A/N: Here it is. Finally. I really should've written this sooner, but I've been so busy with work and stress and shit that it's been pretty much impossible not only to find time to write, but also to find the inspiration to get myself writing. Don't worry, though - I WILL finish this. I WILL finish this. I WILL. I MUST.

Anyway, on a happier note, know that you're not going to be waiting much longer for the ending - there should be only three chappies left, and one of them is probably going to be the smutty interlude if I decide to post it separately, for those of you who don't want to read it. Ahem. Anyway, have a chapter! You guys deserve it for sticking with me and reviewing for this long, bros!

Also: My most sincere apologies for the shitty, absolutely-no-sense-making chapter title. I'm sick right now and my brain is utterly fried.

Chapter Eighteen: Arthur's Secret

"Gil, he's in the Chamber of Secrets."

Francis's voice seemed to echo in the deafening silence of the landing. The only sound to be heard was the irregular drip, drip, drip of blood as Feliciano's mutilated heart lay oozing in the mess of his corpse. A metallic tang filled the air. Francis straightened up and turned quickly to see Patrick looking dumbfounded and terrified and Gil's jaw hanging open.

"What?" Gilbert squawked. "But—but that's impossible! It was sealed off ages ago—"

Francis was already heading for the stairs. "Is there or is there not a room in this school that will transform into whatever you need at the time?" he demanded.

Suddenly realization seemed to dawn on Gilbert's pale face. His scarlet eyes widened and then narrowed menacingly as he cracked his knuckles, ready to do absolutely anything if it meant saving Arthur's life.

He turned to stride after Francis back toward the steps, but the Frenchman hesitated and stopped for a moment, looking over his shoulder at Patrick, who was now shivering a little, purposefully looking anywhere but Feliciano's mangled corpse.

"Patrick, get Professor McGonagall," Francis told him, uncharacteristic urgency in his soft voice. "Show her this, and tell her what we're doing and where we've gone. You'll do that for us, oui?"

Patrick just nodded quickly, looking very pale and a little sick. He hurried after them down the spiral stairs, and suddenly seemed surprised when Francis grabbed his wrist just as they were about to part ways in the corridor.

"We'll be back," he murmured. "With Arthur. I promise."

Again, Patrick just nodded, and then hurried away.

"Do you even know where the the room is?" Francis asked, running to keep pace with Gil. Earlier it hadn't occurred to either of them what would happen if Patrick found McGonagall before the two of them had gotten into the Chamber, but now it was clear as day—there was no doubt they would be stopped, and Arthur killed while they were trying to reason with the hysterical teachers.

"Well of course The Awesome Me knows where it is!" Gil snapped indignantly, jogging ahead. "I go to parties there all the time."

Francis sped up to keep pace with him; they were almost running now.

"And do you know how to get in? I remember Arthur saying something about a special—"

Gil cut him off. "We'll figure that out when we get to it," he said dismissively. "Let's just find the room first."

They rounded a corner, breaking into a full-out sprint, and dashed up one last staircase to the seventh floor corridor. Gilbert skidded to a halt halfway down it, and Francis bit his lip anxiously. At best, they had five minutes before the teachers would be tracking them down. He knew this was the right place because of the bloody poem scrawled on the wall at the end of the corridor, but where was the room?

"Gotta be around here somewhere," Gil muttered under his breath, scanning the walls for any chipped stones, an oddly colored patch, or an out-of-place shadow; anything that could be some kind of a hint as to where the illusive vanishing room might be.

Francis looked around edgily, desperate for some kind of clue as he began to feel the cold hands of panic creeping into his mind. Surely, surely Patrick had found the teachers by now. The minutes were water, slipping between their fingers even as they tried desperately to hold it captive.

So dammit, where was the room?

"Merde! We're running out of time!" Francis finally hissed, punching the wall angrily. "There's got to be some way to get inside!"

Gil was clearly thinking hard, arms crossed tensely across his chest and silvery hair falling into half-lidded ruby eyes. He strode recklessly back and forth, up and down the corridor, teeth clenched as his mind ran in circles. Spring sunshine was pouring in through the high, arcing windows, but it seemed to stop at the glass rather than flood in to warm the smooth stone floor.

If they didn't get Artie out of there soon, there was every chance he would never come out alive anyway. With every second they were stuck out here thinking, it was another second away from Arthur's life—the clock was ticking.

It may have ticked to a shuddering halt already.

Gilbert growled under his breath, whirling around to stalk the other way. They had to get into this room; they had to find Arthur. And the teachers would be here any minute. God fucking damn, God fucking damn—

A gentle hand on his shoulder.

"G-Gilbert, what's wrong, eh?" a soft voice asked.

Gil quickly turned, startled, only to find himself staring into the cautious violet eyes of Matthew Williams. Suddenly a bit of his anger vanished, a spark of an idea flashing in his mind.

He shrugged off the hand because it made him uncomfortable, but wasted no time in presenting the issue at hand.

"We need to get into the Room of Requirement," he said bluntly, meeting Mattie's gaze with a sheer intensity that made the younger boy want to shiver. "Arthur's life in in danger."

Matthew looked taken aback, withdrawing a bit and looking at Gil with renewed caution, but the albino didn't care—he plowed recklessly on.

"He's going to die if we can't get to him soon, but we can't get into the room. Do you know how...?"

Matthew stared at him carefully for a second more, a light blush dusting his cheeks for some reason unknown to Gilbert, and then nodded slowly. He turned away and walked over to the wall Francis was currently leaning defeatedly against, then walked past it again.

"What the...?" Gil hissed, ready to tell him this was definitely no time for games, when suddenly a door began to fade through the pale, smooth gray stone. Gil felt his jaw hanging open in amazement by the third time Matthew had walked past that patch of wall—but rather than the wall being there, it was a heavy metal door with rust crawling up from the bottom and scuffs all around the serpent curled to form a depiction of a skull in the middle of the door. But there was no handle; just the snake and rust creeping up delicately from the bottom.

"Was that what you needed?" Mattie asked, now sounding a little fazed as he eyed the door apprehensively. "It looks... dangerous."

But Francis had already leapt up and was glaring at the snake with cold calculation. Its emerald eyes seemed almost... alive, the way they glimmered in the cool sunlight. Gil forced himself to move from where he'd seemingly become rooted to the spot by the horribly real shimmer of those eyes that reminded him uncannily of Arthur's, to sidle up behind Francis and see them closer. He shivered and looked away.

"I've heard of Slytherin being a Parselmouth," Francis murmured, meeting the snake's gaze with a challenge set in the glint of his own. "I am correct, oui?"

Both Gilbert and Matthew found themselves nodding slowly, not sure of what they were getting themselves into. But a slight smirk quirked Francis's lips as he reached forward to touch the snake's head and then opened his mouth to finally use the talent he had always revolted by until this day.

"Open up, you snake bastard. You don't have him yet." He allowed a low hiss to begin and bubble out of his throat, resonating on the back of his tongue and opening his mouth to let it continue. The rasp of sound escaped his lips like the words of an old and terrible curse, hanging in the air around.

In a way, Parseltongue was a curse all its own.

Gilbert and Matthew watched, dumbfounded, as the serpent seemed to glare its challenge in return to Francis's cruel proposal, and the door grudgingly forced itself to open a crack with grating grind of metal on stone.

Francis was just about to tell Gil and Mattie to help him get this door to open, but suddenly he froze as the sound of distant, hurried footsteps reached his ears. McGonagall's lilt floated above the pattering, clearly barking out orders.

Oh, merde.

Their time was up.

"Help me get this door open!" Francis yelped, throwing his weight against it. With a screeching metallic complaint that rang through the air and made him wince, its stubborn hinges ground open a bit farther.

"Move."

Francis looked over his shoulder just in time for Gilbert to push him away with a determined glare in his scarlet eyes, and quickly stood back to watch.

Bracing one shoulder against the cold metal of the door, he shoved his foot firmly into the crack that had been opened between the rusty metal door and its frame. The teachers' footsteps sounded to be only a staircase away now. Gil set his face determinedly and all at once gave the door a mighty shove, unaware of Matthew and Francis wincing and covering their ears at the shriek not unlike nails on a chalkboard; he gave another heave until the gap was just barely big enough to slip through sideways.

Francis dashed over, heart battering against his ribs; the footsteps were just down the hall around the corner now, and rapidly growing nearer. He wriggled through the gap, motioning frantically for Gil and Mattie to follow. Almost to the corner. Matthew hesitated, looking back at the corridor uncertainly. They were mere feet away from being caught now. Five. Francis's breath caught in his throat, heart racing. Four. Time stood still. Three. Matthew wavered. Two. Finally, after a single wild second of indecision, Gil grabbed his arm and yanked him through the crack. The door wrenched itself shut behind them, slamming back into place of its own accord with a hollow, heavy bang.

The dead silence was deafening.

Matthew was the first to speak as his two companions stood, slightly stunned, eyes dancing with spots in the pitch-blackness.

"W-well, I guess I'm stuck with you guys, eh?" he laughed nervously. One hand tugged skittishly at the seam of a pocket in his robes, though he knew no one could see him, and he finally heard Francis finally let out a shaky breath from next to him.

"Oui, I guess you are," the older boy murmured, shaking his head to clear it.

"Lumos."

A light sparked across the room, soon pulsing into a brilliant blue glow that bathed the room around them in cool, clear light. Gil held his wand up to see around, the cyan glow reflecting off his silvery hair and glazing his red eyes, though they remained determinedly alert, like a hunted animal determined to fight back at its killers.

The room was small and dank, the walls a bit damp and slimy to touch. The floor was wet with a shallow puddle of water that shimmered and rippled around their feet, but wasn't deep enough to seep into their shoes.

"That was a close one," Gil breathed. He turned to Matthew, who winced, thinking he was about to get a verbal beating, but instead a little smirk quirked Gilbert's lips. "Never scare me like that again, Birdie," he said quietly, leaning down to Matthew's eye level and poking his nose gently. His violet eyes sparkled in the wandlight as he blushed and looked away.

"Sorry," he mumbled, cheeks slightly pink.

Suddenly both Gil and Mattie jumped at the sound of Francis's revolted yelp, hearts skipping and scaring them half-senseless as they whirled around to see the Frenchman skidding backwards away from the wall.

"Eurgh! Dieu, why did no one tell meit was covered in slime?" he cried, attempting in vain to brush off his robes. Gil was just about to laugh before he suddenly caught sight of something that made his stomach turn; not because of what it was.

But because Francis was headed straight for it.

"Look out!" he yelped, dashing forward to grab his friend just before he stumbled into the gaping hole in the floor. He managed to catch hold of Francis's arm and yank him away a split second before he otherwise tumbled into the darkness below. Francis stumbled behind him.

Gilbert sighed angrily, biffing the Frenchman none too gently over the head and not feeling the slightest hint of remorse when Francis winced at the blow.

"A little slime is nothing to get yourself killed over," he hissed with a roll of his eyes, and Francis shivered.

"But it's so gross," he mumbled under his breath, still trying a little to brush off his robes as he backed up, though he knew better to complain aloud. Instead he carefully sidled up behind Gil again and peered cautiously over the edge of the void.

Only to see that at second glance in the dim blue glow, it wasn't a void.

It was a staircase.

He felt Matthew cautiously approach it from behind, carefully leaning over both of their shoulders to inspect the wet stone steps that seemed to spiral on forever into darkness. Cool, dank air wafted from the stairs and into their faces, smelling of mildew and age. Gil lowered his wand to try and see farther, but all that met him was yawning, velvety blackness.

"Where do you think it leads?" Matthew whispered, cautiously trying to see further without leaning out too far over the edge.

"Down," Gil said wisely.

Francis rolled his eyes, lighting his wand and lowering himself a few stairs down. There was no railing to protect the climber from tripping and stumbling into the center of the dark, narrow spiral, leaving them to fall to their death at the bottom. The musty updraft was even worse now. And even when Francis lowered his wand to rest by his feet, he could see no deeper into the unending maze of steps.

Finally he turned back to his friends, letting out a shaky breath. "Only one way to find out," he muttered, before steeling his nerves and, not waiting to see if Gil and Matthew followed, starting down the staircase and descending into blackness.

