Twist of Fate

by FirePhoenix8

Harry is taken the night Dumbledore is about to leave him with the Dursleys. With forces meddling in the timeline, Harry and Tom become the Riddle brothers. Follow the boys from the 1930s, WWII & Grindelwald, to canon years and a much changed future. Slash.

60. Part I: Chapter 59

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any original plots, ideas, and characters are mine.

AN:

Thanks for your reviews!

Here's a very long chapter, with loads of things happening, to make it up to you for the long wait ^.^

Regarding the previous chapter, I would like to clarify some points:

1. I see there are some readers who aren't pleased with the way Tom still treats Harry. The point is that Tom will never be 'nice' to Harry, don't expect this to happen one day because it won't.

We all know Tom's personality and limited ability to feel any sort of affection for anyone. By his standards, he treats Harry marvelously well: he takes care of him in his own way, after all, and wants to keep him safe and tied to him. He's trying to teach him and mold him into what he considers to be a 'better person', or I should rather say, a more formidable wizard. That, for someone like Tom, is a lot. So he will still insult Harry, and treat him condescendingly and harshly, and rarely acknowledge all of Harry's accomplishments.

Whether, in the infrequent moments in which Tom does openly display some sort of positive and caring feeling for Harry, he's being genuine or just putting on an act, that's for you to decide.

But bear this in mind, when they were 7 years old, Tom made a choice: to keep Harry as his 'brother'. And he's still perpetuating this lie. Do you think someone like Tom would do this, and even put up with someone like Harry who drives him mad most of times, just because Harry is 'useful'? Now that Tom has the Slytherins eating out of the palm of his hand, he has a lot of 'useful' and willing people he can employ for his own aims, and yet, still, he isn't ditching Harry.

Of course, I hardly think Tom is aware of the true reason why he's still keeping Harry by his side. I doubt he will ever be able to even admit it to himself or recognize it for what it is.

2. What Tom was doing during the Slub Club party –besides entertaining his Slytherins- was to rile up Harry purposely. By that comment of Harry supposedly wanting to become an Auror to do 'some good in the world', he was basically letting Harry know that he won't ever be able to do that –not through being an Auror or anything else. That no matter how Harry always strives to help others and do good things, it's useless because he has to remember who his brother is and wants to become. Tom was, in short, mocking him to make a point.

And Tom's gibes did make Harry think about this, as planned. Tom was laying out the foundations of the future he has in mind for them: Tom becoming the mightiest of Dark Lords, and Harry by his side, 'obediently' aiding him. He wants to corner Harry into this, making it clear that Harry will have no other choice but to go along with Tom's plans because he's going to be the brother of a Dark Lord –and that as such Harry cannot be an Auror, or any other normal profession, or try to do good, or even have a life of his own, and much less a normal, peaceful one as Harry wants.

Certainly, Tom wants him to feel so isolated and depressed and overwhelmed as to leave Harry with no other alternative but to finally give up and yield to Tom's wishes.

3. In the Chamber of Secrets, Tom wasn't worried because he thinks Harry is an idiot who can't handle the situation –this is what Harry thought of the matter, because he couldn't know any better.

Tom was obviously worried that Harry would find out they aren't brothers, that Harry is no real Slytherin by blood, that the basilisk would attack him due to it and thus reveal the secret to Harry.

Now, of course, Tom must be wondering just what on earth happened. Because we have to remember that Harry does have some Slytherin blood, because he's a Potter – not a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, can't be considered his heir, but with Slytherin blood nonetheless through his Peverell ancestor.

4. Regarding Dumbledore, well, we will see a bit about him in this chapter, but we must keep in mind that he's not yet the all-knowing old man of canon. Here, he's about 50 years younger, still untried in many things –hasn't defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald yet- and a teacher, not Headmaster.

In canon, Dumbledore had no clue regarding all the things Tom was up to - only suspected about the Chamber of Secrets but didn't know about the killings and the fact that Tom made his first horcrux at 16 while in school, until many decades later. So don't expect him to fully figure everything out.

I'm trying to portray him as realistically as possible, and part of that is showing that he doesn't know how to deal with Tom and Harry as well as Grindelwald does. After all, Grindelwald has a great advantage over Dumbledore in this regard: Grindelwald knows more about the boys and their future than anyone else, he has the memories of Sybilla Spyros' visions. So of course that Grindelwald is already handling the boys very deftly, even though they still haven't met him in person, and Dumbledore isn't.

That's all for now, I hope these explanations have helped.

Enjoy the chappie!

---

Part I: Chapter 59

---

"I don't understand what our PM is thinking!" said Harry in disgust, angrily flinging the latest issue of The Daily Prophet to the table.

"Our PM?" hissed Tom coldly, shooting him a narrowed-eyed look. "Winston Churchill is the muggle scum's Prime Minister, not ours."

"You know what I mean," snapped Harry, glaring down at his bowl of porridge, all lingering hunger fading away as he contemplated his now chilled and soggy breakfast.

The Great Hall was thrumming with excitement, the students assembled in their House Tables were cheering and patting their Quidditch players. Harry himself was already donning his uniform, with his sleek, new Tinderblast by his side.

After breakfast, the first match of the season would be commencing: Slytherin versus Hufflepuff.

Darting a look around, Harry could see the Gryffindors sporting Hufflepuff colors in hats, scarves, and moving banners, shooting the Slytherin Table dirty looks and shouting out jibes. Not as boisterous as the Gryffs, the Ravenclaws were nevertheless showing their support for Hufflepuff as well, with encouraging smiles and lengthy, analytical discussions of their chances in the match.

Meanwhile, the Hufflepuff Quidditch players looked apprehensive, and Harry couldn't fault them. Through the transparent arches of the Great Hall they could see a savage blizzard of snow and hail, violent winds clashing together making ominous sounds reverberate across the Great Hall.

It wouldn't be an easy match with such weather and Harry was beginning to feel the first twists of nervousness clenching in his stomach. It would be his first time playing Quidditch before the whole school and he had much to prove.

Though Dorea and his other teammates looked utterly self-confident, with smirks and nasty expressions plastered on their faces, aloof to the Gryffindors' catcalls, he noticed that Alphard was looking quite ill himself. With a pale face, the boy was grimacing, as though having his stomach tied in knots.

He looked up at Harry, catching his eye, and attempted an encouraging half grin, which faltered when a blast of wind howled around the castle.

"What is it you fail to understand?" said Tom coolly as he silently took a sip from his cup of tea.

His mind returning back to the news reported by The Daily Prophet, Harry scowled as he groused darkly, "What are we doing mucking about in Africa, is what I would like to know."

It was a good thing that The Daily Prophet had finally deigned to inform the public what had been going on in Muggle Britain for the last couple of months, but the news were all very dire.

London had been heavily bombed once more, causing a widespread and devastating fire that had nearly flattened half the city. Furthermore, The Blitz –as it was now widely called- had been launched in many other British cities. Coventry, Southampton, Bristol, Sheffield, Liverpool, Manchester, Swansea, Clydebank, Plymouth, and even Ireland's Belfast and Scotland's Greenock, had all been targeted, destroying countless buildings and factories and causing innumerable casualties – even that of several muggleborns and halfbloods who had remained living in muggle areas with their relatives instead of retreating to wizarding communities under the protection of anti-muggle weaponry wards as the Ministry of Magic had sternly advised.

If that wasn't bad enough, after Italy had declared war on England, a succession of battles at sea had been fought, with Britain's Royal Navy clashing against Italian warships and German submarines all over the map.

And now the news was that Yugoslavia and Greece had been invaded, forcing the last bastion of English troops in continental Europe to retreat to Crete. Yet, Churchill, instead of reinforcing British presence in Europe, was sending more and more troops to the North of Africa, to fight the Germans and Italians in Libya, Eritrea, Iraq, Egypt and the sort.

"Africa is of paramount strategic importance," Tom intoned sharply, shooting him a scathing, impatient look. "What did I tell you back when Alice was giving us her own version of historical events regarding the Great War, little brother?"

"The Canal," grumbled Harry peevishly, angrily raking a hand through his tousled hair, clearly remembering feeling ashamed and crushed when his brother had told him that the only reason their country had won the Great War was because they had hoodwinked the Arabs into fighting against the Turks, with promises of independence and freedom they had later broken. "Yeah, yeah, I remember-"

"Precisely," said Tom loftily, arching an eyebrow at Harry's dissatisfied tone of voice. "He who controls the Suez Canal controls the Mediterranean, the movement of troops and the flow of trade and natural resources-"

"So it's about money again, is it?" cut in Harry hotly, glowering.

"Waging a war is expensive," pointed out Tom shortly, as he impassively buttered his toast.

"But we should be striking them where it hurts," hissed out Harry under his breath, leaning closer to his brother. "Europe is the real warfront, not Africa. We should be invading Germany before they invade us! That's what I would do-"

"You have no tactical sense," interjected Tom scornfully. "Directly confronting the Germans would be the height of stupidity at this point. Wars are not won with heroic acts but by serving national interests."

Harry scowled at him but said nothing. He still thought his brother was wrong. It was all very well that Churchill wanted to control the Suez Canal and everything that that entailed, but to have all troops fighting in Africa while hundreds of thousands of people were dying in Europe, with no one to help them, was a recipe for even more disaster in his view – and cowardly and inhumane, to boot.

Granted, at least Churchill was fighting the Germans in some way, however indirectly and with priorities that Harry abhorred. Meanwhile, the Minister of Magic Gravius Marchbanks was still dragging his feet, apparently wanting to know who would win in the muggle front before daring to openly fight the Dark Lord.

For now, Wizarding Britain was merely hiding under their wards, protecting themselves, and waiting – for foreign help, for the British muggles to win, or for a bolt of lightning to miraculously strike Gellert Grindelwald, Harry didn't know, but it all seemed extremely foolish to him.

It was because of the former Minister of Magic, Charlemagne McLaggen, doing nothing and turning a blind eye that they had gotten into such a fix to begin with.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" intoned Tom airily with a raised eyebrow, as loud cheers suddenly broke throughout the Hall.

Seeing Quidditch players all around getting up to their feet, with their supporters hailing them, Harry quickly shoveled the remainders of his tasteless porridge into his mouth. As disgusting as it was, it was better to have food in the belly when flying in such ghastly and cold weather.

He finally shot Alphard a pointed look when the boy had been about to follow the others out of the Great Hall, and then hesitated for a moment when he glanced at his brother. For the last couple of days he had been wondering whether to ask Tom or not.

'Will you be coming?' he wanted to say, but finally left without doing so.

He didn't actually know if he wanted Tom in the Quidditch Pitch. On one hand, the idea of Tom watching him as he flew his best and scored Quaffle after Quaffle, made him feel giddy with excitement and happiness. On the other, flying brilliantly and displaying his abilities because he wanted to impress his brother made him feel half ashamed and half queasy, because he knew perfectly well that that desire was not borne from 'brotherly feelings' of wanting to make a sibling feel proud of him. It would be preening and proving himself, like a peacock displaying its tail feathers before a desired mate.

Harry blanched, turning greenish around the face, and nearly stumbled over the hem of his Quidditch robes, before he caught sight of Alphard and immediately pulled him into a corridor.

---

"What are we doing here?" panted a bewildered Alphard, catching his breath as they stood before the sinks leading to the Chamber of Secrets. "We should be down in the Pitch – if we're late, Dorea will skin us alive!"

"I have to test something," said Harry as he settled his Tinderblast against a wall. "It will only take a couple of minutes and now is the perfect time. There's no one in the castle to see us."

And more importantly, he had seen Tom making his way to the Quidditch Pitch along with the rest of their housemates.

"I want you to hiss 'open' in Parseltongue, to the sinks," added Harry swiftly as he pointed at the faucet with the small serpent figure etched on it.

"W-what?" Alphard gawked at him, mouth hanging open before he snorted with exasperation. "You know I'm no Parselmouth! What is all this truly about-"

"But you've heard me hissing that word plenty of times before," interjected Harry hurriedly, shooting him a stern look. "I just want you to recall it, and try it."

Alphard blinked at him. "Are you serious? Whatever for?"

"Just try it, please!" snapped Harry impatiently.

"Alright," mumbled Alphard taken aback, giving the sinks a dubious look.

Harry grimaced and winced when his friend let out a strident string of weird noises.

"Sorry, but that's how you sound when you do it," said Alphard ruefully when he saw Harry's expression.

"Nothing happened," remarked Harry, intently watching the sinks with a frown on his face, before his gaze flickered back to the boy. "You didn't say it right. Try it again."

Alphard rolled his eyes, sighing. "If you would just tell me what you're up to-"

"Try it!"

"Alright, alright, hold your hippogriffs, no need to get nasty…"

It was by the thirteenth attempt that the sinks suddenly shifted to a side, revealing the pitch-black pipe that led to the Chamber.

Alphard stood before it, with jaw agape in disbelief, his expression utterly incredulous. "I opened it?" He shot Harry a stunned look before his face lit with excitement. "I opened it!"

"Yeah," said Harry distractedly, his gaze pensively fixed on the pipe, his mind whirling at top speed.

It was one theory proven then, though he didn't know quite what to make of it. Now he knew that Godric Gryffindor could have been the one to find the Chamber and cast his magic on the Basilisk.

After all, if historians were right and Gryffindor had been a close friend of Salazar Slytherin, he could have learned some words in Parseltongue, couldn't he? Just like Alphard.

He didn't think Salazar Slytherin would have purposely taught Gryffindor the language, not when Slytherin had been such a paranoid wizard that he hadn't even recorded his research and experiments in a diary with the use of Parselscript, in a language only he and his descendants could read.

No. It must have been that Godric had simply picked up some few words in Parseltongue from having heard Salazar use them frequently. Though, it didn't explain how Godric had known where the entrance to the Chamber was, or why he had bound the Basilisk. Or why he hadn't just killed it.

It was making less sense the more he unraveled about the matter.

After visiting Zar so many times, jotting down the runes he saw wriggling in the red and golden magic surrounding the Basilisk like shackles, and researching the runes in the library, Harry had unearthed quite a lot.

Seven ancient runes were repeated over and over again along the threads of magic of Godric Gryffindor. One representing the word 'bind', two runes meaning 'magic' and 'power', one other symbolizing 'forget' and a last rune which could either mean 'life' or 'memories' – or both.

Indeed, in fact, Harry was certain the latter runes were the reason why Zar still couldn't tell them anything about his past. It was as though someone had struck the Basilisk with a badly performed Obliviating Charm.

It was clear to him that it was due to Godric's magic influencing the creature, yet he couldn't figure out how it was restraining Zar's powers as well.

He had nearly read all the books in the library regarding Basilisks and they all said the same: a Basilisk's powerful magic laid in its eyes and its lengthy lifespan, meaning that the creatures could live for millennia with relatively little food interspersed with long periods of hibernation.

However, Godric Gryffindor's magic was not 'binding' the Basilisk's powers in such ways.

Harry had checked. Transfiguring a gnawed bone from Zar's lair into a mouse, he had closed his eyes and ordered the Basilisk to open his own inner eyelids to kill the animal with his gaze.

Zar had done so, and Harry had stood there, frowning at the mouse lying on the stone floors, on its back and its little paws stiff in the air, with not a mark on it, as though it had been killed by the Avada Kedavra Curse.

Moreover, Gryffindor's magic was not affecting the Basilisk's lifespan either, at least not diminishing it by forcing the creature to starve.

They've been feeding it for the last couple of months. At first, Harry had counted with Alphard's help in going to the kitchens and asking the house-elves for roasted chickens and the sort.

Enlarging the food once in the Chamber of Secrets, they had given it to the Basilisk. It hadn't gone that well. Apparently, Zar found no joy in the sight of a chicken as large as a motorcar plopped there in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets like a banquet.

"That will not do," had sneered Tom, shooting Harry and Alphard a scathing look. "Basilisks need to hunt their prey. Zar has instincts that must be satisfied."

Zar had kept looking at the overlarge, roasted bird with a morose air about him until Tom had neatly and effortlessly transfigured a pebble into a beautiful, live doe, of large almond-shaped black eyes and soft, brown pelt.

Harry had flinched and quickly looked away as the deer had cantered in fear, trying to escape the maws of the suddenly excited and vicious Basilisk.

"You little hypocrite," Tom had hissed at Harry, in an undertone of mocking derision meshed with anger.

By that time, his brother had been accusing him of having no scruples in practicing Dark Arts curses on 'ugly' critters like rats but still recoiling from doing so to fluffy and cuddly things like bunnies.

Harry hadn't replied, not wanting to get into the old argument. He knew that Tom made them practice on 'pretty' animals just to rile him up or spite him. Given that they had begun learning the Unforgivable Curses and the fleshy dummies the Room of Requirements provided were of no use in such cases, they had to resort to conjuring live animals on which to practice.

