Disclaimer: I own my brain...I think. But that's about it.

AN: Ok, so I am so, so sorry this has taken so long - exams were positively dreadful this year. But now they're all over, and I've got three weeks of peace...almost. Unfortunately, because exams were so dreadful, I fell way behind in work - soooo...updates will actually be happening now, but I can't see them happening at any incredible rate. Twice a week, I'll try for :)

Chapter 28: Of Culmination and Clarity

"The construction of a symmetric input-output matrix depends on a rational constant (irrationality or complexity warrants a redesigning of the experiment parameters) predetermined by the Gregor-Schiver Scale (see Appendix C on Gradable Matrix-Constant Scales, pg. 793) – implemented at the initial casting of a passive charm and adjusted in the process of casting additional wards and/or passive or active charms – which, along with a Botticelli multiplier (see pg. 233 for the derivation), are the key terms in the determinant …"

"Harry?"

"From which is subtracted a factorial of the sum of the sets of variables in the matrix. The resulting term (which is taken as the nth root, where n is the number of sets present), if real (rational or irrational) and non-complex (note that an imaginary component warrants immediate termination of the procedure), will be the magnitude of the constant filter (less than one, and greater that zero), by which the inputted energy is fractioned by…"

"Harry!"

Blinking, Harry snapped the book shut, eyes remaining fixed on the cover. "What?"

"Come on, mate," Terry's voice groaned, "It's almost dinner time. We get steak tonight, steak!"

"Go away, I'm trying to concentrate."

Harry didn't need to look up to know that Terry was rolling his eyes. "Arithmantic Matrices for Spell Translation? Do you even understand that?"

Harry opened his mouth, but hesitated just as his voice was about to leave his throat. "…not really."

Terry sighed quite audibly. "Then why are you reading it?"

"We…we need it for our project - me and...Hermione…"

Harry resisted grinding his teeth, easily able to sense the pitying expression form on Terry's face.

"She'll be fine, Harry – they say that it won't be long before the mandrakes for the potion are ready; and then all the petrified students will be back, alive and well. You've got nothing to be worried about."

"I'm not worried. I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Listen, I'm going down to the Great Hall – if you're not there fifteen minutes after, I'm going to look for you...again."

"Fine, fine."

Harry sighed as he heard Terry's footsteps recede, soon disappearing behind the portrait hole. At first, he was sorely tempted to open the highly technical book in his hands; however, his lazy side won over, and he began to wonder why he had tried reading it in the first place. Perhaps he needed a challenge to take things off his mind? To distract from the headaches? To make sure Hermione had some exciting new discovery waiting for her upon her awakening? Perhaps that would make up for her being petrified for assisting him in the research of his most recent obsession.

"Pipes."

Harry had started checking the various ventilation and sewage pipes in the school - but to no avail; it would seem that he would have to actually go exploring inside the filthy crevices in order to verify that what was attacking the students was, indeed, a basilisk, which he was not all that keen to do alone. He considered asking Terry and Michael for help, but every time he considered the idea, it was rejected - it would be such a bother to explain everything to them.

He shook his head, wincing as he felt the onset of steady pain swirl about from his scar, and rising shakily to his feet, his gaze, through hooded eyes, swept about the dimly lit common room. It was not until they came to rest on a familiar form that they opened completely.

"L-Luna?"

The small girl was huddled in a dark corner near the hearth, on the floor, rocking slightly as she scribbled away rapidly on something that was hidden behind her thin, curled up legs and scraggly, unkempt blonde hair.

"...Luna?"

Slowly, the rate of the scribbling decelerated, finally stopping, and dull, reddened blue-grey eyes rose to meet his. "Hello Harry Potter," she whispered.

Harry took a tentative step toward her. "Are you…are you alright Luna? You're looking a little ill…"

"As are you," she said, her voice soft, and yet distant and so high it was almost shrill.

"Yes, well, that's what people have been saying," he admitted with a shrug. "As if I'm sick or something…"

"Well are you?" she asked expressionlessly.

He shrugged again. "Dunno. But I was asking if you're alright."

She tilted her head to the side, causing her stringy locks to fall over her face, obstructing her eyes. "What business have you asking about others' affairs when yours aren't even on order?"

Harry choked out an incredulous laugh. "None, I suppose – just curious, is all."

She said nothing.

"Are you...are you coming down to dinner?"

"No," she bit out shortly.

"Right." He turned around to leave for the Great Hall, before he hesitated. "Say, what you've been writing in – it's not that 'secret diary' you were looking for back in February, is it?"

She scowled darkly. "None of your business," her high voice sang.

Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. "Of course it isn't." He shook his head, wincing as a particularly sharp jolt of pain cut through it. "Well, I'll be seeing you…"

But for some reason, he could not bring himself to finish the sentence with her name.

"…are you sure you don't want to go to the infirmary?" Draco was asking.

Harry and Draco were walking back from the library, having studied for an upcoming potions test together. They figured that, since they were the two best second year potions students in the school, if they studied together, they might just be able to achieve a perfect score on the test. Harry liked studying with Draco - he didn't talk all that much, and that made it easy to concentrate; he also thought that Harry's jokes about poisoning people were funny, unlike a certain prissy muggle-born girl. Nevertheless, once again, Harry's headaches had cut the session short.

"I told you, Draco, the potion Madame Pomfrey gave me stopped working weeks ago," Harry replied, rubbing at his scar.

"Well, you were getting two potions from her, weren't you?"

"Yeah, one for the pain, and one for sleeping at night; it's not strictly for pain like the other one, but it's still an analgesic."

"And they've both stopped working?" Draco pressed incredulously.

"No..." Harry groaned, "The one for pain doesn't work, and she stopped giving me the sleeping draft."

Draco nodded slowly. "But you look like you've been sleeping at least a bit..."

"I figured out how to brew the sleeping potion on my own."

Draco frowned at him. "You do know sleeping potions are addictive, don't you?"

Harry scowled at him. "Of course I do. I'm diluting it," he bit out.

Draco bit his lip, hesitating before he said, "Well, then we should go to my mother. We've got fifteen minutes before history class with her."

"Your mother?" Harry queried, sounding more befuddled than he would have liked.

"Yeah, my mother. When I was little, she used to make potions remedies for everything...literally, everything. I'm sure she'll have something that could cure a headache, or at least help you sleep better than whatever diluted sleeping draft you're brewing for yourself – because you really do need to sleep more; you're looking positively dreadful."

"Why don't you just let me borrow some of the make-up you steal from her?" Harry snapped.

"Shut up, Potter – or I'll brew you some poison and put you out of your misery instead."

"Nice to know you've got my back," Harry bit out sardonically, as Draco led him up a different flight of stairs, heading toward Professor Malfoy's classroom.

It did not take long for them to traverse the empty corridors, approaching the classroom from the north side – however, they halted as they heard solemn voices which certainly didn't belong to Mrs. Malfoy emanating from within:

"…I'm afraid it's already done, Albus," a slightly quivering unfamiliar voice was saying, "Hagrid has been taken away to Azkaban – it will most likely be only temporary, but the Ministry must act –"

"Hagrid has my full confidence, Cornelius," Dumbledore's voice said in a warning tone.

"Yes, but Hagrid's got his record against him as well –"

Frowning, Harry backed away from the door. "What on earth?" he whispered.

"So it's already happened," Draco mused quietly.

"What's happened?" Harry snapped.

Draco glanced over at him. "Hagrid's being arrested for the attacks – apparently, he was behind the Chamber of Secrets attacks during the '40s as well…I heard my mother talking with Professor Snape the other day. I didn't think they were serious…but apparently they were…"

Harry let out a quiet scoff. "That's ridiculous, Hagrid's obviously not the Heir of Slytherin – the very idea's preposterous."

"Well of course he isn't the real Heir of Slytherin. Apparently, back during the original attacks, he had let some sort of monster into the castle."

"What sort of monster?"

"Umm…an acromantula, I think."

Harry nodded slowly. "But that just proves his innocence."

Draco frowned. "How so?"

"Acromantulas don't petrify – sure, bringing one into the castle would be a pretty dimwitted thing to do, but the only way it could hurt someone is by poisoning or eating them. I don't know what happened in the 1940s, but no one's been poisoned."

"So…" Draco said, "Someone else is behind the attacks?"

"Obviously," Harry ground out, leaning back to listen through the slightly opened door.

"I'm afraid that is not all, though," it was Lucius Malfoy's voice that was speaking now, "Dreadful thing, Dumbledore, but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension – you'll find all twelve signatures on it. I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? At this rate, there'll be no muggleborns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school…"

Draco's eyebrows rose. "My father's here too?"

Harry looked equally surprised. "I guess that's why they're in your mum's classroom - that had to be a pleasant visit, 'why hello honey, sorry I couldn't visit at Christmas, but I thought I'd just drop by on my way to fire your boss'."

Draco ignored him. "He's…Dumbledore's being suspended?"

"Sorry to say, Draco, but that can't be a very smart move on your father's part, even considering…"

"Considering what?"

Harry shook his head, turning back to the door. "Nothing."

It was the other man, Cornelius's voice that was speaking in an alarmed tone now. "We simply can't – Dumbledore suspended…that's the last thing we need!"

"The appointment – or suspension – of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge," Lucius Malfoy said softly, "And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks _"

"See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can't stop them," the man, now revealed as Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, said, seeming very upset, "I mean to say, who can?"

"That remains to be seen," Mr. Malfoy said smugly, "But as twelve of us have voted –"

"But Malfoy –" it was Fudge again, sounding quite nervous.

"Now, now," Dumbledore interrupted, "If the governors want my removal, I shall of course step aside –"

"But –" Cornelius Fudge's frantic voice was now.

"However," Dumbledore interjected with pointedly pronounced clarity, "Hogwarts will always be a part of me, and I of it – and should the time come when I am needed here once again, I shall be ready." He clapped his hand. "Now! I believe our lovely Professor Malfoy has a class due in only a few moments – the students should be arriving any moment now."

"Indeed," Mrs. Malfoy's tranquil, melodious voice sounded for the first time in the conversation, "A few are already here."

