A/N: Yes, I finally got this up! I can't honestly say how sorry I am for taking so loooong to write it, but hopefully it will suffice for the period of time it took to get it written. Originally it was meant to be two chapters, but I ended up combining them because I'm just lazy like that, and... yeah. I worked especially hard on the last scene and re-wrote it like, sixteen times to get the tension and suspense balance right. It's my first time writing anything with that sort of atmosphere, so any advice would be great!

Oh, and another reason why this took so long - that you might be more interested in other than listening to me rant about my terrible woes - is because I'm working on an AmeCan smutfic right now. It should be up in about a week at most, so if you like the smut scene in here, go check my profile out in a few days!

Okay, I'm done. Without further adieu... enjoy!

Chapter Seventeen: The Chamber of Secrets

"Hey, Gil—look at this."

"Mhm... what?"

The drowsy Slytherin looked up with bleary ruby eyes, rubbing them to clear them of all the text he'd had to absorb in the past two hours, not to mention all twenty-one days, fourteen hours, six minutes and seven seconds of torturously boring studying. Normally he wasn't the one to study, but the only thing that kept him on it was the possibility of becoming an Auror. And that meant something to him.

So the unawesome teachers, damn them, had begun piling on the homework before end-of-the-year exams, even though they were still three weeks away. Damn, damn, damn them all. He'd like to gouge all their eyes out with a burning stick.

But at the moment, Francis was poking him insistently, so he looked up and glared at the Frenchman irritably. Besides—it was better than staring at another sentence involving the goblin rebellions of 1812. That combined with the warm golden glow of the lamps and candles lighting the library was enough to make his eyes ache.

"Ja?" he muttered, standing up to look at the thick book Francis was showing him. He noticed that he'd pulled his blond hair into a low ponytail tonight; something he almost never did anymore. Gilbert smirked. It wasn't lost on him that Francis was trying to look good for Arthur.

"What's the Chamber of Secrets?" Francis asked, dragging his finger under the phrase in the book. Gilbird squawked angrily and fell over on Gil's shoulder, and the albino shook his head in disbelief.

"What's the Chamber of Secrets?" he repeated incredulously. He sighed heavily, clapping a hand on Francis's shoulder. "Francis, you really need to do your history research."

Francis just rolled his eyes. "What do you think this is, Gil?" he asked, pointing at the book, which looked rather thick and heavy. "Just answer my question, oui?"

"It's a long story, so we might as well get comfortable," Gilbert muttered. He sat back down again, and Francis settled across from him, next to the sleeping Arthur who had Fritzdeugen snoring quietly next to him. Arthur had been utterly exhausted the past few days, suffering from more headaches and unable to sleep at night when he needed it, only to fall into a doze in class the next day. Patrick had gone back up to the Ravenclaw dormitories already, so it was just Gilbert and Francis left here with him, but for the moment both felt so bad for him that they didn't have the heart to wake him up. He was a silent sleeper, anyway, and Francis couldn't help but notice how beautiful and peaceful he was when he slept. The fluffy kitten at his side just increased the sweetness tenfold. So they let him rest, head on his arms and a small smile on his lips, and went about their work.

Or, in Gil's case, not working.

"The legend about the Chamber of Secrets starts with the four founders," Gil said. Francis met his eyes intently, focusing on every word. "I think you and Arthur did a poem on them, back at the beginning of the year—that weird assignment in study hall?"

Francis nodded, and Gilbert went on.

"Three of them—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, that is—had no issue with Muggle-borns. They thought magic should be open to anyone with magical blood, of Muggle descent or no. But Slytherin was being unawesome and didn't want to let them into the school; he said they'd expose the wizarding world, and not be as loyal as those of pure blood. He was especially against Muggle-borns with special talents—you know, Parseltongue or being able to switch between two forms, like an Animagus. Thought they were weaker and unworthy.

"Slytherin and Gryffindor finally got into an all-out fight about it, and it ended with Slytherin leaving Hogwarts permanently. But before he left, he built a hidden chamber below the school, and was said to have left a monster in it that only his heir could control. On the heir's command, it could wipe all the Muggle-borns out of the school.

"Up until ten years ago, the Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, but it wasn't. Harry Potter—you know him, the legendary guy with the scar on his forehead—ended up going down into the chamber and killing the monster to save his best friend's sister. But no one could ever figure out what had gotten her there in the first place, since no one could ever find the entrance after it was sealed off permanently. Harry never told what the monster was, either."

