Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets any more than I owned Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. And the songs of my favourite bands still don't belong to me.

AN: 1. Ah...here we go...posting sooner than I thought I would, on pure impulse. Thanks everyone, for the reviews and ideas – believe me, many sparked a great deal of interest. My heart leapt for joy when I read RRW's nomination of Xenophilius Lovegood for history professor – damn, that would be great! Although, I'm still so torn on the matter... What's also difficult for me, right now, is trying to figure out exactly how cruel Harry can be to Lockhart without crossing the line…you know, without descending into tried and true psychopathy.
2. A few people have commented on my personification of Death – yes, it's Supernatural inspired. That's my favourite tv series, and I fell in love with their Death the first time I laid eyes on him. So I stole him. Kind of. That being said, you may find a few nods to the Supernatural series as this story progresses.

Chapter 16: Of Plots and Part-Time Employment

"Back in black
I hit the sack
I've been too long I'm glad to be back
Yes, I'm let loose
From the noose
That's kept me hanging about
I've been looking at the sky
'Cause it's gettin' me high
Forget the hearse 'cause I never die
I got nine lives
Cat's Eyes
Abusin' every one of them and running wild..."

Harry shifted from the place where he lay on the cool, dusty concrete floor of Jean's Hollow, glancing at the portrait that lay across from him, propped up against the record player.

"Voldemort should have just joined a rock band. AC/DC would be good for him - they just keep coming back, and back, and back, and back again. This could be like, his theme song."

Jean snorted. "Yeah, imagine an Aussie Dark Lord!"

Harry burst into a fit of giggles. "I can picture it perfectly – the accent, that'd be great!"

"Cockney would be funny too…."

"Imagine that…" Harry laughed, closing his eyes and sighing. "But I wonder, really, what's so funny about it…"

"Well, he always seemed sort of posh, didn't he? The aristocratic way of speaking just fit. Megalomaniacs are like that, you know."

"Yeah – delusions of grandeur, that's all it was. An orphan boy, just like me –"

Jean quirked an eyebrow.

"And then he went to Hogwarts, like me, and then he somehow became a dark lord, obsessed with power and immortality. I... I wonder how it happened."

"Fear, Harry."

"You think?"

Jean nodded sagely. "Yeah, of course – fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to the dark side, young padawan."

"Shut up, Jean."

"Oi! It's true!"

Harry frowned disconcertedly. "Is it? Cause, you know, the last few months – I've been absolutely terrified; of Death, of dying."

"Well, that –"

"And you know what the worst part was?" Harry ignored him, continuing to rant, "I don't know – I liked it, and I hated at the same time. I hate being terrified, but it makes me feel so alive...but it's still so wrong...and every time I think I'm past being afraid..."

"Hey," Jean said sharply, "Hey, don't sweat it, brat. No one wants to die. Everyone's a little scared of death."

"But why, Jean? I can't accept just being afraid of something, especially death! I hate it, fear...it's weak, and it's infuriating, and I just can't stand it because I can't understand it at all..."

Jean sighed exasperatedly. "If it bothers you so much, then get rid of it."

"But how?"

Jean shrugged. "Dunno."

"Fat lot of good you are," Harry groused, before frowning. "I wonder what time it is…"

"Hey, I'm the dead guy – time don't matter to me."

Harry glanced down at his watch. Eleven hundred and twelve hours, the scorching, dry morning of June twenty-third. Harry had arrived in Surrey about a week ago – he could not help but smirk when he recalled his relatives' horrified faces as he marched into Number 4 Privet Drive that afternoon. The first few days were uneasy; Petunia and Dudley were terrified of him, but Vernon put up a brave front, and seemed to have deceived himself into thinking that he could intimidate Harry with bellowed threats and growls. How wrong he was. Halfway through the week, Vernon had become furious with Harry's indifference to his threats, and had resorted to violence – it was a sharp slap across the cheek, but the force behind the purple-faced, beefy man's blow had knocked Harry into the wall, and then was followed by a sharp punch to Harry's abdomen, which easily knocked the wind out of the small boy and sent him to his knees. Vernon had smacked him before, caned and belted him some, but he had never resorted to raw, furious thuggery - and so Harry snapped. In the end, Vernon sported a broken nose and a bruise on his side, after Harry had tossed against the brick hearth in the den with an impressive manipulation of wandless magic. Petunia and Dudley had gone into hysterics, and suffice it to say, they now did everything possible to avoid the young wizard, and paid no mind when Harry left the house every morning and returned hours later, in the evening.