Harry and Draco jumped when the classroom door swung open, revealing their presence to all the others within.

Silence permeated through the room, before it was interrupted by Albus Dumbledore's soft chuckles. "Well, we must be going, a good day to you all."

And with that, he strolled out of the classroom merrily, an anxious Cornelius Fudge and a carefully expressionless Lucius Malfoy following, after nodding toward his wife and son. Once they had left, Professor Malfoy turned to the Ravenclaw and Slytherin standing in the doorway, staring at them piercingly.

"Well," she said, finally, her voice soft yet curt, "Take a seat."

They obeyed immediately, both absorbed in their thoughts, the potion forgotten.

Two of swords.

Nine of swords.

The Tower.

Five of Cups.

The Devil.

Five of pentacles.

Four of swords.

Three of wands, crooked.

The Magician...

The hope was that drawing as many cards as he could would eventually sap away his energy, and he would pass out into a peaceful, magical-exhaustion-induced sleep. No such luck.

It had been two weeks since Hermione had been petrified – and the headaches only seemed to get worse; at this point, even his homemade sleeping draft (which he had stopped diluting) was little help.

"I told you that wouldn't work," Jean's voice drawled from under the pillow, where Harry had stuffed his portrait.

The general consensus, after Hermione's petrification, was that Harry was not the Heir of Slytherin – no, he had been framed. When that rumour spread, most of the student body acted as though he should be grateful, relieved, or pleased, sending him congratulatory-like smiles in the hallways. Harry had just rolled his eyes.

"Come on, brat, I didn't mean what I said before!"

Harry scowled, leaning back against the headboard of his bead, gathering Laini in his arms.

"I was just kidding, I was! You're not showing early signs of schizophrenia, I promise!"

Sighing explosively, Harry pulled out the portrait from under the pillow.

"Thank heavens! I thought I was going to suffocate!"

Harry sneered. "That'd be a little difficult, considering you're dead."

Jean's portrait frowned. "What's up with you? Did something happen?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "It's nothing, just…another petrification yesterday."

Jean grimaced. "That's what, the third in three weeks?"

Harry nodded. "It all started when…when…Hermione…"

"Oh, come off it," Jean groused, "It's not like you to be so upset about something, brat! She's only been gone for two weeks, and will only be gone for a few more – she'll be fine. I don't know what you're so upset about!"

Harry glared at him. "You mean besides the vicious headache that just won't go away? It's pretty obvious that whatever's attacking the students is a basilisk, Jean, a basilisk! That means the fact that Hermione – that anyone – survived is not more than a statistical anomaly. Statistically, she's dead! And it's my fault! She told me, over, and over, and over again that it was too dangerous – and when she finally gave in and helped me out, this happened! And do you know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"She's managed to prove me wrong! Me! And she's doing it while petrified! I've been proved wrong by my petrified best friend – and I'm never wrong!"

Jean barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Remember that talk we had about priorities?"

Harry's scowl deepened, before his face was taken over by a pained grimace. "Shut up Jean."

"Not going to happen."

He glanced over at the portrait. "You sure you have no idea what's happening to me?"

The man in the portrait only shook his head.

"Because it could be plenty of things – a genetic condition, a Seer thing…"

"I don't know, brat – I'm not a doctor, and you're a little young for headaches…sorry I can't be of more help," he finished quietly.

Groaning, Harry rolled over, burying his head in his pillow. Eventually, he managed to relax his breathing, measuring it carefully in an attempt to control and distance the pain – however, suddenly, the slamming of the dorm room door sharply reawakened his agony.

"Harry!"

Of course, it was Terry.

"Harry!"

"He's so annoying," Jean whispered hoarsely.

Harry didn't even have the energy to smirk.

"Harry, come on, I know you're awake!"

"Go away, Terry," he croaked out.

"Sorry mate, no can do – there's been another attack. Thought you'd want to know."

Harry darted up, ignoring the worsening pain in his head. "Who – what happened?"

"We don't know yet – this attack was different from all the others."

Harry frowned, squinting as the pulsing in his head grew heavier. "How so?" he barely managed to form the words.

"Well," Terry began uneasily, "There was no body, just more words written on the wall; it said – 'Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever...'"

Harry shivered involuntarily at the words, wincing again. "Is…is someone missing...?"

"That's what they're trying to find out," Terry said worriedly, chewing on the corner of his lip between sentences, "The prefects are supposed to account for all of us, in the common room."

Harry cringed as another wave of agony billowed through his skull. "J-just...just tell them I'm up here...I...I need...quiet..." he gasped out.

"You alright?" Terry inquired cautiously.

"N-not really..."

Harry barely made out the motion of Terry nodding slowly. "Yeah, you don't look it either – you should lie down; I'll tell everyone to stay away for a while."

"Thanks Terry," Harry muttered, collapsing onto his bed and curling into a tense foetal position. He didn't even notice Terry leaving the dorm room quietly, as forceful sleep overtook him the moment he closed his eyes.

Harry woke.

