And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;

And seem a saint, when I most play the devil. –Richard III, I.3.26-28

Dumbledore had intended to break her by leaving her alone, helpless, bound and hidden in the dark. But she was the Lady of the Chamber; she had spent the past thousand years deep within the bowels of the earth. Sitting here in the silent darkness was almost like coming home.

The three days she spent in darkness were rejuvenating, relaxing almost. She was unaccustomed to socialization; she needed to recover from the constant contact with centaurs and goblins and human children and werewolves and everything else.

So when Dumbledore returned, expecting to soften her up, he instantly realized the depth of his mistake. Saysa was not human; she might look it, but she was not. Therefore she could not be broken by the dark, silent solitude that would ruin humans.

The headmaster cocked his head, considering. He was on a time limit, though Saysa didn't know that. He couldn't perform Legilimency- what kind of fool would knowingly look into a basilisk's eyes? And he had no doubt that Veritaserum would be met with nothing but Parseltongue.

"They will come for me, you know," she told him. Her voice was soft, weak with thirst, but still strong.

"Of course they will," he murmured back. "The Stormson, the four elements." A cold smile, "The maid of air."

Saysa stiffened. Dumbledore's smile widened. She hadn't known that he knew about them.

"And your allies, of course," he continued. "Tyr Ulfhednar, Sirius Black. What did your master do with Dudley Dursley, I wonder?"

Her face lost its expression, became blank as un-carved stone.

"So, what shall I do with you?" he mused aloud, eyeing her.

Saysa did not reply.

Dumbledore leaned close. His smile, cold and deadly, was like that of a shark. She could feel his breath on her face; he could feel hers on his. "Have you ever heard of Inferi?"

Blaise woke with a gasp. His entire body was slick with sweat. The liquid soaked his tangled sheets, plastering his pajamas to his skin.

He rolled, grabbed for the dream diary Hermione had told him to keep. He pulled it and a quill back into his bed, closing the curtains behind him.

The dream had begun like the others, in a moonlit forest grove….

The youth was older now, no longer a youth. Gray peppered his temples, and he had grown a beard. His face was lined with wrinkles. Nonetheless, he had not lost an inch to flab. He had grown physically stronger, steadier, more balanced.

The wolf at his feet was ancient. Its fur had lightened to gray, even to white around the muzzle. Are you ready? It asked in a voice that was not a voice.

"I am," the no-longer-young man replied. He dropped to his knees. Fur sprouted from his skin. His bones contorted.

Blaise had never seen a werewolf transform before. He'd been told it was a thing of horror, sick twisting limbs and melting flesh. This, though… it reminded him of Saysa's change. It should have been hideous, nightmarish, but it was not. It had an odd beauty to it.

The two wolves knelt, noses touching the ground. They held the position for several seconds before looking up. Other wolves, eyes glittering gold, peered at them from the trees.

Then the two whom they were watching lunged at each other. They tore, snarling and ripping, fangs and claws flashing silver. For a few seconds their forms blurred together, too fast for Blaise to keep track of. Then they separated.

The older werewolf lay flat on his back, legs tucked tight against his body. His eyes were closed. He stretched his neck, exposing as much of its surface as he could.

The younger lycanthrope trotted over to his fallen foe. He laid a paw on the other's shoulder. Then, very deliberately, he bit the elder's throat. The bite- more of a nip, really- lasted only a second before the new alpha released the old.

The pack darted out of the forest, surrounded the two combatants. The older wolf rolled over, climbed to his feet. Then he knelt. The other werewolves followed suit, front legs forward, eyes closed, ears and tails hanging. Only the younger werewolf, the one who had triumphed, remained standing.

He threw back his head and howled. The old alpha- now a beta, Blaise thought- joined in. The remainder of the pack looked up, sang to the moon.

The world blurred. Blaise knew that time had passed- a month, to be exact.

This time, the werewolves wore their human forms as they gathered around their leader.

"No wraiths have been spotted this moon, either," a woman reported. "It's as though they've all vanished."

"Perhaps they're all dead," a man suggested. "We have killed many of them, this past generation." He nodded at another man, elderly but still strong, who must have been the old alpha. "Perhaps their numbers were too few and they couldn't replace their fallen."

The alpha shook his head. "I wish you were right, friend, but you could not be more wrong." He stood. "The wraiths have merely migrated. They've fled to the west and the north, gathering their strength until they are powerful enough to attack us once more. Then, generations from now, when our descendants have grown fat and complacent, they will take their revenge."

Cries of horror and outrage erupted from the clearing. Many shook their heads in denial, not wanting to believe something so horrible. Even the former alpha's jaw tightened, though he spoke not a word of protest.

"How do you know this?" demanded a young woman, her body covered in scars.

The previous alpha rose to his feet. "Thirteen moons ago, when the wraiths' population began to drop, I sent scouts to hunt them down. Most of them returned in the spring, but one did not come back until I had stepped down." He nodded at his successor. "She found that the demons have migrated to lands without protection, lands where they may feast at will."