Francis shivered at the thought of something creeping around the dark corridors of Hogwarts castle, waiting to strike at just the right moment and begin its purge of the school, one student at a time...

He blinked to snap himself out of it. The monster was dead and the Chamber sealed off. There was nothing to worry about. Was there?

Gil's voice interrupted his thoughts. "We should probably get back, Francis," he said, grabbing his books and shoving them into his bag. "It's almost curfew already."

Francis nodded and stifled a yawn as he grabbed his books also and packed them up. But he stopped upon reaching the big, thick book on the Chamber of Secrets. Could it contain any more information?

Just for good measure, he tucked it into his bag too.

Francis looked over at Arthur, sleeping so peacefully, and smiled as he gently ran a hand through that soft, messy blond hair, fondly working out a couple of knots with his fingers. Gil just watched, smirking knowingly as Francis picked up Arthur's books also, but the smirk faded when suddenly a small yellow paper slipped out of one of them, fluttering to the ground.

"...What's this?" Francis muttered with interest, bending down to grab it and flip it over. Written on the front was a poem, in Arthur's messy hand.

"Gil, come here," he muttered in shock.

Word of snakes

Hidden in the lines

Speak to tap

As one lives, the other dies

"Sounds like something that'd be written on the wall," Gil muttered under his breath.

"Oui, it does..." Francis murmured more to himself than anyone else, before shaking his head and shoving the paper into his pocket. Most of Arthur's books were secondhand, he told himself. It had probably just been left in there by accident.

Still, it unnerved him. But he skillfully shoved it to the back of his mind and picked up the rest of Arthur's books.

Gil watched as Francis leaned down to kiss Arthur's forehead with a gentleness that stole his breath away. And Gil wasn't the type to be sentimental, at all. But... these two were totally awesome together.

"When are you two idiots going to finally start going out already?" he demanded. Gilbird cheeped in agreement, sternly telling Francis he wanted to know as well.

"I really don't know, Gil," Francis murmured with a heavy shrug. "Maybe never."

Gilbert scoffed, crossing his arms defiantly. "C'mon, Francis! You can't be serious. Even The Awesome Me knows you like each other!"

"A wonderful observation," Francis smirked dryly. He pressed another soft kiss to Arthur's cheek, letting it linger as long as he dared and gently rubbing the Brit's shoulders to bring him back from dreamland as pleasantly as he could. "Wake up, mon amour," he breathed in his ear. Arthur's smile faded as the green eyes slipped open, before he seemed to realize he'd fallen asleep and shook his head, running a hand over his face.

"How long was I out?" he mumbled, voice low and rough from sleep. Gil had been watching with a knowing smirk, but now he finally spoke.

"About an hour," he lied with a shrug. "Not long."

Fritzdeugen had meowed quietly and risen with a big pink yawn, and now she lightly hopped to the floor to follow Arthur, Francis, and Gilbert as they made their way out of the library.

"'Night, Francis," Arthur murmured into the warmth of Francis's shoulder.

The two of them stood at the base of the spiral stairs, and the frog had pulled Arthur into a tight embrace. For once, he didn't want to resist. Francis was warm and comforting.

"Bonne nuit, mon amour," Francis whispered back. There was a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, a horrible sense of impending disaster. He wanted to keep Arthur as close as he could, for as long as he could. Something bad was going to happen—and soon, from the feel of it. With his odd talent for detecting things like this, that could not be a good sign.

"...Any headache?" he asked quietly, not sure of what to say as he cuddled Arthur close to his body. Was it just him, or was the Brit cold as ice? Francis could feel the chilly hands on his chest through his robes, and overall, Arthur just didn't seem to be giving off as much body heat as he should've. Francis hugged him tighter.

"Throbbing," Arthur replied quietly, relaxing a little as he let his chin rest on Francis's warm shoulder. "But at least I think I'll sleep well tonight."

Francis wasn't convinced.

"You sure you're alright?" he asked. Arthur just smiled and shook his head as though they'd been over this too many times before.

"Of course I am, you stupid frog!" he grinned, giving Francis's chest a little light smack but pointedly not pulling away. "Stop acting like I'm going to fall over dead at any moment!"

Francis sighed, giving his slim waist a gentle squeeze and forcing a smile. "I'm just worried for you," he whispered.

