Eventually, it was (not without protest) agreed that hiding and biding our time was the best option.

-Sayern nar-Hazozh (History of the Treaty), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

The wraith of the man once called Tom Marvolo Riddle, now known by his pseudonym Voldemort, hadn't had much luck possessing creatures with arms, much less thumbs. Therefore, it took a great deal of maneuvering to open up the letter which his faithful but unknown servant had sent to him. The Death Eater hadn't bothered signing his name, much to Voldemort's annoyance.

The owl remained perched on a tree, nervous and uncertain. Voldemort paid it no mind. It had shown no interest in attacking his current body, that of a squirrel (he'd gotten tired of snakes and snake food a few weeks ago. One could only swallow so much raw flesh whole before one yearned for vegetable matter), and even an attack on his host wouldn't kill him.

Muttering curses in Parseltongue, the possessed animal straightened out the unknown Death Eater's message. Come to me, Master.

Voldemort scanned the rest of the paper's margins. Nothing. No hint as to who this might be or how he could go about coming to him.

Of course there wasn't any contact information. Of course not, that would be far too easy.

He looked at the rest of the paper. Lurking about in a largely uninhabited forest was boring beyond belief. He would devour this paper, read every last word of it, starting with the table of contents.

Voldemort snorted slightly at the mission statement. Which idiot had come up with-

The Truth about Lord Voldemort.

Squirrels lack eyebrows, but the animal's stolen facial muscles twitched in a way that lifted its forehead fur. This ought to be entertaining. Smiling as much as his current face would allow, the Dark Lord turned to the proper page.

The man who calls himself Lord Voldemort was born on December 31, 1926 as Tom Marvolo Riddle, illegitimate son of Merope Pleione Riddle and Tom Riddle, Sr.

The squirrel's jaw dropped. He reread the impossible sentence, heart rate soaring, eyes bulging. But no matter how many times he read it, the words remained the same.

How had they known?

The article was appalling in its accuracy. Whoever had written it had amazing insight into Voldemort's psyche, amazing knowledge about his past: raised in an orphanage, bully to other children (especially those which tried to befriend him), releasing Slytherin's monster and causing the death of Moaning Myrtle. It ignored his adult life after he'd been denied the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, pointing out that such things were widely known but Voldemort's heritage as a 'half-Muggle bastard' was not.

By the time he reached the last paragraph, a wry commentary on the irony of a half-blood recruiting 'inbred idiots' to purge the world of people like his father, Voldemort had resolved to murder the author, who was likely to be Dumbledore. This was exactly the kind of thing the old goat would find amusing.

Then he saw the author's name.

"Pollux Ophion Riddle?" the Dark Lord raged. This person was using his name?

Furious, almost to the point of incoherency, he turned to the About the Authors article, read what this false (he had to be false; Voldemort had taken many precautions to make certain that his rape victims died within a couple months) Riddle had to say about himself.

I have no doubt that you took one look at my name and blanched, wondering if the surname Riddle was just an unpleasant coincidence. Rest assured, it is not. When my friends and I decided on our pen names for this publication, which we have been working on for almost a year, Apollo Peverell suggested that I pick my name to spite Voldemort. As you can see, I took his suggestion. Voldemort, consider yourself spited.

The squirrel's jaw hung open. A fly flew inside. The squirrel gagged.

The owl stiffened as its old instincts surfaced. Something was wrong. It jumped into the air, intending to escape, before falling to the ground. Its eyes flashed red.

The squirrel's lifeless body flopped to the ground.

Jane Spencer stared in openmouthed shock at the newsletter before her. Tom Riddle was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Tom Riddle, who had gone to school a year ahead of her, whom she'd idolized as the most handsome boy in the entire country? Tome Riddle had become a mass murderer, a monster? No- according to this paper, he'd been one even then. He'd released the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, it said, invoking an ancient spell that bound the beast to Slytherin's bloodline. He'd killed her poor friend Myrtle when he himself was just a boy.

And the person writing this article was another Riddle. Pollux Ophion, whom she had seen a few months ago at the Ministry of Magic. Pollux Ophion, who had looked so much like Tom that she'd mistaken him for her old schoolmate. Pollux Ophion, the Dark Lord's…son?

Hands trembling, she turned to the article about the authors themselves. I have no doubt that you took one look at my name and blanched, wondering if the surname Riddle was just an unpleasant coincidence…. Voldemort, consider yourself spited.

