I don't like to beg for reviews, guys, but... please? *puppy dog eyes* I need encouragement now. I'm not threatening to quit or anything, I just feel kind of ignored.

Also, there's a poll about Neville's Animagus form up on my profile. Please vote.

The world is grown so bad,

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.

-Richard III, 1.3.74-75

Subtlety was not Mark Potter's strong point. He certainly tried to hide secrets and keep his own council, but he was nowhere near his crafty brother's level. Moreover, he had become rather impatient since going to Hogwarts and realizing his destiny as the Boy-Who-Lived. That was why, instead of researching for untold periods of time asking leading questions to the Care of Magical Creatures Professor (in the guise of trying to decide which classes to take the next year, as Harry's gang was doing with much of their research), he went for the direct approach: "Hey Hagrid, what kind of creature frightens spiders?"

The half-giant gave him an odd look. "What brought tha' on?"

"Er… I was thinking about the attack on Lockhart and Snape," he improvised. Hagrid's face crumpled, so he hastened to add, "I was thinking that maybe if you could find some kind of creature that would scare those things away, it would never happen again. You'd be a hero! You could even write a book about it."

It didn't exactly cheer him up, but it did start turning the gears in his head. The half-giant rested a hand in his bushy beard and mused, "Dunno. I s'pose some rocs might do, but those take years ta train. B'sides, it's near impossible to get yer hands on roc eggs, an' they don' do well this far north. Hmmm… basilisks scare all sorts o' spiders, the little ones an' acromantulas. An' one could keep Norberta company."

"Who's Norberta?" Mark asked. Who and whatever it was, it would probably try to eat him any day now.

"No one!" the groundskeeper yelped. "Anywho, basilisks. They'd be good for defense, too, just in case… in case the spiders did come back." He sniffled at that, though Mark couldn't fathom why. Why wouldn't he want the horrible things to come back so they could all die? If he had a rock or a basil-whatsits, he'd send it after the acromantulas before they hurt someone else- which, as giant man-eating spiders, they were bound to do eventually.

"Wha else, wha else… mebbe quintapeds. Dunno if they'd attack spiders, but they're tough. Have t' be, t' survive on tha' island o' theirs. Can't think o' anything else, though." He shrugged his massive shoulders.

"So rocks, basilisks, and quintapeds might scare those spiders away from the school?" reiterated Mark.

Hagrid bobbed his head.

"That's awesome! Er… what exactly are they?"

The groundkeeper perked up and spent two happy hours describing how rocs, basilisks, and quintapeds were all "jes' misunnerstood."

"It's either a roc, basilisk, or quintaped."

"What?" Ron gave his friend a strange look. "What's either a roc, basil-thingy or whatever-you-said?"

"The thing that scared the giant spiders- the acromantulas," Mark explained. "Personally, I think it's a basilisk or quintaped because someone would have noticed a roc flying around."

"What exactly are those things?" Dean asked, in a bizarre repetition of his friend's earlier conversation with Hagrid.

Mark, though, did not waste time explaining that all these creatures (and dragons, and manticores, and chimeras, and everything else Hagrid had mentioned) were sweet and cuddly. He cut to the point. "Rocs are giant birds from southern deserts, basilisks are giant snakes with death glares, and quintapeds are these evil hairy things that are supposedly descended from a bunch of Transfigured wizards. One of them scared the spiders away."

None of his friends seemed very concerned. "That's nice, but why do we care?" wondered Seamus. "I'm not delivering it a thank-you note or anything."

The Boy-Who-Lived glowered. "We care because I'm going to kill it, and I want to know what I'm up against."

Ron blanched. "You're going to kill the thing that's keeping the spiders away? Why in Merlin's name do you want to do that?"

The younger Gryffindor wasn't about to explain his crisis of courage. He scowled back and snapped, "Do you want a giant snake or vicious five-legged brute in the forest? It's probably already killed and eaten those acromantulas. What happens when it gets hungry again?"

"I'd rather have a giant snake than giant spiders," Ron whined, but he was starting to look worried.