"My appointment at Gringotts is at twelve," Harry mused. "I suppose I should summon the Knight Bus soon…"

"And how long do you think you'll be gone?"

Harry smirked. "Aw…jealous that you can't have me all to yourself?"

Jean snorted. "You wish."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Anyway, it should only take about a half hour, but I'm heading over to the Daily Prophet office afterward…"

"Looking for the archives on Black's imprisonment?"

Harry nodded. "I need to go over them…and I might do a bit of shopping after, if I have time."

"And when are you meeting with the girl –"

"Hermione. Tomorrow – Professor Babbling sent a reply, and I think it gave me an idea for our project. Her mum's going to pick me up a little after noon."

"Right…I've never met this Hermione girl," Jean mused curiously, "She hot?"

Harry squinted, fighting back a blush. "I dunno, she's just Hermione." He sighed, stretching, proceeding to sit up and reach into his B3, pulling his wand out and placing it beside him, and then drawing out his crystal ball and placing it between his legs.

"Nice to see you finally practicing. You got really lazy about it the last few months."

"I was sort of preoccupied," Harry snapped back, "I just…scrying's supposed to be connected to oneiromancy, so…" He sighed and ran his hands over the ball, sucking in a deep breath when they came to rest in the correct position, causing a sharp zing of magic to crawl up his arms.

"Any new dreams?"

"No, just the same ones."

"Huh, that's gotta suck."

"Shut up Jean, I need to concentrate," Harry moaned as his eyelids began to droop and his breathing and heartbeat slowed, syncing together in a slow, lulling pulse. The light refracting through the ball began to swirl, pulsing slowly with the beat of his heart, gradually gathering and changing colours and forming vague images, pulsing even stronger in the shimmering light. Colours melded together, forming distinct impressions – and slowly, the impressions solidified and became shapes, moving and growing in vague, pulsing movements. Slowly, they came into focus – snippets of his dream, the green light, growing brighter, the rain, growing wetter, louder, a dark, meandering alleyway, growing closer; all of the images simultaneously trying to suck him in, as they slowly defined themselves….

"Harry!"

His emerald eyes snapped open, immediately turning to glare at Jean's portrait.

"Oi! Don't look at me like that, you were gone for fifteen minutes! Fifteen!"

Harry blinked. "I was?"

"Yeah, you were. What the hell were you looking for?"

Harry shook his head, trying to rid it of the leftover haze. "What makes you think I was looking for something?"

Jean snorted. "Nobody gets in that deep unless they're really forcing their consciousness inside, looking for something in particular. You can't fool me, brat. Now spit it out."

"Why? 'Snot any of your business."

"Like hell it isn't! I'm here to help you, ya little dingbat – you've got so much power laid at your feet, that without me, you'd never know what to do with it. You'll hurt no one but yourself keeping secrets – I'm just a dead guy, after all."

Harry sighed, biting his lip with a stubborn scowl, and then relenting. "The dreams – I must be getting them for a reason, Jean. They're clues, pointing me somewhere."

"You know, life isn't just big puzzle to be solved."

Harry scowled. "I know that!"

"Do you?"

"Yes! I just wanted a clearer picture…I've got to find out the truth."

"The truth of what?" Jean said skeptically.

"The truth of everything!" Harry exploded. "Do have any idea how weird...how awful it is, knowing that you should be dead – that your life is filled and defined with lies and tricks, and you don't even know what they are? I don't know what's going on – surviving the killing curse, Voldemort being after me, the Headmaster keeping secrets, Apollo gladly tormenting me with my mother's dead face every night, and knowing that Death could pop up any moment and screw around with me like I'm his personal assistant or something! It's like a bad joke! I'm not going to put up with this, Jean."

Jean pursed his lips. "Ya know, yer a real angry little guy."

"Oh stuff it. You would be too. I don't like not knowing things, and I don't like people messing with me. So sue me!"

"Don't like it, or fed up with it?"

Harry rose to his feet, picking up his wand and slinging his B3 over his shoulder. "Whatever. See you tonight."

It hadn't taken long for the Knight Bus to arrive, and then drop him near at the Leaky Cauldron. Between Harry's cap and his long hair – Petunia had pestered him about his long, wavy locks looking sloppy and brutish, and so he ditched all plans to cut it – he was easily disguised and made it to Gringotts without being recognized as the famous 'Boy-Who-Lived' – which he always thought was an odd title, because most boys do live, of course.