Well, this Riddle was brave, she'd give him that. Just not entirely honest- not that she blamed him.

Admittedly, Pollux hadn't introduced himself after she'd mistaken him for Tom. He'd just smiled apologetically, so unlike the other Riddle would have done, and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but my father died eleven years ago." Flustered, she had gotten off the elevator as soon as possible before getting his name.

Wait. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but my father died eleven years ago."

His father died eleven years ago.

His father. Eleven years ago.

Jane nearly fainted.

When my friends and I decided on our pen names for this publication, which we have been working on for almost a year, Apollo Peverell suggested that I pick my name to spite Voldemort.

Sweet Merlin. She could imagine it: Pollux grumbling that he didn't want to use his father's name, this Peverell person pointing out that the goodness of the son would bring shame to the evil of the father. She could almost hear Apollo convincing Pollux to keep his birth name, to restore honor to the family, to thumb his nose in He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's face.

He was mad. There was no explanation. Surely no one could be that courageous, to spite a powerful, evil father who already loathed him for the pro-Muggle views he had doubtless expressed as a child? Or perhaps Pollux's mother was a victim of rape who had raised her son to overthrow the father. She didn't know. All she did know was that Pollux Ophion Riddle had to be the son of Tom Marvolo Riddle, more commonly known as You-Know-Who.

And, as a reporter for the Daily Prophet, there was no way she would let that little tidbit remain unknown.

The next day, Albus Dumbledore hid an uncharacteristically (or rather, very characteristically- he would have done this more often if he hadn't had to maintain appearances) cruel smile behind his newspaper. Pollux Ophion Riddle, or whatever his name was, should really have anticipated this.

The article which had caused his smile- the headline, actually- had been written by Rita Skeeter's rival, a half-blood named Jane Spencer. The two women had been duking it out for three years now, their stories becoming steadily more outrageous, but everyone knew that Jane was (marginally) the better one to trust. If she said that Riddle had accidentally confirmed that he really was Voldemort's son, then Riddle might actually have done so. Or at least he might have said something that could be misconstrued like that. The point was, if Spencer wrote it, people believed it.

And Spencer had recorded her half-remembered conversation (or at least the conversation she claimed to have had. Dumbledore didn't particularly care. He knew that Voldemort had no heir; if Riddle had told her something like that, he had been lying. If Spencer was the liar, well, that was journalism for you) before spouting off a wild tale. Pollux's mother had, upon becoming pregnant, gone into hiding, raising her son to hate his father. After her death (which may or may not have had something to do with renegade Dark Wizards), Pollux had obviously embarked on a campaign of revenge and righteousness, because clearly Riddle's explanation that he was thumbing his nose in Voldemort's face was far too simple to actually be true.

But Pollux Ophion Riddle wasn't the only name with which he was concerned.

Bianca Frost. Pallas Dhar. Apollo Peverell. Alexander Chamberlain.

A prophecy he'd heard several months ago referred to Air as the key to destroying the Stormson, breaking his wings. Dumbledore had no doubt of the latter's identity- plainly that was Riddle. But Air could be any of those four. He didn't even know Air's gender- in Classical mythology, the sky was associated with male gods (though the Egyptians worshipped the sky-goddess Nut). In symbolism, though, air was feminine. He knew that Water was a 'maid' who had once stood alone, but she could be either Pallas or Bianca.

Prophecies were frustrating like that.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to kill them all. His agile brain sorted through the possibilities. They had abandoned the Chamber of Secrets; that meant he could no longer use the basilisk as leverage against them. They were doubtless using pseudonyms, though he would still send owls out to be certain. Better safe than sorry. And speaking of owls, perhaps he could send a Portkey to the basilisk? He knew her public appellation, though not her true name, and that was all owls needed. Yes, that was certainly worth a shot.

It frustrated him that he had so little information on them. They had appeared out of nowhere in January, stealing Voldemort's first Horcrux and its host. They had stolen- ah.

He had seen Tyr Ulfhednar with Riddle and Saysa when they had gone to the Department of Mysteries. Werewolves. Yes, werewolves would provide him with the opening he required.

Or, better yet, owls. He could attack both, a two-pronged assault, with the werewolves as more of a distraction than anything else. The werewolves he could destroy through the law- Dolores Umbridge had been pressing for harder restrictions on them for years; no one would be surprised when she got them- and the owls he could use as a means to an ends.

Dumbledore hid another smile.