The fact that Harry had refused to cast the Cruciatus and Killing Curse on a cute, little kitten Tom had transfigured from a quill had angered his brother. The fact that Harry kept conjuring rats instead, had put Tom in a towering temper.

Still, Harry didn't feel ashamed of his preferences. If he had to go about murdering and torturing poor innocent animals he'd rather have rats as victims. Let Tom accuse him of being superficial and a hypocrite.

After having to endure listening to the horrible, tearing and gnashing noises of Zar devouring the doe, Harry had left all feeding duties to Tom – especially after their fifth visit.

That day, he and Tom had found Zar in a strange state, fidgety and tense, swaying his huge head in the air as if hungrily sniffing and sensing something much desired.

"Kill… must kill…" the Basilisk had been hissing, slowly, confusedly, and ravenously.

"You fed him yesterday, didn't you?" Harry had asked Tom, his gaze nervously fixed on Zar and his weird behavior.

"I did," Tom retorted coolly, with a calculating glint in his dark blue eyes as he regarded the Basilisk. "I believe it is not another doe it's hungering for."

"What d'you mean?" demanded Harry instantly, his head snapping around to stare at him.

"As the legend goes," Tom intoned nonchalantly, "Salazar Slytherin left his monster behind for it to carry out a cleansing of the school." He shot him a wide smirk. "Cleansing Hogwarts from the undesirable elements in it. The mudblo-"

"Muggleborns," croaked Harry, paling drastically as Zar kept hissing the same phrase over and over as though muttering to himself. Deeply alarmed, he swiveled, grasping Tom's arm. "But he can't! Can he? I mean, he can't access the castle unless we open the passageways for him, right?"

"True," said Tom quietly, yet there was still such a plotting gleam in his eyes that Harry instantly gripped him tighter, gnashing his teeth.

"And we will never do that," gritted out Harry, skewering his brother with narrowed green eyes, fury spreading over his face. "Will we, brother?"

Tom turned to calmly arch an eyebrow at him. "Who said anything about unleashing the Basilisk in Hogwarts?"

"I know how your mind works," spat Harry accusingly, still piercing him with suspicious, stern eyes. "It would be just like you to think that it would be an honor to carry out Salazar Slytherin's last wishes – to think this is some sort of legacy he's left for us-"

"He did leave the Basilisk for his heirs to find," interrupted Tom smoothly, his eyebrow rising higher as though challenging Harry to deny it.

"You cannot-" began Harry, before quickly changing tacks.

He had known then that it would be useless to point out to his brother what any sensible and normal person would realize. That it would be horrible to allow the Basilisk to go on a rampage of killing muggleborns, students they lived with, knew, and even liked in Harry's case. Yet it would be a moot point to attempt to call to Tom's 'better nature'.

Nevertheless, he had known exactly what to say to dissuade his brother from the notion.

"Headmaster Dippet," he had continued in a grave tone, "would shut down Hogwarts instantly if muggleborns suddenly turned up dead, Tom. And then where would we go? Hogwarts is our home-"

Harry's eyes widened as he said that, seeing Tom's lips tugging upwards into a smirk, making him quickly add, "Because it is! Germany and Von Krauss' castle is not our true home, and we don't want to be stuck there. Not this soon." He lowered his voice, as he said pointedly, "If Hogwarts closes, we couldn't finish our education and we would be unprepared to deal with Von Krauss and Grindelwald, wouldn't we? There's still a lot we need to learn here, not to mention your plans for Slytherin House, brother!"

"You raise a valid point," muttered Tom under his breath, his tone grudging as his expression became one of fleeting pondering.

"Right," said Harry, dropping his brother's arm as he searchingly gazed at him. "So no funny business with Zar, alright?"

Tom hadn't answered but Harry had felt confident that his brother wouldn't endanger their position at Hogwarts or their education, not when the only thing Tom had to gain was the satisfaction of seeing some muggleborns being killed.

Harry didn't think his brother would bat an eyelash if it happened. Indeed, as much as it pained him to admit it, Tom would find vicious enjoyment in it, and probably pride and smugness as well, by doing what their notorious ancestor had wished.

By then, having many times seen on Tom's face twisted and gleeful relish when casting the Cruciatus or Killing Curse during their practice sessions, Harry had come to finally accept and make peace with the fact that his brother was a shameless sadist at heart and there was little he could do about it –except trying to curb it when he could.