Harry quite liked goblins, he decided, as he stood idly by the teller, waiting for Griphook, watching the goblin bankers bustle about, absorbed in their work. The creatures' dark, tiny eyes were focused unrelentingly on their business – a noble sentiment, to carry on the work that defines the greatness of your race with dedication and diligence. In fact, he thought, he would have liked to be born a goblin – they seemed quite loyal to each other, and were straightforward, reasonable folk. Most witches and wizards could learn a thing or two from them, Harry idly mused, recalling the oddest of the students and teachers he had come across at Hogwarts.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long, Harry," came Griphook's voice from behind him.

Harry looked down at the dark haired, beady eyed goblin, dressed in a neat black suit, complete with a red bowtie. "Not at all, Griphook. It's nice to see you again. I dig the bowtie, by the way – very sharp."

The goblin nodded gratefully – almost bashfully, if Harry didn't know better. "I took your advice – several colleagues and clients complimented me on it," he said, politely ushering Harry into his office.

"And rightfully so," Harry returned, sitting down in front of the gold gilded desk on a comfy, velvet trimmed, high back chair. "You do look dashing, I must say."

Griphook sat down as well, clearing this throat. "Now, down to business." He pushed a small leather bracelet across the desk. "It is a good thing you wrote in your request in April, Harry, the paperwork to get the Ministry's approval was quite tedious, and took some time to go through."

"Oh?"

"Magical transportation for minors is a tricky subject, especially without the authorization of a guardian."

"I see." Harry picked up the bracelet and examined it. "How does it work?"

"The portkey is dual – the password for the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron is 'raido' and the password for the coordinates in Surrey you supplied us with is 'othila'. All you need to do is touch the pendant on the top and say the password."

Harry nodded. "And I have unrestricted use?"

"Yes, for the fee you paid, the Ministry was, by the time the preliminary papers were approved, easily swayed to give the permission."

Harry grinned amusedly. "Got to love bureaucrats, eh?"

"Indeed. Now, was there anything else you needed?"

Harry nodded, tying the bracelet onto his left wrist. "Yes…I wanted to withdraw one hundred galleons –"

Griphook scratched down a note.

"- and I was hoping to ask – could you do some research into the details for the Black vault for me?"

Griphook looked up at him, a curious eyebrow raised.

"I'm planning on doing some research on Sirius Black's sentence and status over the summer – I'd like to know exactly what the ruling on the accounts has been, prospective claims, contents, and court and appeal records. I'm willing to pay you whatever's necessary, but I'd like it done promptly. And discretely. Preferably without the Ministry of Magic's knowing."

Griphook leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and an bemused look on his face. "For the appropriate fee, I will gladly look into it. Do you want to try and claim the accounts?"

Harry was silent for a moment, mulling over his answer. "That's only a secondary concern, contingent on my first. Sirius Black was never given a trial – he's either innocent or guilty…it's anyone's guess, really. If he's innocent, I'll prove it, and have him acquitted. If he's guilty…I want him executed, gone – in the most painful way possible. Either way, I need all the information I can get my hands on. How does three hundred galleons sound for the initial summary?"

Griphook grinned nastily. "Very well, Harry. It'll be done. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

It did not take long for Harry to traverse Diagon Alley, finding himself standing below the sign that marked the entrance to The Daily Prophet main office soon after leaving Gringotts. The building was quite tidy, professional – it was obvious there was a muffling charm on it somewhere, perhaps in the wards; for though the outside seemed quiet and tranquil on the outside, through the windows, Harry could see obvious signs of vivacity. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and slipped in, entering the bustling newsroom – reporters were deep in discussions, or otherwise fixed on their papers and quills, and in the back, the editor's shouts could be heard. Harry felt quite out of place, just standing there amidst the buzz; it took him a good couple of minutes to pluck up the courage to march to one of the desks, clearing his throat.

The man, Andy Smudgley, if the nameplate was to be believed, didn't notice.

So Harry tried again, louder.

The man sighed explosively and glanced up. "Go away kid."

"Not going to happen," Harry deadpanned. "I need to see the archives."

"Look kid, don't make me call your parents –"

"That would be unwise, Mr. Smudgley, considering necromancy's currently illegal in Great Britain."

That shut the man up.

Harry sighed and placed three galleons on the desk. "Please, don't make a fuss. And don't tell anyone I was here."