If Harry had had an ounce less self-control, he would have banged his head against the wall until his skull had gained the consistency of jelly. Instead, he sat stock-still save for his twitching eyes.

"Look on the bright side." Blaise tried (and failed) to comfort him. "Voldemort is definitely spited now."

"You're not. Making this. Any better," his friend grunted.

The other Slytherin, remembering that he had suggested the name Riddle to begin with, winced. It had seemed hilarious at the time- it still was rather funny, truth be told- but the Wizarding world obviously didn't share his sense of humor. They couldn't believe that someone would essentially stick his tongue out at Voldemort (even if the man was supposedly long dead); they had to believe that Pollux Ophion Riddle had another, far less insane reason for using that name.

Daphne flipped through the paper. "This is a very interesting biography," she noted. "Did you know, Harry, that your mother was a Seer who foresaw Voldemort's evil long before he actually started murdering people and seduced him in an assassination attempt? Alas, but she failed, barely escaping the Dark Lord's wrath with her life- and yours."

"Bully for her."

"Indeed. My favorite part is your mother's prophecy that you and Mark Potter would together lead the Wizarding world into a new era of glory and wonder and power, et cetera et cetera et al."

"Bully for us."

"And how does Mark feel about this?" Blaise queried.

Harry groaned. "I don't want to know, but I think I do."

"That bad, huh?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

That was when Hermione and Neville burst into the abandoned classroom they used for writing and editing Better than Binns notes. The Ravenclaw champion bore a copy of the day's Prophet in her hand.

"We heard," Blaise told her.

"Oh, yes," Harry groaned, leaning against the wall. His eyes fluttered shut. "We heard."

"I get the paper too," Daphne reminded them.

Hermione flushed. In her haste to warn her friends, she had completely forgotten that they probably already knew. Daphne's subscription was rather useful that way.

"So what do we do about it?" Neville wondered. His once-plump face was scrunched with worry.

"Mass Memory Charms," Harry muttered. "Then destroy every copy of this bloody article and-"

"I don't think that's feasible," Blaise pointed out.

"I know," Harry moaned, massaging his temples.

"We can't do anything," Daphne pointed out. "If we try to deny Pollux's… heritage… people will say that we're lying. If we do lie and say that yes, Spencer is right, people will believe it. If we say nothing, they'll believe that we're too ashamed to admit anything. What I would do is drop hints about Pollux's paternity that could go either way but take shameless advantage of the so-called prophecy. In fact," she smiled, "we could even give them some real prophecies to chew on."

The other four stared at her in mute shock.

"Nothing too incriminating, of course," she explained, waving a hand against their worries. "Nothing that Dumbledore could use to connect the dots and find us. Just vague whispers that will make people hopeful; make them want to follow us. Things like Pollux's nameless mother supposedly prophesied, things about a better world."

"Has anyone ever mentioned that you're brilliant?" Neville asked admiringly.

Daphne dimpled. "Thank you, Neville."

Hermione coughed. "We should probably stew this over for a while," she suggested.

"Meaning that we're late for class," Blaise translated, "and we should think about this in History of Magic instead of skipping it entirely."

"Well, yes."

But they had a hard time thinking about anything in History of Magic. Slytherin House didn't even pretend to pay attention; they exchanged a huge flurry of notes about "Did you hear?" "Do you think it's true?" "How should we react if he really is the Dark Lord's son?"

The note-passing got so bad that Binns, who was notorious for never noticing such things, noticed. That, of course, resulted in the students explaining the situation to him. The ghost gave up teaching and joined the debate, cheerily citing historical examples of Seers setting events in motion that had changed the world, starting with the Oracles of Dodona (and, of course, the much more famous Delphi) before moving into the present day. For once, the students actually listened to the uncommonly interesting lecture.

It was the most fun they'd ever had in History of Magic, and Harry made sure to tell Binns so. The ghost blinked watery gray eyes before tilting his head back in thought. "Hm…."

"That was weird," Blaise announced. "I actually enjoyed Binns's class."

"It was indeed," Daphne agreed, slightly perturbed.

"What's weird?" asked a passing fourth-year Hufflepuff.

"History of Magic," Blaise answered. "It was actually interesting."

The Hufflepuff snorted.