The woman who had questioned him sank to the ground. "What can we do?" she whispered.

"There is only one thing we can do," her leader replied quietly. "The wraiths have fled. We must follow."

Murmurs broke out. The alpha held up placating hands. "Not all of us must go," he assured them. "Just me, though I would gladly accept your company. One werewolf and the Cup are enough to raise a new pack, one that will chase these monsters to the ends of the earth- or to their deaths!"

Cheers erupted, but the alpha wasn't done yet. "I leave at the next full moon. Speak with your families, your friends, your neighbors. If you would come, I will take you. If not, may the gods pour out their blessings upon this pack until the end of time."

"Jackpot," Blaise muttered, recording everything he could remember. Then, raising his voice, he called, "Oi, Harry, you awake?"

"Unfortunately." The black-haired boy poked his head out of his bed's curtains. "I'd really rather be asleep."

"Us too," snapped Theodore Nott. "I want all the sleep I can get before exams, thank you very much."

Blaise blinked. In his excitement over the dream, he'd almost forgotten that their exams began today. No one was entirely certain why the professors had chosen this particular day to begin torturing them- it was a Thursday, for Merlin's sake; shouldn't they wait until Monday- but they had.

"I've had enough sleep," he lied. "Harry, let's go to the common room and cram."

"Fine."

It took Harry longer than normal to get through his morning ablutions. Blaise waited impatiently in the common room. He eventually got up from his chair, paced around. Sitting had made him sleepy. After all, he'd stayed up quite late the night before, and they'd all been stressed about poor Saysa. Of course he was tired.

When Harry finally entered the common room, his fellow Slytherin couldn't help but flinch. He himself was tired, yes, but he didn't have vast black bags under his eyes like the younger boy did. Harry was moving more slowly than normal, like an old man instead of a twelve-year-old youth.

"You okay, mate?"

The younger wizard shrugged. "I will be. I can sleep during break. What did you dream about?"

"The effects of sleep deprivation on growing wizards."

"Not funny, Blaise. What did you really dream about?" Painful hope shone in those reddened eyes. "Where she is?"

Blaise's heart went out to him. He shook his head, all humor forgotten.

Harry sank deeper into his chair.

In a soft voice, the Dreamer related what he had seen. "I always wondered how it got to Britain," he concluded. "This must be it- they were following the wraiths, the dementors. Then, once they had chased them all the way to the British Isles, something went wrong. The Chalice was lost, and they went from protectors to predators."

Harry nodded tiredly. "I bet the dementors had something to do with that. Do you think you'll dream about that next month?"

"I hope so. If we know what went wrong, we have a better chance of preventing a repeat. 'Those who forget' and all."

"Exactly."

"You sure you're all right, mate?"

"I'm fine."

"It's not your fault, you know."

"Isn't it?"

"It isn't," he repeated, firm and resolute. "Harry, you did everything in your power to keep her safe. You had no reason to suspect that the Chalice was jinxed like that- nothing else was, and Saysa couldn't see any extra enchantments on it." His eyes narrowed. "Was it Tyr's fault?"

"Of course not," he replied automatically.

"But Tyr was there too. Why shouldn't it be Tyr's fault?"

Harry smiled ruefully. "All right, Blaise. I get your point."

"What point?" his roommate asked, the paragon of innocence.

"That being present at something horrible doesn't imply responsibility." His eyes darkened. "But that doesn't mean it's not my responsibility to get her back."

"Our responsibility, Harry," Blaise reminded him. "The five of us, and the dragons, and Sisith, and everyone on the Isle. With all of us working to find her, Dumbledore doesn't stand a chance."

Harry nodded, wishing with all his heart that Blaise was right.

Mark glared at the sink. "Open up already!" he yelled.

"It's a sink," Moaning Myrtle sneered. "It's not going to open up."

The Boy-Who-Lived grit his teeth. He considered telling her that it wasn't an ordinary sink, that it had to be the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets- why else would it have that stupid smirking snake inscribed on it?- but squelched the urge.

"Maybe you need to be a Parselmouth," Ron suggested. "Slytherin was a Parselmouth." He began making hideous hissing noises that no real Parselmouth would have understood. The only comprehensible word hidden amid that gibberish was Sisith's favorite profanity.

"I think you need a real Parselmouth," Dean commented dryly. "Anybody know any real Parselmouths?"

"No," replied Mark. "Maybe Harry does, because he's a Slytherin. Or maybe Snape was a Parselmouth- he's certainly evil enough."

"Maybe we could put a snake in the sink and see if anything happens," Seamus proposed.

"Maybe you could go away and leave me alone," Myrtle hissed. She hovered over the sink, arms crossed. "Go away. I don't want you here."

"She's actually got a point," Mark grumbled. "Exams start today, remember?"

"Thank Merlin we don't have tests in Potions or Defense," muttered Ron. "I couldn't have handled that, mates."