As long as Tom went about killing people out of necessity, when attacked or in battle situations if those ever came to happen, Harry could live with it.

Nevertheless, it had all made him realize that Zar was not being restrained by Gryffindor's magic in any visible way. The Basilisk could use its power and kill with its eyes, it could keep on living and feeding, it could move around, it didn't remember its past yet for some reason did recall the mission Salazar Slytherin had left for him.

Moreover, the last, sixth and seventh ancient runes repeated over and over again in Gryffindor's magic were the most puzzling of all, since combined together as they were, meant 'permanent state'.

All in all, Harry couldn't fathom what the shackle-shaped magic was doing to the Basilisk. His latest discovery was that it formed some sort of extremely powerful and ancient charm, and not a curse as he had initially thought.

These perplexing thoughts lingered in his mind as he and Alphard finally made their way to the Quidditch Pitch in a rush.

---

Loud cheering could still be heard coming from the snowed grounds of Hogwarts, those of the end of the first Quidditch match of the year.

The Slytherins' muffled cries of victory echoed in the room, meshing with the whirring sounds and puffs of the small, silver artifacts tottering and wheezing in the shelves of the office.

Having returned from the Quidditch stands himself, still wearing fluffy earmuffs and thick, pink woolen gloves, with ice and snow clinging on his long ginger beard, Albus Dumbledore rushed to siphon a silvery tendril from his temple, his wand guiding it into the pensieve atop his desk.

He observed as another memory swirled in the pearly surface of the pensieve, a misty face forming.

"-told me to let you know if anything changed in their situation," blabbered the round, pudgy face of Mafalda Plumpkin, a witch of the Ministry of Magic and old acquaintance of his. "Just did, right this moment! According to our records they have been adopted by a muggle!" She peered at him through her thick eyeglases, her face aglow with the green flames of the floo connection. "Very peculiar if you ask me. We're sending some of our people to pay the muggle a visit, make sure he knows what he's getting into…"

She paused, seemingly glancing at something in her hands, frowning. "Alistair Ashcroft, the muggle's name is. Lives in some manor and is some sort of muggle 'Lord'. I'll give you the address, but don't you pay him a visit until after our people have done so! Don't want the Minister asking me awkward questions. If Gravius catches wind that I've been passing you information…"

Albus' expression turned contemplative, as he swirled the contents of his pensieve with the tip of his wand, making another memory of several months ago come forth.

The liquid surface rippled as a new face emerged, that of an old clerk of the Muggle War Office.

"Ashcroft… Ashcroft…" muttered the old man, his arthritic hands quivering as he slowly flipped musty, yellowed pages of a thick ledger. "Here he is! Yes, indeed, young boy he was, fought in the Great War – injured in battle, recovered in some French hospital. I remember now! I was working right here myself, remember his name – son of a baronet!" His shaky, dotted hands pointed at the ledger, as he peered up at Dumbledore. "See, this' my own writing."

Albus had intently gazed back at the old muggle, his suspicions confirmed with a mild push of Legilimency, feeling the block of a powerful memory charm in the muggle's mind. He had decided to not force it, to spare the muggle from further injuries of the mind.

However, the information held in the ledger had led him to the truth that summer.

Another memory arose in the silvery surface of the pensieve, that of a retired Sergeant of the Muggle British Army he had paid a visit.

The misty form of the old man whirled, revealing a pockmarked face with half a nose missing and a wooden leg clanking on the floor of the muggle's house as he led Dumbledore into his home in the Isle of Skye.

"What d'ya want to know about Ashcroft for?" grunted the old muggle suspiciously, eyes narrowed at Dumbledore. "Let bygones be bygones, I say. Don't like to rehash war experiences, myself. Nasty, it was, the whole business with the spike-heads. Never liked Germans much, but the Kaiser's men…well, were better equipped than us, weren't they? Blew Alistair Ashcroft to pieces, didn't they? Saw it with my own eyes, was few feet away from me, the silly boy was. He was in my battalion, useless lad he was, filled with dreams of glory, wanting to make his rich father proud, didn't he? But the Kaiser's artillery put an end to it! Wrote to the chap's dad myself, had to – was my duty-"

The old man paused, blinking, the traces of Albus' Confundus Charm visibly evaporating. "Who did you say you were?"