"What we need to do," Mark proclaimed, "is figure out which one it is and where it's hiding. And we have to do that soon, before it attacks."

"I think it's the basil-thing," Dean said. "And it's probably hiding in the Slytherin Common Room, being a snake and all." He grinned.

Ron and Mark laughed, but Seamus looked thoughtful. "Something about that sounds familiar," he mumbled. "Slytherin monster… Slytherin's monster…."

The others frowned at him, waiting for elaboration. Seamus chewed his lip. "I haven't heard about it for a long time, but… I think there's this story about Slytherin leaving his pet monster somewhere in the school. It's…. Come on, guys. Let's go to the library. I think it's mentioned in Hogwarts, a History."

No one was particularly thrilled about doing independent research this close to exams, but they obediently followed him into Madame Pince's domain. She nodded at them as they entered- Mark was a favorite of hers- and went back to shelving books.

Hogwarts, a History was one of the largest books in the library: taller and broader than most, it managed to cram nearly two thousand pages between its thick covers. The cover was a photo of the school cycling through the seasons, winter to spring to summer to fall.

"It should be near the beginning," Seamus muttered, "seeing as it's about Slytherin." He hefted the book from the shelf and grunted. "Blimey, that's heavy!"

"And look at how tiny the print is," Ron despaired, flipping it open.

"Introduction- nothing there, I bet," Seamus read. "Chapter One- The Founders. Chapter Two- The Founding. Chapter Three- Slytherin's Flight."

"Let's start at the second chapter," Mark suggested. "It's probably there."

But it wasn't. Almost thirty pages of tiny text, but no mention of Slytherin's monster.

"This is stupid," Ron complained. "Let's go eat; I'm starving."

"No, I think it's in this chapter," Seamus assured him. "I think that Slytherin shouted it out at Gryffindor just as he was leaving."

"Now you tell us," the redhead groused, but he remained at the library table as they read through the tome. Finally, their patience was rewarded.

A curious legend has sprung up around Slytherin's departure. Supposedly, he had planted a hideous revenge within the very walls of Hogwarts, an inhuman being loyal only to him and his heir. This being, a monster of unidentified species, would slumber within the castle until Salazar or his direct descendent returned to the school, at which point it would be released to cleanse the building of unworthy students- namely Muggle-borns.

As might be expected, several headmasters and mistresses have attempted to find the so-called Chamber of Secrets in which this monster hid. Their expeditions revealed many hidden rooms and passages (see chapters 5, 10, 13, 22, and 26) and an infestation of doxies, but the Chamber, if it exists, remains hidden. Presumably, it will remain so until Slytherin's heir returns to the school and takes up his ancestor's mantle.

Events immediately following Slytherin's departure are fairly well documented….

"Should we look at those chapters?" asked Seamus, heady from his victory. His friends shook their heads. It was getting late, and they were hungry.

Besides, they'd found what they wanted.

"It's got to be a basilisk," Mark explained. "I dunno how long quintapeds live, but basilisks live a really long time. Hagrid told me about one that was nine hundred years old."

"And Slytherin's emblem is a snake," Dean agreed. "It's exactly the sort of thing the slimy old git would do- hide his monster in plain sight." He nodded wisely, confident in his assessment of a man who'd died over a thousand years ago.

"I always knew he was mad, but I never thought he started all this pureblood nonsense," Ron commented. "No wonder his House is full of gits and Death Eaters."

"What eaters?" Mark had the odd feeling he should know this, but he had no clue.

"Death Eaters. You-Know-Who's minions," the redhead explained. "They were all Slytherins, every last one." His rat Scabbers, who had recently awakened from a long nap, squeaked as if with agreement or laughter. It was hard to tell with rats. "Hush up, Scabbers," his master ordered, sticking a finger into his book bag.

The Boy-Who-Lived hesitated. He and Harry were no longer close, but they were still brothers. Perhaps he should defend the other boy- but he hadn't even known what Death Eaters were until just now. If Ron, who knew more, said they were all Slytherins, they were all Slytherins.