"Go away," Myrtle repeated, waving her arms. "Shoo. You have exams to take."

"Chipper little thing, isn't she," Ron groused as they exited the bathroom.

"Something like that," Mark agreed.

"Bloody mad, more like it!" Dean exclaimed. "She's completely barmy. Who in their right mind would haunt a toilet?"

"No one," Seamus affirmed. "Absolutely no one."

"She should be exorcised," Mark decided. "Her and Binns both."

His friends grimaced. History of Magic was their first exam.

The next two days passed in a blur. The tests were harder than they'd been last year, especially history and Transfiguration. If they'd actually had to take Defense and Potions, Mark didn't think that they would have survived.

They tried to discuss the Chamber and its resident, but exams took too much of their time. Either they were studying or walking off to class or someone (usually Neville Longbottom, who lived with them. Life would have been so much easier if he'd just been Sorted into Hufflepuff) was right there, his mere presence preventing them from formulating plans.

It wasn't until Saturday morning that Mark had a burst of inspiration. Ironically, it was Neville, the same person who had inadvertently prevented him and his friends from brainstorming, who provided the solution. He was lying on his bed flipping through his potions book, mumbling under his breath about the properties of parosela. Mark had been watching him with annoyance. Didn't he realize that they didn't have Potions exams that year? And anyways, no amount of studying could make him good at brewing. Good at blowing things up, yes, but not brewing.

At this point, a light bulb went off above Mark's head.

Who said that they needed to find a password? Why not just blow the entrance up instead? He could think of several ways to do it- the magical equivalent of Molotov cocktails, pouring combustible potions down the sink, using spells to blast the wall in. It was pure brilliance!

His brain kicked into high gear, miraculously recovering from the strain of the exams. He had to find some kind of silencing spell, something that would keep the basilisk from hearing the explosion. Then he'd have to find a spell for explosions- or he could just ask Neville to make him a potion. Wait, scratch that. It would blow up too soon. Best stick with the blasting spell, then.

But where would he find a blasting spell? They didn't teach offensive magic like that for at least another year. Perhaps Harry would know? But he'd want to know why Mark needed a blasting spell, and he'd see through any excuses.

He wished that Gilderoy was still there. The man had been incompetent, but surely he'd known at least one basic blasting spell?

Professor Dumbledore! He and the headmaster often ate supper together; they were going to do that tonight. He could pretend that the question was for one of his tests. Charms, probably- he hadn't taken that one yet.

Yes, that would work brilliantly. All he had to do was figure out a couple of easy, easy spells, and then it was show time.

He smiled. Across the room, Neville glimpsed that smile and shuddered. How was this boy related to Harry again? It was hard to believe that the Potter twins were twins at all.

But, he thought, returning his attention to the potions text, I have bigger fish to fry. I can't do anything about Saysa until the dragons are back, but I can help Moony and Tyr.

Mark upped and left. The other Gryffindor smiled, relieved.

The Boy-Who-Lived arrived early at Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was reading at his desk, the picture of a saintly grandfather. "Lo, Professor," he said.

Dumbledore's face split into a wide smile. "Hello, Mark. How are exams going?"

The boy sank into his favorite chair with a groan. "Killer. Can't you just outlaw them?"

The older wizard chuckled. "I wished that many times myself when I was your age. But you didn't come here to hear an old man's memories, did you. What would you like for supper tonight?"

Mark shrugged. After years at the Dursleys', he wasn't exactly a picky eater. "Whatever you're having, I guess."

He knew (or at least thought he knew) how to manipulate the old man. In reality, of course, it was the other way around, but Mark was ignorant of that little detail.

It took only a few minutes for him to direct the conversation to 'things I might need to know for my Charms test on Monday.'

"That sounds like reducto," Dumbledore told him.

"Yeah!" Mark exclaimed. "That's the incantation I was looking for. But I've forgotten the wand movement." He grinned sheepishly. "I guess all this studying is making my brain melt."

"It happens to all of us," the old man assured him. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"Yeah, I think." He frowned. "What's that one spell where you can make something soundless again? I think Professor Flitwick said it would be on the test." Another sheepish grin, "Maybe I'm not getting enough sleep."

"The spell is muffliato." He drew the Elder Wand, demonstrated the correct movements. "Can you think of any other spells that might be on the test?"

"No, sir. Thanks, though. I think you just saved my bacon."

Their conversation turned to inanities after that. Mark had everything he needed.

When the Boy-Who-Lived exited his office, Dumbledore tapped the Elder Wand against his book. "Portus," he murmured.

The prison had not changed in the few hours since he'd left it. Even Saysa was in the same position, rigid with fear in the corner.

"Any last requests?" he asked softly. "For tomorrow you die."

Um, Harry? I would recommend hurrying up and saving Saysa. Because she's kind of going to die tomorrow if you don't. And then Dumbles will turn her into an Inferius, just to prove that he's really, really mean. So HURRY UP ALREADY!

-Antares