Darkness pressed in from all sides, making it nearly impossible to see anything beyond their little shield of light as they carefully picked their way down stair after slippery stair; some were crumbling away, and there had been multiple times when Francis had only just avoided falling into a gap where two or three steps had cracked and tumbled completely away from the wall, and come within a heartbeat of plummeting to his death.

Mattie knew he was clumsy at the best of times, but now he felt as though he was the biggest oaf on the planet. He kept slipping in the puddles and stumbling, while Gilbert and Francis seemed perfectly steady, cautious though they were. A blush tinted his face as he found himself nervously holding onto Gil's arm in order to keep his precarious footing and praying that no one would notice how his cheeks were burning profusely in the bluish wandlight.

But suddenly he yelped, feeling his feet slip out from under him and loose gravel from one of the gaps in stairs falling over the edge of the step he was on. He clung onto Gil for balance as he skidded, and just when he thought he was going to fall over the edge of the step a pair of strong arms caught around his waist from behind to pull him back to his feet and hold him there for a moment. He and his savior caught their breath, and then Gilbert spun him around so their eyes were locked. Their faces were uncomfortably close.

"What did I tell you about scaring The Awesome Me?" he asked, shaking his head and carefully burying his face in Matthew's neck before he could convince himself to do otherwise. He felt Mattie let out a shaky breath and surprisingly warm arms tentatively slip around him to cradle him in a hug.

"Sorry," Matthew muttered sheepishly, too embarrassed to reply any further.

"Both of you alright?"

Francis had run back up to them, his face etched with worry. Gilbert took a deep breath and pulled away to give his friend a nod.

"No harm done," he murmured. Matthew blushed and looked away.

Francis looked at them for a second more, before finally sighing in relief and turning away. "Ouais. I think I found the bottom," he said, carefully moving ahead. Gil and Mattie could hear his wet footsteps cautiously picking their way down, echoing on the soaking walls close around them with ghostly clarity. Matthew shivered, carefully jumped the gap he had almost fallen into earlier, and followed after Francis with Gilbert close behind.

A few more turns and the narrow staircase did indeed widen out, the claustrophobic confines of slimy stone that had kept them prisoner finally sweeping open and into a musty chamber that was dimly lit by a single torch in a bracket on the far wall. It sputtered and flickered, casting shadows to dance over the walls as though there was almost too much moisture here to burn, and it was hanging onto life by a single thread. Next to it was what looked to be a long, dark sewer pipe that connected to the chamber and seemed to branch endlessly upward—like a nightmarish funhouse slide.

Looking his friends over as they carefully climbed out of the stairwell, Francis saw that both of them were already messy with slime and dirt, Gil's silvery hair sweaty and scuffed with brown and green and Matthew cleaning his glasses to clear them of water. Francis probably didn't look much better—but he was going to ignore it as best he could. After all, there was Arthur to worry about.

Speaking of Arthur: How long had they been in the stairwell? One hour? Two? Francis's watch wasn't waterproof, and it had stopped working at 11:34 AM. He had no way to judge whether that was minutes or hours ago, and no way to even guess whether it was possible for Arthur to still be alive after all this time.

He could only pray he was.

Small animal bones littered the wet floor and crunched underfoot as Francis started off down the chamber and motioned for Gil and Mattie to follow.

"Come on, mon amis!" he called, before disappearing around a corner into shadows.

The chamber was long and dim, seeming to twist and wind on itself at every bend, like a snake. Every second dragged on for hours. Francis's own heartbeat rang in his ears. He was trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid the wet, swampy smell and pretended he didn't catch the smallest metallic hint of blood in this unnaturally thick scent of underground. Normally it should've smelled fresh and earthy, but now it was stifling. Francis shivered and walked faster.

Gil and Matthew managed to catch up with him, their footsteps slapping on the wet stone floor. They had arrived just in time to hear Francis's Parseltongue challenge echoing ominously off the walls, and held their breath as suddenly a metal snake, engraved on the vaultlike door before them, began to move.

Gil felt Matthew grab his hand.

The snake slithered with an odd hissing of aged metal on metal around the rim of the door, its other seven companions jerkily moving aside to let it pass, each with a loud steel lurch. Matthew jumped with every noise, and with an odd flip of his stomach he felt Gil give his hand a little reassuring squeeze. I'm here, it said. The Awesome Me wouldn't ever let anything hurt you.

Mattie believed him, but that didn't stop his heart from racing, fast and furious, like a rabbit desperate to bolt away from a fox, as the thick door to the Chamber of Secrets finally swung open with a low, metallic creak.

Gilbert was squeezing his hand tighter now. Matthew squeezed back. Both of them watched as Francis took a deep, quivering breath and stepped through the door into the murky green gloom of the Chamber.

A stone walkway, shining with water and partially hazed in shadows stretched before him, surrounded by water on either side. Thick, looming pillars branched up and into darkness, built of solid masses of writhing stone snakes that seemed to follow Francis with their gleaming emerald eyes, glistening so much like Arthur's green eyes that he felt shivers running down his spine. The air was thick and heavy. Footsteps echoed in the cold, unwelcoming silence; it felt almost as though the Chamber itself was alive, trying to force them back again, away from its precious captive. Francis gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and pushed forward. Every nerve in his body tingled unpleasantly, adrenaline rushing so furiously in his veins that he was nearly jumping at the sounds of his own footsteps. He was ready to spring at any moment. Anything that moved would be instantly pulverized before he could even stop to think about it. His knuckles turned white as his fist clenched around his the handle of his wand. He could hear Gil and Matthew cautiously moving along a few feet behind him. Francis kept walking.

At the far end of the Chamber was an enormous stone statue, its long hair flowing back against the wall behind it and marble eyes wide open, but horribly dead and unseeing. Like Feliciano's had been. A deep pool separated Francis from its face, but suddenly his stomach lurched as he saw the small figure fallen with his back to Francis at the edge of the water.

He froze.

...Could it be?

Yes, it was.

It had to be Arthur, and somehow Francis knew it was, but... not.

Instead of the plain black school robes, Arthur wore a thin tunic of pure white, his long, slim legs bare and messy blond hair half-soaked with water. He almost seemed to glow softly, radiating dim golden light in the dark gloom of the Chamber, and flowing from his shoulders, soft and supple, were a pair of thick, white wings.

Francis ran to him, shoving his wand back into his pocket and falling to his knees beside the angel. All thoughts of monsters and danger had suddenly slipped away. Arthur's wings were gorgeous, his smooth, pale skin seeming to fade into their thick white feathers with effortless beauty, although now Francis was left to wonder how much more delicately strong and beautiful Arthur would look, had he not been ravaged in the way he was now. Up close, it was clear he had tried to put up a fight, even though he seemed to glow with perfection from afar. It didn't make him any less perfect—it only made Francis's heart twist at the tattered beauty. How could someone harm such a creature?

Arthur's feathers were wet and some had been torn in places, and parts of the softly glowing white of his tunic were scuffed and a little dirty. His hair was disheveled. Francis took him by the shoulders and turned him over onto his back, careful not to trap his wing beneath him and spreading it carefully. It fell limply to the floor. He felt Arthur's neck for a pulse. It was faint and irregular.

But suddenly the long, silvery eyelashes flickered. Slowly they opened to reveal the bleary, unfocused green eyes beneath. Francis felt numb. He was petrified.

Arthur shifted weakly, reaching up to touch Francis's face. His beautiful emerald eyes were half-lidded and hazy, his hand chilled and shaking against Francis's cheek. He was still wearing the ring, and it was nearly warm enough to burn as Arthur tried to look at something over Francis's shoulder but was too weak to turn his head.

He forced his eyes to stay open just long enough to meet Francis's frightened blue ones, swimming in his vision as he let his head fall back against the cold, wet stone floor again. His voice was no more than a weak rasp.

"Dammit, frog... run."

Again, please don't kill me. And do you kind of get the drift of the chapter name now? Arthur was hiding this from them? Kinda-sorta? Oh, never mind. Don't worry, it'll be explained.

Thanks for reading! Any reviews would be great right now, as they help me to write and inspire me and such. And thanks again for sticking with me this long - the end be in sight, mateys!

Love from Maple