As they entered the Great Hall, he shot a sidelong glance at the green-and-silver table. The students seated there didn't look any different, he realized uncomfortably. If not for the colors of their ties, they were exactly the same as the other children.

He shifted, not liking these thoughts.

But they were evil, he reminded himself; the Sorting Hat had been through their minds, and it had seen bad things. That was why they were in Slytherin.

Except Harry, of course. He could see his brother; the elder twin was talking animatedly with that blond girl and the black boy. The Hat had taken a long, long time to Sort him- that had to mean he had almost gone to one of the good Houses. Besides, he, Mark, was going to bring him back to the Light. It would be difficult to convert a Slytherin after almost two years, but it couldn't be as hard as deflecting the Killing Curse.

"I've put this off far too long," Hermione grumbled.

"What was that?" asked Luna, blinking at her dreamily.

"Nothing," the older girl sighed. "It's just something I told a friend I'd do but haven't yet.

"Oh. Okay." The first year went back to her dinner of artichokes, gravy, and jam. Hermione shuddered- Luna had mixed the ingredients together, and it looked absolutely disgusting- and felt for her wand.

The serpent sight flared to life for the second time that day. She blinked rapidly, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light of Hogwarts. The Founders' magic was still strong, and she could see ancient traces that Saysa had identified.

But that wasn't what she was looking for. She turned to Mark, fully expecting to see a pure, unblemished aura.

His colors, she noticed, were a great deal less pleasant than his brother's; none of the purple charisma or silvery wisdom adorned his brow. His yellow loyalties flickered, struggled to survive. Aside from the flashing orange arrogance outlining his entire body, he was perfectly average.

He was average, save for the Horcrux present in his skull.

Hermione stared, jaw sagging. She blinked several times, hoping to banish the twisted blight that covered his V-shaped scar. It didn't work; the soul remained.

Voldemort's soul was present in Harry's brother.

In a way, that was worse than Harry being a Horcrux. He'd had time to get used to the idea, and he loved his brother. He'd been so afraid; how could Hermione confirm his fears?

No, no, no. It couldn't be true. It wasn't true. She squeezed shut her eyes, moved her gaze to the Slytherin table. Harry was there, covered in a shining rainbow of gorgeous hues. Beside him sat Blaise with the band of a Seer round his eyes and Daphne with a weather witch's stormy aura. Yet she had to ignore those colors, to focus on the foul thing feeding off her friend's soul.

It was the same as what she'd seen on Mark.

A sob threatened to escape her throat. She forced the serpent sight away, but the awful images remained. Bad enough that Harry, strong selfless Harry, was afflicted, but to do such a thing to his brother? It was wrong, evil.

The Ravenclaw turned her gaze to Dumbledore, who was chatting happily with Flitwick. Did he know? She wondered. Did he know that two of his students were cursed with something so foul? And if he did, did he care?

Hermione pushed back her chair, muttered an excuse to Luna, and fled.

Soon she was in Myrtle's bathroom, shoulders shaking, frantically blowing her nose into an old piece of toilet paper. The ghost girl emerged from her toilet, frowning. "Aren't you Harry's friend?"

The mention of her friend only made Hermione cry more. Poor Harry. He loved his brother so much. How could she tell him that Mark, too, was doomed?

No, no, Granger. Pull yourself together. Sobbing like a baby won't help anyone; won't change anything. Hold your breath, girl, just like Mum told you to. Blow your nose, wipe your eyes, take another deep breath and hold it until you're ready to faint.

Breath in, breath out. In. Out. In. Out. Soon she was coherent again- not calm, not exactly, but recovered enough to think. Her thoughts were no longer as erratic as they had been, but relatively organized.

"Yes, I am," she finally managed.

Myrtle brightened. Ignoring the Ravenclaw's tears, she asked, "How is he doing?"

Harry's brother was a Horcrux. She forced herself to mouth the words, to make them real. Both Potter twins were tainted by the Dark Lord's shattered soul.

"I asked you how Harry is doing."

Hermione grit her teeth. Couldn't the stupid ghost see she was busy, that she was pondering things more important than the dead girl's inane questions? Still, she had been raised to be polite, so she ground out, "He's quite well," and tried to recreate her scattered thoughts.