Gossip about Pollux Ophion Riddle- yes, Riddle, as in the surname he claimed had once belonged to You-Know-Who- abounded for the next several weeks. The Daily Prophet spurred on these rumors, printing increasingly idiotic rumors that were generally believed by the Wizarding public. Harry and his friends began to regret that they were only publishing one newsletter per month- they'd have to wait until the end of October to put a stop to this in their own paper.

Naturally, Harry was too impatient to wait. Despite Daphne's council, he wrote a letter to the Prophet explaining that no, he really wasn't Voldemort's son, just his enemy. It was just a coincidence that his father, Tyndaeus (last name unspecified), had died in January 1992 of liver problems. It was a brilliantly written letter, a voice of reason.

Too bad nobody believed it.

"Maddening," Harry-as-Pollux growled to Saysa, stalking back and forth. "It's going to drive me barmy, I tell you."

"Well," Sirius shrugged, watching them from a corner, "from their perspective, it makes sense."

He said it a bit too casually. Pollux, glaring, demanded, "And what do you think about it, hm, Padfoot?" His voice carried a challenge.

The Animagus held up a placating hand. "Just that they don't know a lot about you. And your resemblance to the man in question doesn't help."

"They don't." Pollux was unimpressed by Sirius's attempt at prying for information. But, he supposed, I did promise Remus. "I'm not Voldemort's son, Sirius." The disguise sloughed off. "I'm James's."

Sirius fell off his chair.

That, of course, took up the rest of the day. Harry even missed Quidditch practice (for which he apologized most heartily), though he much rather would have been riding his broomstick than listen to Sirius rant and rave about how stupid he was for doing this, how utterly idiotic, did Remus know, and was he trying to get himself KILLED? Harry's responses: yes, it is stupid, but it's also necessary; Remus did know- he's the one who bullied me into telling you; no, I am not attempting to get myself killed and have no intention of doing so. Now please lower your voice so we can discuss this like rational human beings.

Padfoot had not been amused.

In the end, it had taken five hours, a missed dinner, and several long, rambling explanations before Sirius calmed down. Well, actually, there had been six or seven incidents when he had almost calmed down. Then Harry had let something slip- his friends' identities, the Sorting Hat's complicity- and the Animagus had gotten angry (not hysterical, he would say afterwards. I don't get hysterical) again.

"Sirius knows," Harry told Blaise before collapsing into bed. Who would have thought that explaining things could take so much energy?

But, fortunately for the Parselmouth's sanity, gossip in the castle (if not in the wider Wizarding world) soon turned to something far more interesting and important: Quidditch. The first match, Team One ("The Hogwarts Horntails") vs. Team Two ("The Northern Knights") was fast approaching. Teams Three through Eight found themselves almost incapable of practicing; the first two teams took up the field twenty-four/seven.

When the first Saturday of October finally arrived, almost the entire school poured out onto the Quidditch pitch to see what would happen, who would win, how these odd mixed-House teams would play.

Much to everyone's surprise, the two teams played just as well as (if not better than) the official House teams. The match was absurdly close, the Seekers neck and neck as they dove for the Snitch. Only the fact that the Horntails' Seeker was two years older and several inches longer in the arm allowed them to win.

"Great game, don't you think?" Harry laughed. As a member of Team Three, the Scotland Spitfires, he had spent the morning in the stands.

"Best I've ever seen," Blaise agreed.

Daphne and Hermione, neither of them Quidditch fans, exchanged indulgent grins. Daphne's sister Astoria (despite only being a first year, she was a member of Team Six, the Castle Corps) nodded fervently. She wasn't just nodding because of her crush on Harry; she too thought it was a wonderful game. She, the five companions, and Luna Lovegood spent the walk back to the castle discussing plays, strategies, and favorite moments from the game.

With the first game out of the way, talk in the castle turned back to the Tournament of Houses. Pollux was almost forgotten, though a small cadre of students still met to discuss the VV's articles.

Despite several attempts to pry information from teachers, prefects, anyone and everyone who might know what the Slytherin Task would be, no news was forthcoming. Everyone kept their mouths firmly shut, much to the Champions' dismay.

When the day came, they would all have to go in blind.

FORGIVE ME! I had no intention of being gone that long and definitely won't do it again. The next chapter, which covers the Slytherin Task (not the Hufflepuff one, as Mark erroneously led you to believe) should be up a lot sooner than this one. My schedule's a lot better now, so updates WILL be more regular. I'll make it that way if it kills me.

Thanks to everyone for putting up with my delay. Thanks espeically to the reviewers- you guys make my day!

-Antares