And that had been Grindelwald's follower's mistake. Clever, to change the records of the War Office, to have even destroyed or changed any letters long sent to Ashcroft's father, to modify memories of old clerks and that of Alistair Ashcroft's old comrades-in-arms.

Albus Dumbledore had paid a visit to each and every one of them during the summer –of those still alive and sane- all vouching that Ashcroft had survived the war, all with memories modified.

Yet, Grindelwald's follower had overlooked –or rather, underestimated- the peculiar stubbornness and endurance of some muggle minds. The retired sergeant had been the only one to remember the truth of Ashcroft's death, the only one in whom the memory charm had broken with the passage of time.

Indeed, the passage of time… Strange, interesting, very telling: the memory charms had been very old, years-old. Years, even before the Riddle boys had entered Hogwarts, before Albus himself had visited them in their orphanage.

And yet, Grindelwald had known about them, even before then.

Albus' frown became more pronounced, wondering. Perplexed.

He was now certain of only one thing: the identity of the wizard impersonating the long deceased Alistair Ashcroft. For who else would have Gellert trusted with such task but his most loyal?

Von Krauss.

And Albus should have known –even though he couldn't yet fathom the motives – that something of the sort would come to happen.

It was Harry's face now swirling in the pensieve as Dumbledore prodded it with his wand, the day the boy had come into his office, last year.

"Tilly Toke is dead," said the memory Harry in a flat tone. "He was Gellert Grindelwald's spy."

The first incontrovertible proof of Gellert's interest in the boys. The new question was who had become Tilly Toke's replacement at Hogwarts… Who was Gellert's new spy?

"Yes," murmured Albus, his suspicions, which tended to prove correct, solidifying.

Another professor threathened. Not with the death of a sister, as had been Tilly Toke's case as he now knew, but threatened directly, to be killed.

Albus had already acted in that regard, in a roundabout and oblique manner. For now, it would suffice as he waited to see events unravel.

However, much more important were Gellert's motives for wanting to have the boys in his grasp, under Konrad Von Krauss' guardianship.

Albus' sky blue eyes darted to a parchment on his desk. Julian Erlichmann's latest report. He knew the contents by heart.

G still seeking Vessel. Doesn't appear troubled by lack of success.

Guardians will be broken out soon. Not yet. Not the right time.

This latter had made Albus frown, pondering at Julian's decision to wait. Nonetheless, it was the last that had turned him grim.

Riddles? Know of no Riddles. Heard of no Riddles. G has never mentioned such.

Dumbledore knew Julian had to be lying. If Konrad Von Krauss had adopted Tom and Harry Riddle by impersonating 'Alistair Ashcroft', it was certain Gellert must have spoken about it at some point.

"What does Gellert want from the boys?" murmured Albus quietly, feeling his thoughts slowly revolving in his mind, attempting some semblance of order and clarity.

At the lack of success, he ruefully turned to grab one of the many silver instruments in his shelves. One of his very own creation, which puffed as he laid it atop the desk.

The Enlightener, he liked to call it, as he felt its magic permeating through his mind, making connections between his thoughts.

The silver instrument, filled with knobs and cogs, churned, emitting another puff of smoke, which began to take form, reflecting Albus' forming conclusions.

It took the shape of a snake.

Albus looked at it wryly. He needed no aid in remembering his first encounter with the boys: the small bedroom in the orphanage, the snake revealed under the covers, the hissing of Parseltongue as the little boys spoke to it.

They were Parselmouths – yet he knew that wouldn't interest Gellert to the point of acting as he had done.

The smoke suddenly turned into a lightning bolt, making Albus shoot his silver instrument a most aggravated look.

"I remember Harry's scar perfectly well," he told his whirring creation in reprimanding tones.

Especially how the boy's scar had reacted to his attempt to touch it: with a backlash of unfamiliar, impossibly powerful dark magic. Inexplicably so.

The smoke suddenly changed from the lightning bolt to a snake yet again, and Albus fixed his eyes on the instrument, wondering if it had become defective.

He paused, however, as the snake split into two, causing a crinkle to form between his ginger eyebrows.

"Not brothers," he muttered under his breath the facts he was already aware of, "yet both Parselmouths. Linked? By blood, nevertheless? Distantly related?"