The man, seemingly shaken out of his stupor, pawed the gold coins toward himself, and nodded to the right. "Through that door."

Harry nodded gratefully and slipped off into the archive room, unnoticed.

The room was dusty, though not unclean – it had a high ceiling, and the rows and rows of shelves nearly rose to its full height; Harry immediately concluded that it was magic, not sound construction that kept the shelves, nearly bursting with filed Daily Prophet issues, standing. They were sorted by year – going back to 1785 – and so it did not take much searching through the early November issues from 1981 to find several articles on Sirius Black's imprisonment.

"…Potters...Godric's Hollow…Fidelius Charm…secret keeper, Sirius Black…"

"Seen leaving the Godric's Hollow shortly after the murder of James and Lily Potter…"

"…accused in the presence of several witnesses of betraying the Potters by Peter Pettigrew…"

"…combat…resulting explosion…twelve muggles killed, along with Peter Pettigrew…so violent, that only Pettigrew's finger remained…"

"Sirius Black…apprehended, laughing maniacally…."

"Convicted of the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles, of giving information about the Potters' whereabouts which lead to their deaths, and for being in the service of He Who Must Not Be Named….sentenced to life in Azkaban without trial…"

Harry put the last article back on the shelf, leaning his head back against the wall, and closing his eyes…his brain hurt.

He barely registered himself leaving the Daily Prophet office, exiting onto the bustling afternoon crowd of Diagon Alley – he was too busy mulling over what he had read. It wasn't as absurd as he had originally thought that Sirius Black was never given a trial – it seemed quite obvious that he was guilty, and with the Ministry desperate to round up traitors and hostile elements at the time, those with obvious guilt would have been disposed of as quickly as possible. He was seen at the Potters', and then was witnessed duelling with Peter Pettigrew. An explosion resulted, which killed Pettigrew and the twelve muggles present – Harry snorted as he recalled that they weren't even named – and Black was found laughing at the scene of the crime. It all fit perfectly, implicating Sirius Black – the man had a personal connection to the Death Eaters through his family, motive, he was aware of Lily and James's whereabouts, opportunity, he had earned their trust and as an auror, had ready access to Death Eater contants, means, and a perfect exposition of the night's events was handed to the Ministry on a silver platter by Peter Pettigrew, who was murdered a moment later. Peter Pettigrew – he was the other Gryffindor that Professor McGonagall had told Harry about; according to the photo album Hagrid had given him, he was a short, stout, innocent, kind-looking blonde man, also close to the Potters. And the whole thing was contingent on him – his death was what was 'witnessed'; his testimony incriminated Sirius Black. No one questioned it – unlike Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew had no connections to the enemy, no one even suspected him of untruthfulness or unreliability. Even when all that was left was a finger, no other residue…even when all the muggles' bodies were found, intact and identifiable…

Harry's musings were suddenly cut short as a sharp pain stabbed through the back of his head, and a bright light flashed across his vision – like a sharp warning or reprimand. He stopped short, dazed for a moment – before his memory supplied an image; a dark, dingy alleyway, one that he had just walked past. He took a few steps back, and sure enough, he found himself standing in the entrance to a long, narrow, winding alleyway, marked by a sign hanging on the right, reading, "Knockturn Alley." Harry frowned curiously as he stepped in, taking in the dark, over-encroaching alley walls, musing that the alley reminded him of a more sinister, haunted version of Oliver Twist's London. The shops lining the alley's sides were gloomy, intimidating, and rather sketchy looking, all seeming to melt in the shadows, as though they had something to hide. Harry wandered blindly down the alley for a few minutes, before he, for reasons unknown even to him, stopped short. He glanced up curiously, finding himself in front of a fairly large shop, the windows dark and dusty, displaying a collection of dubious looking objects from within, the old, worn sign above spelling the words, "Borgin and Burke: Established 1863".

"Hello, Mr. Burke…"

Harry shook away the vivid memory of his vision. "No…it couldn't be…"

And yet, he could not help but push the door open, entering the dingy place with the slightest trepidation, anxiety, and anticipation thudding in his chest. It was a cluttered shop – filled with dusty old artifacts; Harry immediately picked out a prominent looking cabinet, several jars of bones and entrails that appeared to be human, a Hand of Glory, and a collection of eerie, grotesque masks lining the walls. But what caught his eye most starkly was a dagger, lying inconspicuously in the corner, on a shelf – it was silver and short, runes, both Elder Futhark and Greek, trailing down the blade. The grip was molded as a fanged serpent, two inset emeralds as eyes. Harry squinted, trying to translate the runes as he ran his fingers down the blade, relishing the thrill and the sensual purr of the ancient magic trickling from the blade and through his fingers, jolting up his arm.