The images were interrupted by Myrtle, who stuck her hand through Hermione's stomach. The Ravenclaw yelped. "What was that for?"

"I asked if I could help," she sniffed, nose in the air, "but since you're so bent on being miserable, I guess I can't."

The offer momentarily shocked Hermione out of her unhappiness. Help from Moaning Myrtle was almost unheard of; she couldn't remember a single student receiving the suggestion before. The ghost girl must like Harry a great deal to do this for one of his friends. "Thank you," she exclaimed, touched. "I- it's-" She needed an excuse, something that would drive Myrtle off without offending her "-it's nothing really, just my- er, time of the month."

The spirit's eyes bugged out behind her glasses. "Oh," she squeaked, and fled into her toilet.

Heat rose to Hermione's cheeks. She was never doing that again.

Yet despite her abrupt retreat, Myrtle really had helped Hermione. The mortification of mentioning that to a stranger had shocked her out of her horrified despair. She could think logically now.

With a supreme effort of will, she forced herself to think of the implications. Her task was to solve the riddle; if this was the puzzle mentioned in the prophecies, their entire campaign depended on her making conclusions.

If Mark was a Horcrux (she shuddered, fought back more tears. Myrtle's distractions had done less than she'd thought), then Dumbledore's mistake concerning the identity of the Boy-Who-Lived made so much more sense.

She could imagine it easily: the old man in the broken home, inspecting two babies over his half-moon spectacles. Both infants were wounded; he had a fifty-fifty chance of identifying the Boy-Who-Lived on his first try. He taps his knotted wand to the younger boy's brow, whispers some spell-

And the first boy was a Horcrux. Calm and satisfied, the man doesn't bother testing the second, but vanishes in a crack like snapping wood, confident in his assessment. And so, by simple carelessness and arrogance, he leaves the true Boy-Who-Lived in his brother's shadow, letting Harry Potter become the Lightning Speaker destined to destroy him.

What would have happened had Dumbledore tested Harry first? Would he still have become the Speaker… or would that have been Mark's destiny? How strange. Perhaps, had things been just a little different, she would be sitting here sobbing at the prospect of telling Mark Potter, her friend and comrade-in-arms, that his brother was tainted….

One thing puzzled her about her new theory. Why wasn't Mark a Parselmouth? They'd always assumed that Harry's speech was the result of Voldemort's curse. Yet Mark, who had been affected in almost the same way, had shown no ability at all. Did that mean Harry had been born a Parselmouth?

She had no way of knowing. There were just too many other factors, too many variables, to come to a conclusion. She was left with mights and maybes: Dumbledore might not know Harry, too, was a Horcrux; maybe he hadn't sentenced Harry to die by his brother's hand.

All she knew was that Harry had to know.

"They are progressing well."

Saysa turned to face Firenze. "They are," she agreed, and turned back to the stars.

The centaur joined her. "What do you see above us?"

"I see the march of years," she replied. "The heavens have changed since my youth- very subtly, but very surely. Their positions have altered, and they are dimmer now. It seems that they are fewer, too, that the blackness has swallowed many of them, though I cannot tell for certain. And I know that this, too, shall change. A thousand years from now, one of your descendants shall stand on this very spot and gaze at a different sky."

"You see the past and the future," the centaur mused. "Fitting for one with roots so deep and a destiny so bright."

"That is not why you have approached me," she said. "Nor did you come to comment on the children's exercise routine. Tell me, Firenze, what do you see in the stars?"

"I see the Lost Pleiad, dim but not yet gone. I see Hyrdra crouching to pounce, and Leo and Serpens at war. I see the planets ascending, filling the darkness as well as they can." He paused. The wind rustled around them, a bare whisper in the silence of the night.

"What else?" Saysa's voice was soft as the wind.

"I see death," was his quiet response. "Castor comes for you, sword at the ready."

"I am not yet ready to die."

He turned to her, face pale with worry. "I see death. If it does not come for you, another will die in your place."