Now, there was nothing extraordinary in the event of waking in itself; it was rather Harry's manner of waking that left him dumbstruck. For one thing, his headache had disappeared; all that was left was faint, pulsing echoes of dizziness, only reminiscing on the splitting agony he had hitherto endured. In fact, the most prominent discomfort he was suffering was from the small shape he pulled out from under him, his Brilliant Boundless Bag, which was sopping wet...just like him. Which led him to the other novel aspect of his waking was what had awakened him – water. The wetness of his waking state was baffling to say the least; for indeed, he found himself lying face down on a hard, marble tiled floor, coated in a shimmering layer of cold water.

He grimaced as he willed his sore limbs to move, to support him as he shakily rose to his feet and cast his eyes about his surroundings, acknowledging with great disconcertment that he was, in fact, in a very familiar bathroom.

"Well, you're finally awake," a crooning voice mused.

Spinning around, Harry took in the shape of none other than Moaning Myrtle's translucent form. "M-Myrtle?"

"Hello Harry," she said in a very inappropriately flirty manner.

He frowned, leaning over slightly onto one of the bathroom sinks for support. "How – how did I get here?"

"Well, it was the strangest thing. Here I was, sitting in the window, contemplating death, when you stumble in, unannounced, and collapse right onto the floor!"

"I…I walked in?"

She giggled. "I think," she whispered conspiratorially, "That you might have been sleep-walking! Sleep-walking into the girls' bathroom, you naughty, naughty boy!"

Harry fought down a blush.

Myrtle smirked. "And you just wouldn't wake up – even when I poured some of my toilet water on you."

Harry now had to try very hard to keep from hyperventilating in horror – Myrtle's toilet water? That was just so, so wrong.

"You're looking a little peaky, Harry – though not half as bad as the other one…"

Snapping to attention, Harry met her eyes urgently. "The other one?"

"Yes," Myrtle said, pouting slightly, "You, haven't been visiting me much, but there's a girl who's been coming – she just ignores me, of course."

His weary, strained mind couldn't quite register the implications of those words, and yet panic was welling up in his chest, and he could not keep the dread out of his voice as he asked, "What does she do in here?"

"Well, I told you, she ignores me," Myrtle sniffed, "So I ignore her too – she's just here one second, and gone the next."

Harry nodded slowly. "And what does she look like?"

"Well," Myrtle replied thoughtfully, "Long, stringy blonde hair, short – a Ravenclaw, like you and I. And her eyes..."

"Blue-grey?"

"No," Myrtle snapped, "Red, the most terrible red I have ever seen."

Vague recollections of a terrible face and cold, murderous crimson eyes flashed about in Harry's mind. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the faucet of the sink he was leaning on tightly as the confusion swept through his already sluggish mind. However, he suddenly froze when he felt something – his thumb brushing against an uneven patch on the copper faucet. He lifted his hand, and out of the corner of his eye, he observed the strangest thing; a scratching on the faucet that looked eerily like a serpent –

"Pipes."

Pipes, sinks, water, faucets - all the pieces started to fall together.

"H-how…how did you die, Myrtle?"

Myrtle gasped, a flattered, thrilled look washing over her face. "Ooh, it was positively dreadful," she crooned with relish, "It happened right in here. I died in that very stall-" she pointed to the stall nearest to the sinks "-I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been."

Harry's blood ran cold as his breath caught in his throat.

"Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then – I died."

Harry let out his breath, eyebrows twitching slightly. "You…died."

"That's right."

"…how?"

"No idea," she said nonchalantly, "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…"

Harry nodded slowly – it all made sense. "The girl who keeps coming in – she disappears by this sink, doesn't she?"

"Why yes, yes she does."

"And you hear the same funny language?"

"Why, now that you mention it, I suppose I do…"

Harry took a deep breath, turning toward the sink. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. :Open up?:

At once, the tap began to glow an eerie white, before it started to spin – and then, the sink moved, slowly inching toward the ground, disappearing into a great, dark pipe.

Harry peered down into the darkness, an oddly anxious and yet anticipatory tempest welling up in his chest, melding with the cloudy dizziness in his head to produce a strangely wistful feeling. "I'll be seeing you, I suppose, Myrtle," he whispered to the dumbstruck ghost.

"Y-you're g-going down there, Harry?"

"Yeah."

"Why!"

"There…there's something down there…" A wave of dizziness, a thrilling sensation, swept down his spine, and he shivered, feeling the strangest, swirling pull permeate from his mind, willing him into the darkness. "I think it's waiting for me…"

And with that, he plunged into the darkness. The pipe was cold, grimy, and wet – and it just went, on, and on, sloping steeply into the unmeasured darkness. It twisted and turned only slightly – falling and falling into the aimless stretches below for lengthy, drawling minutes – meandering just a bit as it levelled out ever so slowly, but not slow enough to bring him to a complete halt, as the pipe suddenly spat him out, and he landed on a slimy, wet stone floor with a disgusting splat.

"Ugh." His groan echoed down the tunnel, and he didn't bother to hide his disgust has he rose to his feet cautiously, desperately trying to ignore his six-year-old memories of cleaning out the Dursley's gutter and taking out their compost rising to the surface. Pointedly keeping himself from breathing through his nose, he reached into his Brilliant Boundless Bag and pulled out his wand, whispering a quiet, "Lumos."

The light did little to reveal the path through the darkness which seemed to loom up from everywhere, but Harry steeled himself, and plunged into it nonetheless. His meager spell, however, did manage to highlight the plethora of rodent skeletons on the floor - along with an enormous snake skin that nearly caused him to jump out of his own. The dry, dead, scaled tissue was at least twelve metres long, curling about the edge of the tunnel; Harry forced himself to ignore the implications that the imposing object brought forth. Even so, it only served to intensify the anxiety that was building inside of him – anxiety that peaked when he rounded the next corner.

For before him, stark and sudden, stood a solid wall upon which two entwined serpents were carved in great detail, down to every scale, their eyes set with great, luscious, glimmering emeralds. As he traced the shapes with a frail finger, he could not help but notice – despite the murky air – how parched his mouth, lips and throat were, contrasting with the glassy, life-like emerald eyes the stone serpents stared at him with. It was intimidating, the piercing stare – and staring back into it, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He took a deep breath, hesitating. What was on the other side of the wall? Did he even want to know?

Apparently, he didn't really care.

:Open.:

The hiss was faint, barely audible, but the serpents curling about the wall parted nonetheless, as the wall cracked open, the halves sliding smoothly out of sight. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes as he stepped through, opening them again once he had crossed over the threshold.

He found himself standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber – the oh-so-creatively-named 'Chamber of Secrets,' he suspected. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, sickeningly greenish gloom that filled the place. Barely daring to breathe in the murky, damp air, he gripped his wand even tighter, though dimming the spell, and moved forward between the serpentine columns with slow caution. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls, pulsing loudly like his pounding heart. Questions were swirling about in his muddled mind – what was he doing? Why was he even there? Hadn't he learnt his lesson last year? But even that uneasy level of confusion couldn't stop him.

The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him as he crept down the wet pathway, and every so often he would twitch violently; for he thought, perhaps, they stirred of their own accord. Finally, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. It depicted a man, standing great, tall, and majestic, his face stern, pointed, and grim, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth, wet Chamber floor. And between those two feet were two figures that nearly made his blood freeze in his veins.

The first figure he recognized immediately – Luna Lovegood's limp form, draped over the cold, wet stone steps leading up to the statue. The figure leaning over her, a ghostly shape threading it's fingers through her hair, took longer to register; at first, he fancied it an older version of himself, but when he looked closer, he saw it – a familiar frame, bone structure, and eyes.

"Tom…" he whispered slowly, recalling the face of a pale, dark haired boy that had infiltrated his mind a year ago.

The figure, seeming to flicker faintly in the dim light, turned his eyes toward him. "Harry Potter. I've been expecting you."

Harry's face morphed into a frown. "How?"

The figure cast his eyes down to Luna. "She kept calling your name – Seers are amazing creatures, don't you think? Astral projection, though, is a funny thing; very hard to control, very tricky, especially with someone running interference. She kept trying to talk to you, but I'd be willing to bet that it didn't do much more than very nearly turn your brain to jelly."

Harry tried his very best not to gape. Astral projection? A very obscure way of magically contacting someone – a form of offensive scrying that required a lot of meditation. Yet another puzzle piece – it explained the headaches…sort of. Who was Tom, really, and how could him 'running interference' nearly split Harry's head open? And how would you even go about interfering with scrying? Unless… "Are you…?"

"A seer? Heavens, no. The abilities are fascinating, but in my humble opinion, not worth the amount of mental control you have to relinquish to get them." The boy chuckled amusedly, shaking his head. "Take her, for instance – her mind's an atrocious mess; it was very hard to control her, to keep her quiet, this one, but it was oh so worth it. Even though there was a lot of rubbish to sort through, I learnt...so many things."

"I-is she dead?" Harry whispered.

"No, not yet, anyway." His lips twitched. "But I'm feeling positively wonderful, so it can't be long now."

"You possessed her," Harry said flatly, the final pieces of the puzzle clicking into place as his eyes flickered down to the small black book clutched in Luna's white hands. "You possessed her, and you're taking her life for your own. That's how you interfered with her scrying - you were inside her the whole time. It's that diary, isn't it?"

A small smile flitted across the older boy's face as he glanced down at the book in Luna's hand. "Now why would you think something like that?"

"It's cursed, isn't it?" Harry said with narrowed eyes. "Luna started acting strange…stranger after she began talking about a diary. Moaning Myrtle, the ghost in the bathroom, said she kept coming down here. She's been opening the chamber, but not on her own. "

The other boy's dark eyebrows rode. "What an interesting deduction…"

Harry tore his eyes, which had drifted over, magnetized, to Luna's frail, unconscious figure, snapped upwards. "You're…you are the diary."

The boy smiled amiably, patronizingly. "Mmm...not quite. You see, Harry Potter, what I am is a memory, stowed away in that diary; and I've been waiting many, many years to finish what I started."

Harry's eyes widened. "You! You're the one that opened the Chamber fifty years ago! You're the one that framed Hagrid…"

The boy, Tom, chuckled. "Yes, even I was surprised that stuck – as if that bumbling oaf had the intelligence to uncover the chamber – as if a filthy halfbreed like that could be the Heir of Slytherin!"

