantly.

"Naw, I never knew that," Harry spat.

"What do you think it was?" inquired Blaise.

"I think it was a snake. It had the same . . . feel . . . to it as talking to Sneak."

Blaise nodded.

"Wait—you can talk to your snake?" Theo asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, it's just"—Theo shared a look with Ginny—"a rare talent."

"Is it now?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Ginny said.

"Very few people can speak to snakes," Theo added.

Harry looked at them both suspiciously.

"Well," Ginny said uncomfortably, "I'm going to bed. 'Night, all."

"'Night," they chorused, watching her head up the stairs.

"You know what? I'm going to bed, too," Theo said, practically running up the stairs.

Blaise turned to Harry and said seriously, "I think they're hiding something."

"I do, too. Imagine that."

"So . . . what are you going to do?"

"You mean if I hear it again?"

"Yeah."

"Try to follow it, I guess," Harry shrugged.

Blaise nodded.

"You know, if you hear anything else about this snake, you should ask Hermione. Or just borrow her book about snakes," she put in.

"Good idea. I'll do that. If I can get the book away from her. . . ."

They both laughed.

Harry sighed. "My muscles have all seized up."

"I can imagine. I feel like I've seen enough of Lockhart and lavender ink to last me a lifetime."

Harry burst out laughing. "Lavender ink?"

"I know! How gay is that?"

"Well, not all gay people—"

Blaise glared at him, interrupting him.

"Just agree with me, Ri."

"Okay. . . . Ri?"

"Well, you need a nickname, too. Harry just . . . Harry sounds a bit like that old man in the nursing home playing chess."

It was Harry's turn to glare at her. "Well, if I'm going to be called Ri, you're going to be called Rilla."

Blaise gasped in indignation. "Fine, you can stay as Harry," she huffed.

Harry let out a sigh of relief.

Blaise punched him on the arm. "Ri."

"Rilla."

Blaise shut up.

"So"—Harry rubbed his hands together—"what about our prank on Malfoy? We still need to work out the final details."

And their planning continued into the night.

But Harry couldn't get the voice out of his head, and it followed him in his dreams: "Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . ."

oOoOo

The pipes in the castle were large, allowing large amounts of magic-powered water to reach any place in the castle quickly and efficiently. However, these pipes were ancient and rarely used in modern days, except by the basilisk.

The basilisk could stay in the pipes for weeks on end, never having to fear of water coming up through the pipes. So he was in one of the pipes now, sleeping.

At that moment something told the basilisk to wake up, and she opened a large, bleary yellow eye. She yawned a huge basilisk yawn, her sharp, curved fangs opening and her upper and lower jaw separating to allow the basilisk's yawn to widen more.

Done with her yawn, she began her early wake-up slither through the pipes, hardly noticing the spiders that scuttled away in fear.

Yet she did notice them. She could taste the smell of them on her tongue when she flicked it out, tasting the stale air.

She was so hungry. . . . It had been so long since she had savored than small rodents, and the hunger for something more was beginning to get to her after a thousand years stuck in the Chamber.

With the smell of the spiders permeating the air, the hunger overcame her, and she called for her prey in the most predatory manner possible.

"Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . ."