The purest spring is not so free from mud. -Henry VI III.1.104

"Thank you again for liberating me, Saysa."

The basilisk didn't reply.

The phoenix song had given her a boost, back in the Chamber. Now, though, Fawkes was far away. Not to mention that he was only a fledgling now, too young to rally her exhausted mind and body.

After killing the firebird and knocking Mark unconscious, Saysa had shifted to her humanoid form, grabbed the prone Sorting Hat (the thought of leaving another prisoner in Dumbledore's clutches sickened her), and fled into the Forbidden Forest. That had been hours ago. Dusk was falling, and she still hadn't found the centaurs.

Now that she had time to think, she realized that she had made horrible mistakes. Mark had no medical attention- Fawkes was too young to weep his wounds closed, and the boy's friends were trapped behind rock. What if he died?

And even if he didn't die, he was in her home. More importantly, he had access to her books, to the prophecies transcribed by the Founders themselves.

Once again, Saysa cursed herself for a fool. She should have run down the golden stairs, grabbed or destroyed the books (she had them all memorized anyways), and then made her escape. But then cold terror crept into her mind. Memories of pain and screaming… a bloody curse… no sleep, no food nor water, no warm comforting darkness…. Shuddering, she picked up her pace.

"Are you all right?" the Sorting Hat asked gently.

She hugged it closer. "I will be. I promise you, I will be." But her voice was filled with doubt and fear. She had escaped physically unscathed, save for her messiness and obvious exhaustion, but crucio did more than torment the body. It scarred the mind, as well.

The hat flinched, wishing that it could do more than just speak. "If you want me to understand, I will," it reminded her. Its voice was very gentle.

Saysa sniffled, something she'd never done in her life. She was tired, so very tired, but she had a long way to go before she could sleep. How long had it been since she'd slept? How many days? And how long would it be until she could let go of this fear?

"Lady?"

Terror washed over her. She spun, ready to attack and, if necessary, kill- but it was only a young filly. The centaur girl jumped, startled by the Guardian's reaction.

Saysa let herself relax. She opened her mouth, tried to return the greeting, but suddenly everything was too much. The ground spun, and she collapsed into an exhausted faint.

"Are you all right, Mark?" asked Dumbledore. The headmaster was the very picture of grandfatherly concern: larger-than-normal eyes, concerned face and voice, a hand reaching out to his charge.

"I'm fine, sir," the Boy-Who-Lived mumbled, averting his gaze. He reached out, placed his precious burden on the headmaster's table. The infant phoenix cheeped pitifully.

"You don't look fine," his confidante chided. "Neither does Fawkes." He stroked the bird. It shuddered. "What happened, Mark?"

He couldn't meet Dumbledore's gaze. "I… remember those spiders from last month? I… I went after the thing that scared them away. It was a basilisk, a huge basilisk, and… and it got away."

The headmaster stiffened. In a slightly louder, more urgent voice, he repeated, "Mark, what happened?"

The miserable Gryffindor told him everything: how he had discerned that the beast was a basilisk, how he had hunted down the Chamber of Secrets, how he and his friends had been separated after their clumsy invasion, how Fawkes and the Sorting Hat had come to his rescue (at this point, he started to wonder how in the world they'd gotten there, but Dumbledore shepherded him back into safe territory).

"So I failed," he concluded. "I'm sorry, Professor." He looked and felt ready to cry.

The headmaster considered. This day had been a disaster. The basilisk had escaped and somehow stolen the Sorting Hat. Mark had been wounded. Fawkes had been killed. It would be two months before he could use his magic again. His deal with the acromantulas had been broken, because there was no way he could get ahold of Saysa before summer's end. Worst of all, he had discovered a flaw in the Elder Wand: phoenix song was powerful enough to annul one of its curses. It might have been because Saysa was pure in heart- not that he knew if she was or not; he thought she was, but he'd been wrong before- but what if phoenix song did that for everyone?

As soon as Fawkes was grown, he would have to test the hypothesis on Severus. The one-armed Potions Master was certainly not pure in heart.

The bird cheeped again, but didn't move. His True Name, that which bound him to Dumbledore, had not changed. He had no choice but to serve the human.

Dumbledore stroked him again, harder this time, hurting him. The baby whimpered- not just at this pain, but at the punishment yet to come.

But that would come later. Right now, Mark was waiting for his idol to speak, to offer comfort. The Boy-Who-Lived had priority.

"You did a brave thing, Mark, trying to drive away Slytherin's monster," Dumbledore said gently. "I just wish that you had prepared more."

"I did prepare," he protested. "I had a plan and everything. We were all gonna shoot the Conjunctivus Curse at its mouth and eyes. We thought about taking mirrors to aim with, but we decided not to because we didn't know what that would do to us."

"My apologies, then," the old man replied. He sighed heavily. "What's done is done, I suppose, and you have done a great thing today. I doubt that the monster will ever return to Hogwarts, and if it does, it will trip my wards."

"Good," Mark replied, relieved.

"As a reward for your bravery, you and your friends will receive one hundred points for Gryffindor. Each."

The boy's eyes went wide. "One hundred each, sir?"

He smiled, nodded, eyes twinkling like little stars. "One hundred each, Mark."

His shock evaporated, replaced by glee. "That's- thank you, sir! Thank you! I have got to tell the others about this!" He got up, prepared to leave.

"Don't you want to learn more about the basilisk?"

Dumbledore didn't like being so direct, but too much had been ruined. He needed Mark to learn at least a little bit more about his nemesis. Just a bit, of course, why should he learn everything just yet; but enough to whet his appetite, and enough to turn him away from Dumbledore's enemies.

Mark did, of course, so Dumbledore began his tale. "Fifty years ago, when I was a young Transfiguration professor…."

The Boy-Who-Lived listened in stunned silence as his role model related the events of two generations previous. "You taught Voldemort?" he gasped, amazed.

"To my eternal regret, yes." Dumbledore hung his head in shame.

Three seconds later, the Gryffindor realized what else his mentor had said. "Wait. Voldemort's name was Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

"Indeed."

"Like that Riddle guy who rescued those girls back in January?"

Once again, Dumbledore nodded.

Mark looked ready to faint. "Voldemort has a son? Oh, ew."

"That's one way of putting it," his mentor chuckled.

The Boy-Who-Lived frowned, brow creasing with thought. "Like father, like son," he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he asked, "But what's Riddle up to? Is he trying to trick people into following him by making himself look like a nice guy? And who are the other people? I heard that they looked really different from Riddle, and, Professor, I really can't see Voldemort having more than one kid." He paused for a moment. "Actually, I couldn't really see him having any kids, so never mind."

"I don't know, Mark," he replied softly. "I have no idea what Pollux Ophion Riddle, son of Lord Voldemort, has in mind. Perhaps he is serving the purposes of his father. Perhaps he is serving his own desires. All I know is that we must approach him with caution- you are the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who survived by reducing his father to less than a spirit, less than the weakest ghost.

Wonderful, he thought. Another Dark Lord who wants me dead, just what I've always wanted.

But he wasn't fool enough to say that aloud. He knew that Dumbledore- the entire Wizarding World!- was counting on him to get rid of Voldemort. Instead he said, "Thank you for telling me, sir."

The Spider smiled. Everything was going according to plan. "You're very welcome, Mark."

Good for Neville, thought Augusta Longbottom. Those friends of his have been a good influence on him. It's about time he started putting more effort towards Potions.

She wondered when the owl carrying ingredients from their greenhouse would arrive at Hogwarts. Soon, she thought- it was a fast owl, and the weather had been good lately. Certainly, less than a week, though probably more than three days.

The old woman smiled, staring off into the distance. The owl had just faded into a dark speck. She blinked, and it vanished.

Then she frowned slightly. Potions had never been her best subject (though she was not half so inept as her poor grandson), but she couldn't remember many concoctions that required monkshood, adders tongue, hemp, and boneset.

Well, she reasoned, Neville has a different teacher than I did. And at least these aren't combustible.

Augusta turned back to the house, already focusing on other things.

How was she to know that she had just sent her grandson the salvation of the werewolves?

Harry and Hermione were under a tree, arguing about when the dragons would be back and what they should do then, when the owl arrived. It was a wild bird, dirty and sharp-clawed, without the gentleness of a domesticated owl. It landed on Harry's head, talons digging into his scalp, and hooted impatiently. It had been sleeping when the centaurs found it, and it wanted to return to slumber.