Harry wanted to argue – he really did like Hagrid – but truth be told, those were the same objections that had popped into his mind when he heard about Hagrid being carted off to Azkaban...they just formed in a slightly less derisive way. "So instead of risking discovery, and starting the attacks again, you somehow stored your memory in the diary...to finish the job later." He gritted his teeth. "And you possessed Luna to do it."

"Well, not at first – Ginny Weasley, I believe her name was, she was the first to open the diary."

Harry's eyes widened in recognition.

"But then the strangest thing happened – she," he gestured down to Luna, "Stole it from her. At first, I admit, I was rather surprised, and frustrated – I was making such headway on Ginny Weasley. But as it turns out, it was all for the best. Little Luna Lovegood – what a mind…at first I was furious, but then, I finally figured it out. The poor girl…as I said, she isn't exactly sane, but when you unravel it – oh, the things she knew…"

"What did you do to her?" Harry said furiously, "If you hurt her -"

The other boy looked at him condescendingly. "Don't look at me like that – as if you actually care."

Harry sputtered furiously, the short comment stabbing at him with disconcerting forcefulness. "I do! Luna's my friend, and if you hurt her -"

"Well, you see," Tom said softly, "There's a bit of a problem with that. I know the truth, Harry - she's not your friend..."

"Of course she is," Harry ground out.

"You forget, Harry, I've been watching your every move, studying everything you do, for nearly a year now – and I must say, we're very much alike, you and I. Both halfbloods raised by atrocious, disgusting muggles, both powerful, miles ahead of our classmates, and we both have a penchant for dark magic..."

"Just like hundreds of other students over the years, no doubt," Harry hissed impatiently.

But Tom ignored him. "...You curse people you don't like, collect people that fascinate you. You see, just like me, you don't have friends, because you don't need them."

"I have plenty of friends," Harry retorted, "Hermione, Luna, Terry, Michael, Neville, Anthony –"

Tom scoffed at him. "Those aren't friends, and you know it – practically all you ever do is lie to them, and they know next to nothing about you. Little Luna here, for example, she knows very little about you besides the muffled whispers the gods send her in her sleep. You've manipulated them into liking you with a bit of charm and the sort of insanity and chaos that draws people in – they don't know you, and so they can't truly care about you. And you don't even know how to care about people."

Harry winced, feeling the headache begin to return as he gritted his teeth throughout Tom's speech. "Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but if you're thinking that all this pointless drivel is somehow going to make me have a breakdown or something, and that I'll somehow just let you get away with hurting Luna like this, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Not at all, Harry," Tom said emphatically, "I'm simply making a point."

"Which is…?"

"That we're very much alike – and that an amiable relationship between us would be mutually beneficial."

Harry almost choked. "You're trying to convince me that I don't have any friends so that I'll be friends with you?"

Tom sneered at him. "Don't be ridiculous - we don't need friends; just like we don't need rules, and we certainly don't need their morality telling us what's right and wrong. I'm simply trying to help you: you're tired, anyone can see it – and not just because of the headaches – it's wearing you down, trying to be like them. Thinking that you can change because for once, you've found yourself in a world that doesn't seem quite as drear as the one you came from." Tom's eyes glistened with empathy that Harry knew was completely fake. "They're starting to make you feel guilty, responsible, as if what happens to them is any of your concern – as if you should restrain how you act to spare them. When, in fact, one day they'll be just as good to you dead."

Harry made a show of rolling his eyes, resisting the twitch the that threatened as more pain ensued. "It's sad that you have to project your obvious psychopathy onto me – I know you need help, but wait a few years, and I'm sure any decent psychiatrist will make a diagnosis and write you a prescription for anti-psychotics. In the meantime, I'll ask again: is there really a point to this? Because I'm bored, and I'm tired, and I've got a headache, and I don't even know why the bloody hell I'm down here at all!"

Tom sneered at him. "The point, is that it's time to let go, Harry – I've had a great deal to catch up on (50 years is a long time, after all), and it turns out there are many things I have to fix. Wizards like you and I – powerful, charismatic, intelligent, and not held back by tradition or the silly impulses implanted in our heads from birth that human beings have the audacity to call good and evil – we're far and few in between. Together," Tom shivered in ecstasy, "The things we could do. There's so much I can show you, so much I can teach you. You'll be the first mistake I'll fix, and then together, we could do anything."

Harry felt a sudden sinking sensation, and unbidden, his face slackened. Harry was Tom's mistake? But that would mean...No, no, it couldn't be – his luck just wasn't that bad. "Wh-who are you?"

Tom blinked. "Oh, you haven't guessed?"

Any hope that was left in Harry drained out of him like the colour in his face.

A gleeful grin on his face, Tom picked up Luna's willow and thestral-hair wand and began to trace the letters 'TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE' in the air. And with a flick of his wand, they danced about, tumbling into a new phrase:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"Of course," Harry whispered despairingly. "You're him."

Tom smirked.

"Lord Voldemort - without decades' of disguises plastered on." He took a deep breath. "I've been looking for you."

"As I have been for you," Tom said with a look of pacific smugness on his face.

"Lord Voldemort's true identity," Harry repeated softly, still in shock. "A Slytherin," he glanced down at Tom's Hogwarts uniform, "And a prefect; an ambitious, intelligent, cunning Hogwarts student - I suppose you fit the profile."

"Why, I'm flattered that you thought so well of me," Tom purred.

Harry stirred, awakened from his daze. "Your future self, he's a monster, you know - barely human anymore."

Tom sighed sadly. "Yes, unfortunately, my future self seems to have gotten sidetracked along the way. I told you, Harry, I have a lot of things to fix - that's why I need your help."

"My help with what?" Harry suddenly snapped, "If the Voldemort that killed my parents wasn't the Voldemort you wanted to become, then what did you want? What is your endgame, and why are you so sure I'll help you with it!"

"I already told you, to fix things. Muggles, muggleborns, the ministry of magic - it's time those disgusting parasites were purged from this world."

"Everything, everyone's a parasite," Harry whispered, "But they also give birth, and create new things - why would you want to destroy so much?"

"For the same reason you cursed Zacharias Smith - because they repulse me; because they represent pain, weakness, and the ugliness of this world." He narrowed his eyes at Harry. "You feel it too - those relatives of yours, the muggles - you feel the same for them."

"I despise them, but I'd never kill them."

"See, that's the difference between you and I - I'm just more honest than you. Someday, you'll understand why I've done what I've done."

Harry sneered furiously. "Yeah? Think I'll understand why you killed my parents then, as well?"

Tom was silent for a moment, before he smiled pleasantly. "Of course."

Harry took a deep breath, shakily releasing it after a long hesitation. "I wanted to know your name, your real name. But after last year, I stopped myself from looking – I told myself I didn't care anymore, that Lord Voldemort's all there is, that he's just like every other more-depraved-than-usual human being on the face of the planet – a greedy, selfish bully with a god complex, whose mum dropped on his head one too many times. Another Uncle Vernon, minus the nose and plus a wand." Harry lifted his expressionless green eyes to meet smouldering red ones, alight with both fury and amusement. "But it's never that simple, is it? It couldn't be just that easy, for once. I thought I could just not care – that I could find a way to kill you, end it all, and I'd feel that much better. But it's not just that, is it? I didn't think you'd be a halfblood..." Shakily, he coughed out a laugh as he feebly brought his wand up to eye-level, pointing it square between the other boy's eyes. And as he did, the faintest tremor of vulnerability shook his emerald stare. "I've never felt like this before," he whispered, astonished, "But I think – I think I might really, actually, hate you."

Tom's face was completely expressionless; he didn't even blink when he inched to the side, only just missing Harry's wordless cutting hex.

It was only when Harry darted forward that Tom moved, stepping gingerly away from Luna Lovegood's body as Harry flew towards it, several instinctual spells bursting out of his wand as he did.

Tom reciprocated with a blasting curse which Harry dodged nimbly, and then a cutting curse that nicked Harry's hand, nearly causing him to drop his wand.

He only managed to fire off a stinging hex before Tom responded with another curse; Harry was forced to use protego – it still wasn't his best spell, as he noticeably favoured dodging over blocking – to shield both him and Luna.

Tom smirked at him. "Come now, this isn't helping either of us, you know."

"That's not the point –"

"You obviously don't understand," Tom said sternly, "What's at stake – what you're giving up – how great you could be!"

"It doesn't matter!" Harry cried, throwing an over-charged burning hex Tom's way, which was carelessly flicked away.

"It's all that matters!" Tom hissed, "And I'll make you understand, one way or another – crucio!"

Harry was about to put up another protego, but then it struck him that it would be futile – every instinct in him screamed at him to move, but for some reason, he couldn't; he glimpsed a glimmer of Luna's lifeless blue eyes reflecting off the wet floor, and he froze. But only for a split second; for a moment passed and then suddenly, a jolt sparked at what felt like every nerve ending in his skin, before racing over and into every inch of his body, searing through his nerves and up his spine. The fiery agony came to rest in the back of his head – in the cerebellum, he could not help but muse as intense, panicky fear seized him – before it burst into his head; and suddenly, it felt like everything was being burnt and frozen at once, millions of needles ripping through his skin and retracting before he could even perceive them. He felt his body begin to seize, and he vaguely registered Tom talking about something – but he just couldn't get his brain to function; he was sure the cerebral cortex was slowly being burnt away.

Before it all stopped – Tom's hand fell to his side, and the pain simply stopped, leaving Harry with mere tingling and twitching.

"See, Harry?" Tom said. "This is power – this is what you could have at your finger tips. And let me tell you, Harry, it feels amazing..."

But Harry wasn't listening. Phantom pain still shot through his limbs, and on top of that, his headache was returning – a building pressure in his forehead. He just wanted it all to stop – the pain, the twitching, the wetness, the fatigue – and most of all, he wanted Tom to just shut up and die. Unfortunately, as per his bad luck, the chances of any of those things happening was ever so slowly inching toward infinitesimal; unless...