He suddenly whipped around when he felt a bony hand with a wrenching grip on his shoulder, coming face to face with a scraggly, gaunt-faced old man with long brown hair peppered with grey, leering at him, a sneer on his face.

"You shouldn't be touching things in here, boy…it's been a long time since we had a death, but the last time, the cleanup took hours – blood spatter, left over entrails all over the merchandise…the stains just wouldn't come out. Bad for business, don't you know."

Harry blinked, and then grinned. "I can only imagine. I wonder what sort of curse would do that though…"

The man only barked out an amused laugh.

Harry peered at the man curiously. "Mr. Burke?" he tried.

The man's unfocused gaze snapped back to Harry. "Borgin, the name's Borgin. Now get out of here, boy, if you're not going to buy anything –"

"I'd like to purchase this blade," Harry interrupted, holding Borgin's gaze stiffly, trying to not show his distaste with the man's uncouth dismissal.

The man sneered in an ugly, irksome manner. "Do you even know what that –"

"A blessed dagger, at least from the Dark Ages," Harry interrupted again, voice even firmer, "It was probably blessed by an oracle cult that remained in northern Greece even after the fall of the Roman Empire, most likely during a pilgrimage to Delphi. That much is obvious from the inscription. It was most likely used for macharomancy and extispicy."

"Big words boy, you even know what they mean?"

"Do you, Mr. Borgin?"

The man suddenly let go of Harry's shoulder, grinning rather nastily. "I'll give it to you for three hundred galleons."

Harry scowled, biting back a scathing comment and shaking his head. "No, impossible. It may be old and powerful – but it's also an obscure item. It's not very useful at all, to most."

"And how's it useful to you, little boy?"

Harry resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at the man. "None of your business. I'll give you thirty galleons for it."

The man glowered viciously. "If you're going to be cheap, then get out. Two hundred, no less than that."

Harry bit his lip, eyes narrowed in thought. "Fifty galleons, and twenty hours of free labour."

Mr. Borgin's eyes widened, seeming quite taken aback by the proposition. Stepping back, he crossed his arms, a calculating look flashing over his features. "You want to work here, boy?"

Harry shrugged. "Why not – seems like an interesting place. Besides, I…like the feel of it."

Mr. Borgin fixed him with an appraising leer, eyes roaming up and down Harry's small frame. "Name?"

"…Harry."

The man cocked a scruffy, unkempt eyebrow.

"Just Harry," he clarified.

"Right then," the man sniffed suspiciously. "Two days, show up at ten o'clock sharp, don't be late or I'll skin ya alive."

"Yes sir."

"Now, the down payment for the dagger."

Harry reached into his pocket, following Mr. Borgin to the shop counter and counting out fifty coins aloud as the man quickly wrapped the dagger in brown packaging with practiced nimbleness, careful to touch the item as little as possible.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, taking the dagger and placing it carefully in his B3. But Borgin didn't respond, seeming quite engaged with Harry's face, his pale blue eyes sweeping over every detail of Harry's profile, distant and dazed with reminiscence. "Are you alright, Mr. Borgin?"

The man twitched, startled out of his reverie. "Course," he replied gruffly, "You…you just remind me of another boy – one Burke hired a while back."

Harry's eyes flashed eagerly. "Oh?" he asked slowly, casually. "What was his name?"

Mr. Borgin instantly paled, hands gripping the counter to steady their sudden jittering. "I…I can't quite recall."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, good day, Mr. Borgin."

He smiled as he turned away from the nervously preoccupied man, heading back to the rickety, yet heavy shop door, slipping past a grey, tidily dressed old man as he stepped over the threshold. Harry could feel the man pausing in the doorway, glancing at him curiously with unabashed fascination; and looking over his shoulder and meeting the old man's expressionless, dull black eyes, Harry said quietly before he disappeared into the dark alleyway,

"Hello, Mr. Burke…"

Note: Macharomancy is a form of divination that uses weapons like daggers or swords – usually they're spun or dropped in a circle with runic or astrological symbols at the edges. Extipicy is divination using animal entrails, often of those used for sacrifices.

Anyway, the start of part two – what do you think?