"Ow!" the Slytherin yelled, batting at his passenger. "Gerroff me, you stupid bird!"

The owl did not appreciate being called stupid. It pecked at Harry's forehead, hooting irritably.

Hermione grabbed at it, dragged it aside. It hooted once more before flinging its leg in her face. She yelped- its talons were too close to her eyes for comfort- but hastily untied the letter it was carrying. The owl aimed one final peck at Harry's head before flying away.

"That," the Parselmouth hissed, "was the most ill-behaved owl I've met in my life! Stop laughing, Sisith!"

"Why? It was funny!"

"You weren't the one who was almost pecked to-"

Hermione, who had ignored the boys' banter in favor of reading the letter, shrieked. Harry and Sisith snapped to attention. They looked around for danger (Dumbledore, acromantulas, something) before realizing that her cry had been one of joy, not of terror.

The Ravenclaw flung her arms around Harry. Happy tears leaked from her eyes. "Oh, Harry, it's wonderful!"

"What's wonderful?"

She laughed, thrust the letter at him.

He had received a similar missive months ago: bark paper, berry ink. It was from the centaurs. Well, that explained why the messenger had been so rude.

The letter's first sentence drove all thoughts of badly behaved owls from his mind. His hands shook. "Hermione, is this-"

She nodded. "Why would the centaurs lie? She's back! Unconscious or not, she's back!"

"Unconscious?" Harry hadn't read that far. He scanned the letter, searched for the relevant word or phrase. Sure enough, the second sentence mentioned that she was out cold.

His immense smile shrank somewhat, but not even the news that Saysa was injured could quench his joy. Saysa was alive and free. Not well, exactly, but alive and free! How could he not rejoice at such wonderful news?

"Come on," he exclaimed, grabbing Hermione by the hand. "Let's go tell the others."

It was easy to track them down: Blaise and Daphne were in the Slytherin Common Room, while Neville was lounging in the Gryffindors' tower. Harry wasn't allowed inside, of course, but Hermione managed to ask a passing fourth year to go fetch Neville Longbottom, please and thank you.

The Prince of Flowers took one look at his friends, all of whom were nearly bursting with excitement, and demanded, "What happened?"

Harry and Blaise seized him by the arms, frog-marched him through the halls. "She's with the centaurs," the Parselmouth murmured.

Neville froze for a second then sprinted up ahead. Laughing, his friends followed.

By the time they arrived at the centaurs' glade, the group was out of breath. They didn't care, though, for they could see Saysa, safe and sound.

The basilisk wore her human form. She was dirty and even paler than normal, with bruise-colored circles under her eyes. Her hair was matted and tangled, her clothes worn and wrinkled. She seemed older, somehow, aged by fear and hard use.

But she was alive, gloriously alive, and she was free.

Looking at the serpent-woman's sleeping form, Harry felt chills run up his spine. Why had Dumbledore let her go? There was a chance that she had escaped, but….

He shifted into his Fae form. Pollux pulled out his wand. "Checking for tracking charms," he grunted, "or anything that shouldn't be there."

His friends paled. As one, they too transformed. "You think her release is a trap?" Pallas whispered.

"Release?" demanded a centaur they didn't know, a grizzled stallion. "What do you mean, release?"

"Dumbledore had her," Bianca explained. Skirting around the fact that Saysa had been missing for days, not merely hours or minutes, she added, "She arrived back rather quickly. You're right to be cautious, Pollux. Can you detect the Imperious?"

"He can't," said a scratchy male voice, "but I can."

The companions started. For the first time, Harry gazed down at the burden in Saysa's arms. "Hat?" he asked incredulously.

The Sorting Hat bowed its tip. "The one and only."

"What happened to her?" Pallas demanded.

"Exhaustion, mostly," the headpiece replied. "Fawkes did most of the work by breaking through Dumbledore's Imperius, but-"

"Imperius?" cried Alexander and Pallas.

"What about Fawkes?" asked Pollux.

"Who was Imperiused, her or him?" demanded Apollo.

"How do we know you aren't a spy?" snapped Bianca.

"Peace, peace!" the hat yelped. It tried to make a placating gesture but, being a hat, failed. "I'll start at the beginning, I suppose…."