Mustering all his strength, he bit his lip, ignoring the coppery taste filling his mouth as he inched his nearly paralyzed arm toward Luna's limp form, stopping and retracting it when he found what he was looking for – the diary. An exhilarating tingle swept over his body as he drew the book close to him along with his wand, and he used the energy to sweep away his drowsiness as he attempted to prop himself up.

And suddenly – thank whatever deity present – Tom stopped, eyes darting to the little black book Harry was gripping tight.

"This," Harry croaked out in response to the silence, "This is you – th-the medium. If I destroy this, you die, right?"

Tom smirked. "Assuming you could destroy it. There's not a spell in this world that could destroy it – except perhaps fiendfyre. But that's beyond even me at the moment. No, I'm afraid sweet little loony Luna Lovegood is doomed to die – and you're doomed to watch her. There's nothing you can do about it. You lose, Harry Potter."

Harry glared at the book at his hand, willing himself to stop panicking, to think of something – anything. Before he knew what was happening, his heart began to pound in his chest and his breathing was becoming shallow; he could feel tears pricking at his eyes – a panic attack, really?

"Confingo! Incendio! Reducto!" he coughed out, but the weak spells barely connected with the book, and frantically, he dropped his wand and the book, reaching for his B3 and dumping the contents onto the wet floor, sifting through them with shaking hands.

Meanwhile, Tom chuckled bemusedly, shaking his head. "I told you, it's futile – you've lost. You can't defeat me; you can't destroy the diary - it's imp-"

"Impossible, I know," Harry bit out angrily, glaring, "But impossibility and I don't really get along that well."

Before Tom could summon the diary or cast another curse, with swiftness that Harry could only thank the gods for, his hand darted into the dishevelled pile of trinkets and withdrew a knife – the sacrificial knife he had found at Borgin and Burke's ten months ago – and plunged it into the diary.

Nothing happened. And Harry was hard pressed to restrain a disappointed sob. He knew, he should have known, it wouldn't have worked; sacrificial knives were no good for breaking curses or shattering wards – they didn't destroy, they transferred life. Tom had said that nothing of this world could destroy his diary – the knife wasn't of this world; it fit perfectly. But this wasn't a puzzle, Harry reminded himself, this was crummy, bad-luck ridden life.

He started when he registered the sound of footsteps, light footfalls manifesting in pronounced splashes, echoing down the chamber. Lifting his weary eyes, he blearily glared at Tom, who stood before him with a smug but curious look on his face. The older boy, not relinquishing eye contact, reached down an picked up the book, still skewered with Harry's knife – only then did the ravenously glowing red orbs flicker away.

"Well," he said softly, "You somehow managed to damage it. Impressive, curious, clever, perhaps – but it won't save you. You failed –"

Suddenly, though, Tom's grating voice stopped short. Frowning, Harry barely managed to gather the strength to look up, squinting, but then gasping. He registered a new sound, as his eyes attempted to make sense of the sight before him; the sound of gagging, choking. Tom was bleeding; from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, everywhere – and so was the diary. The diary was bleeding, and the blood was black. Harry would have thought himself to be hallucinating, were it not for the sensation of genuine glee that swept through his shuddering form when Tom collapsed to his knees, quickly paling and starting to shake. But Harry's glee quickly faded into horror as he noticed the strangest thing.

The black, oozing bloody pouring out of Tom in his diary had dripped onto the wet floor – but not into a puddle, but rather a swirling stream, creeping toward Harry; already, it was crawling onto the hand that he was using to support his weight, mingling with his own blood and infiltrating his own wound. Suddenly, the pain in his head erupted full-force, and he cried out in terror as the black blood began to inch up his arms at a quickening rate, a cold yet searing sensation ripping into him as his flesh absorbed the viscous liquid. Harry's eyes met Tom's, which were no less panicked, and for a moment he froze, as the strangest sensation of feeling connected, of feeling empathy for Tom came over him – they were both going to die. And that was when the fear set in.

The black blood had crawled up his neck and onto his face; but now, now he could feel it burning his eyes and nostrils and filling his mouth, forcing its way down his throat. The panic was quickly overwhelming him.

"No!" he choked out, sputtering as his throat began to burn. "Get it out of me! Get out of me!"

He was on the floor – he didn't know how he got there. He felt his whole body convulsing, he felt every electrical jolt as his synapses registered the pain – the pain, it wasn't pain; it was pure agony. Five minutes ago, he wouldn't have thought it remotely possible, but the cruciatus curse paled in comparison – this new sensation was ripping not only his body, but every fibre of his being apart; and all he wanted to do was die. It just had to end – he didn't care anymore; he could look nothingness in the face without flinching if only the pain would stop.

And as everything went black, he thought maybe, just maybe, his wish had been granted.

Alright - so, what do you think? I know, no basilisk - here's the thing, though: I never understood why Tom Riddle would use the basilisk to kill Harry. It struck me as odd that someone so narcissistic wouldn't want to finish Harry off himself, feel the blood dripping down his own hands….avada kedavra didn't make much sense either…

Anyway, hope it was worth the wait.