"And why would that be?" Arthur murmured back, letting his eyes slip closed and resting his head comfortably on the frog's shoulder once more.

Because I love you, Francis wanted to say. But instead, he contented himself with a soft kiss to Arthur's cool cheek. The Brit shivered at how goddamn sensual this fucking frog could be as another tender kiss was placed on his throbbing temple, seeming to ease a bit of the pain. It lingered, and Arthur could feel Francis's warm, fresh breath on the side of his face when he spoke.

"Arthur..." he murmured quietly. "There's something I've been wanting to do for a while now."

The Brit pulled away enough to look into the bright blue eyes that seemed to have become endlessly deep. He could catch glimpses of silvery gray and gold there that he'd never seen before, as Francis hovered unbearably close. But somehow Arthur couldn't force himself to pull away.

And could he just be imagining it, or was Francis leaning closer, tilting his head slightly, those beautiful blue eyes falling half-lidded and then closing? And then—

Holyshit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Francis had just kissed him.

Arthur stood frozen by the warm, soft lips now covering his own, gentle arms resting protectively around his waist, the heat of another body pressed so impossibly close coursing through his veins. And—oh God, he was kissing another boy. Oh God. But he was enjoying it. Immensely. The pleasure of hot lips moving against his, of Francis's possessive arms around him nearly overruled his common sense for a moment. Mine, Francis was saying. You're mine. I don't want anyone else to touch you.

But a second more and Arthur's brain kicked back in. It was embarrassed and scared. And with Arthur, embarrassment and fear combined tended to take the form of anger.

"What do you think you're playing at?" he suddenly demanded, shoving himself away and stumbling back. Francis looked at him for a second, sensing the fright in his tone and suddenly realizing that he had violated something unspeakably sacred. But as soon as he moved forward to apologize, Arthur had already turned and disappeared in a huff up the spiral staircase.

Francis turned away to look at his feet. A single, glistening tear slipped down his cheek.

"Je suis désole, mon petit lapin," he whispered. "Je t'aime."

Arthur didn't appear at breakfast the next morning. Francis kept looking around nervously for him, scanning the entire Great Hall from top to bottom and back again, but there was no sign to suggest even a trace of him. His stomach felt all nervous and squirmy, and despite Gil and Tonio's pushiness, he didn't eat anything. Instead, he spent the time wondering where Arthur could be—and if he had made a deadly mistake in ignoring his bad feeling the night before, and scaring Arthur even more by kissing him so recklessly. Dieu, why was he such an idiot about these things?

As soon as the bell's deep tone clanged out over the school grounds to signal the start of the first class, Patrick was hurrying toward Francis and stopped him from going anywhere with a hand on his shoulder.

"You seen Artie, mate?" he questioned, panting slightly. "I can't find him."

Francis shook his head. "Non; I haven't seen him since last night," he muttered.

Patrick looked a little worried, biting his lip. "Well, he probably just overslept. I know he's been tired over the past couple weeks..."

But he didn't even sound like he'd convinced himself. Guilt twisted Francis's stomach, and he remembered his promise to Patrick, from back in October after the first disappearance; he'd sworn to take good care of Arthur. He took a deep breath and made his choice.

"Patrick, I really need to talk to you," he muttered under his breath, so only the Ravenclaw could hear.

"Now?" Patrick demanded, brow furrowing. "Francis, I've got Transfiguration this hour, McGonagall'd kill me—"

"Never mind that." Francis cut him off. "Something happened last night."

"With... you and Arthur, I presume?" Patrick inquired skeptically. The rest of the Hall was gradually clearing around them as students waved goodbye to their friends and headed off to their first class; Patrick must really want to hear this, because there was no doubt he would be late now. Francis was just about to reply, but before he could so much as open his mouth, a certain silver-haired albino shoved his head into their conversation.

"What's this I hear? Has Francis got himself a boyfr—"

Patrick smacked him.

Gilbert glared back, looking offended. "Somebody's on his period," he muttered.

"Non, he's not," Francis shot back, slightly exasperated. "Haven't you heard any of what I've been saying all morning? I think Arthur disappeared again, and Dieu knows how long he's been gone during the night if I'm right and he's not just oversleeping by a massive three hours. Now, do you want to try and solve this with Patrick and moi, or not, because if you don't then I'd suggest you heading on to class!"

Gil stared for a moment. That was the one and only time for all of this year that Francis had actually told him off, and it was highly unsettling. He closed his mouth and looked between the two faces now glaring at him.