The prophesied five (as well as assorted centaurs, who dearly wanted to know what in the worlds had been happening) listened in mute horror as the Sorting Hat related the day's events to them. It spoke softly, not wanting to awaken the exhausted Saysa, but its words did not need to be loud. They seemed to echo around the forest glade, within the hearts of the listeners.

"Mark- tried- to- kill- her!" Harry snarled, eyes bulging. His face was white and bloodless, drawn in an expression of horrified rage. "He- he-" He fell silent, unable to articulate how he felt.

"At Dumbledore's instigation," Hermione reminded him. "He was tricked."

Her friend made a strangled sound. His twin brother had just tried to kill one of his closest friends. Trickery or not, it would take a long time for him to get over that- assuming he even could.

"You are certain of this?" Even the archons, the four centaurs who led the herd, had gathered to hear the Sorting Hat's story.

"He's had it planned for months," the headpiece asserted.

"I have no doubt about that." Saysa's voice was weak and strained, but not yet broken. She sat, smiling wanly. The dark circles beneath her golden eyes had faded somewhat, though not entirely, making her look like a recovering invalid.

"Saysa!" her friends cried, forgetting all about the Spider's webs. They lunged, grabbed her in a hug that left her gasping for breath. Horrified by the sound of her difficult breathing, the prophesied five staggered away, babbling apologies.

"I am fine," she rasped. "Just thirsty and tired."

No one bought it. They certainly believed that she was thirsty and tired- that much was obvious to them all- but no one was fool enough to think she was fine.

In many ways, the Imperius Curse was the worst of the three Unforgiveables. The Killing Curse was quick. Its victims didn't suffer; that was left for those it left behind. The Cruciatus could be fought, defied, if not ignored. But a successful imperio stripped its victims of everything: free will, conscience, friendship, love, duty. Everything.

That was what Saysa had been exposed to. Not only had she failed to fight it off, she knew exactly what would have happened if Fawkes hadn't saved her.

The others did, too. Only blind luck so extraordinary that it bordered on deus ex machina had saved her life.

They coddled her for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring her protests and threatening to hex her with the full Body-Bind unless she sat back down, now.

Later, once they had returned her to the Isle (at which point she had been greeted enthusiastically by Sirius, Dudley, Tyr, and a small army of dragons), she finally managed to get Harry alone for a few moments.

"Is there anything you want me to do?" were his first words.

Saysa couldn't meet his eyes. She was silent for a long moment before finally begging, "Forgive me."

"For what?" Harry was honestly confused.

"When I fought against Mark Potter…." She stared at the walls of the castle. They were worn with age, yet years younger than she was.

The serpent-woman found that she couldn't say it. So, partly to prepare herself and partly because it needed to be said, she confessed, "I left the books behind, the prophecies, my notes, the old spell books. I should have gone back and taken them, but I was so afraid…." She laughed ruefully.

"Fear does that to you," Harry mused. "It steals your mind, your soul."

Saysa nodded. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

"But don't worry about the books, Saysa," he continued. "Hermione got them out the day you were captured. We didn't realize that you'd answer his questions in Parseltongue. That was brilliant of you."

She didn't answer, didn't thank him for his undeserved praise. Did he really need to know about the other bit, the thing she wanted so badly to hide from him? It would be easy, so very easy, to….

No. Mark was his brother, and she was his friend. He had to know.

It was so rare that Saysa felt her age. Now, though, she felt every one of her thousand and seventeen years. At the same time, though, she felt like a guilty hatchling, caught sneaking into the chicken coop for a quick and tasty meal.

"…I considered killing him to save my own sorry hide."

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. She didn't want to. These past few days, especially this day, had introduced her to parts of herself that she hadn't wanted to meet.

Harry sucked in a quick breath. He knew who 'him' was. Saysa closed her eyes, brushed her fingers across her forehead. "I am sorry, Harry," she whispered.

A hand on her shoulder, squeezing hard, it loosened, the grip becoming gentle. Then it pulled her close. Saysa didn't resist.

Harry hugged her. "I forgive you."

So no, Fawkes didn't get away. Poor birdie.

And for once, I agree with Mark. Voldemort having a kid (which implies impregnating a woman) is very ew.

-Antares