"You're having another one of your weird foresight thingies, aren't you?" he asked quietly.

Francis just nodded. "I've got a bad feeling about all this, if that's what you mean. And... last night, I think I might've made things even worse."

Patrick's face hardened into a mask of sheer determination, eyes flashing and dangerous; he was ready for war against whatever was taking Arthur away for hours at a time and leaving bloody messages on the walls in his place. "Tell us what happened."

Gil suddenly looked just as dead-set, and Francis finally nodded, throwing his bag onto the empty table as the last of their fellow students trickled out the doors. "We can get them later; now we won't be needing them," he said with certainty in his voice and watching as Patrick and Gil did the same. Together the three of them strode off for the deserted staircase.

"So, what happened to make you so sure Artie's gone?" Gil asked as they started up the steps at a jog.

Francis was a stair ahead of both of them. "Nothing," he said. "Which is why we're going to check his dormitory now. But if I can trust my instincts—and they've never failed me yet—he would have disappeared long before morning."

As they walked, hurried along by Francis's urgency, he explained everything. Arthur's tiredness, how cold he'd been, the nasty feeling sinking in his stomach and the odd poems he'd found nestled carefully in his book. He admitted about the kiss, and the fear and rage in the Brit's eyes as he'd run off to the dormitory. It would have made him even more vulnerable to whatever mysterious thing appeared to be kidnapping and disorienting him before tossing him right back down in some odd corridor and not leaving him with a single memory of what had happened. As he talked, Patrick and Gil seemed to grow even more tense.

Finally they reached the spiral stairs, just as Francis's explanation was winding down. But he didn't even get to the door to accept the eagle knocker's question—his words caught in his throat with an odd choking sound. He stopped dead in the middle of the landing, staring around at the horrible scene before him.

The ground was splattered in fresh, wet blood.

Below the poem across the landing was a mangled corpse, sprawled at an odd angle in a puddle of its own fluids—and not just blood, either. Its chest had been ripped clean open by massive, razor-sharp fangs, leaving the lungs partially exposed and blood dripping from where the heart lay gashed in half, connected only by a single thread of muscle. Its leg had been torn open from hip to ankle, straight down to the bone. The stomach was only half intact and dripping odd, slimy substance that made Francis feel sick just looking at it. He was suddenly only just able to control the need to retch.

Behind him, Gil and Patrick were paralyzed in horror. But Francis walked over to the dead boy's body, trying to make out the face through an oozing gash in his forehead. Red-brown hair was slicked to his scalp with blood, innocent brown eyes wide open in dead terror, a single curl springing from the gory, drenched mess. Suddenly Francis remembered him; it was the small fourth year he so often saw in the corridors, always so incredibly kind, if a bit stupid, to everyone else around him. At the beginning of the year, before he'd learned his way around, Francis had found himself almost constantly asking him for directions.

"Feliciano Vargas," he breathed. He carefully reached down and closed the boy's eyes with a shaking hand. The blood felt warm and sticky on his fingers.

His gaze shifted to the poem on the wall as he straightened up.

When the clock strikes thirteen...

Wait... no.

when the Clock strikes tHirteen

you will heAr the broken screaMs

it's rising from the Broken dark

killing tEeth are razor-shaRp

Francis's breath caught in his throat again, as he suddenly felt a realization come to life in the very back of his mind, fragile and precious as an eggshell.

No, the poems weren't just meant to scare. They were something more than that.

He thought back to the image of the second bloody wall, painted there like something from a Muggle horror movie, but all so real it had embedded itself in his mind for eternity.

frOm the depths, i will return

to take what's mine, From all you've earned

Two letters, two lines. No, the poems weren't just a simple prank; they were a warning.

The last one. He'd never be able to forget the look in Arthur's eyes that simply hadn't been his as he watched the irregular words form in sheer, raw blood behind him. The frigid realization sealed the deal.

riSing in forbidden hatE

by the time you Come, it'll be too late

stiRring deEp withing the nighT

you won't See his broken flight

Put all the odd capital letters together, like newspaper clippings to unlock a code, and Francis's blood ran cold.

C-H-A-M-B-E-R O-F S-E-C-R-E-T-S

Oh, no; these poems were no warning.

They were a death sentence.

And I may have just written my own death sentence in that cliffhanger. Please don't ooze through the internet and kill me! Then you'll never know the ending, non?