The two snakes made of smoke quivered, fusing together, just to unmerge once more, changing into the shape of lightning.

"Deeper connection?" mumbled Dumbledore, his frown now pronounced, immensely puzzled.

He sighed deeply, admitting that his creation was not 'enlightening' him as much as he had hoped.

Albus eyed the whirring instrument once more, an expression of determination on his face as he muttered, "And Gellert?"

As the smoke turned into what was clearly a small phoenix, Albus' sky blue eyes marginally widened with a vague realization.

He was instantly before his pensieve again, prodding it with the tip of his wand until a memory surged forth.

It was Fawkes, soaring through the Atrium of the Norwegian Ministry of Magic as members of the Order and Norwegian Aurors battled Gellert's followers.

Gellert's disembodied voice was echoing through the halls in a mocking and challenging tone, "Hiding in your precious Hogwarts, Albus?... Do you fear temptation?... You want it and I know where it is… With it, you could have her back. Don't you want her back, Albus?"

Albus' eyes instantly darted back to his Enlightener, intent and avid. "For the Stone? He needs the boys to find the Stone?"

The silver instrument whirred as it emitted another puff of smoke, taking the form of one sole snake.

"No," murmured Albus in comprehension, as his own thoughts became clearer. "Not both. Just one. For the Stone, just one."

He nodded, for it finally made sense to him, especially given what he had learned in the last few weeks.

Albus touched the pensieve with the tip of his wand, making his newly added memory of that day unfurl on the surface.

The Slytherin stands in the Quidditch Pitch broke into loud cries of triumph as the match came to an end with a crushing victory for Slytherin House.

Harry 'Riddle', still mounted on his racing broom, was swallowed in the midst of his teammates, who had instantly flown towards him as he had made the latest of an innumerable series of goals, just as the snitch was caught by the Hufflepuff Seeker.

It had been a match that lasted for the whole day and well into the night, the Slytherin Chasers perfectly executing coordinated formations and Quaffle passes as the rest of the Team did their best to employ unsportsmanlike tactics to dismount the Hufflepuff players. Until, the Hufflepuff Seeker had apparently decided to put an end to the humiliation and catch the snitch, loosing the match but putting an end to Slytherin Team's dirty tactics, the injuries sustained by all Hufflepuff players, and the seemingly unending scores executed by the Slytherin Chasers, Dorea Black, Alphard Black, and Harry Riddle.

It was the end of the match that had interested Albus the most, however. And he now observed it again.

Harry was being engulfed, in mid air, by his teammates with roars of glee and pride. The Slytherins in the audience were rushing into the Pitch, and as the Team descended to ground, Harry was hoisted up on the shoulders of one of his teammates, as his housemates chanted his name and grouped around, becoming an entourage of giddy, smug worshipers.

Indeed, quite a change from the days in which Miss Walburga Black had stalked the corridors in the hopes of ambushing and hexing Harry Riddle. Quite a change from the days in which Slytherins spat 'mudblood' at Tom and Harry. Albus had often witnessed or heard of both circumstances.

Furthermore, he had noticed the change in Slytherin House since the start of the new year. The reverence with which Slytherins now attentively listened to Tom Riddle during meals in the Great Hall, vying to be the ones to sit near the boy, the lack of insults and glares during Transfiguration classes, the awe in Slytherins' eyes when they beheld either of the Riddle boys.

"The knowledge of them being Parselmouths would have not sufficed," muttered Albus under his breath, a deep frown on his face. "Unless…"

He prodded the pensieve again, another memory swirling and expanding until it revealed a face.

"Never would've believed it from your Gryffindors, Albus," snapped the voice coming from the pensieve, the purple curls and bony face of Perpetua Fancourt, the Astronomy teacher and Head of Ravenclaw House, now perfectly clear, swirling on the liquid-like surface of the pensieve. "Stunning one of my own, sticking her inside a cupboard – nasty thing to do to a muggleborn, Albus – and during the Yule Ball, no less! Have given the perpetrators two months of detentions, I have, and no amount of cajoling from your part will make me change my mind! Should have thought about Quidditch training sessions before pranking one of my Ravenclaws, shouldn't they? Now, I'm not saying that Miss Mimbletinion is not a problematic child, always spending all her hours wailing in that lavatory of the second floor, missing classes…"

Albus Dumbledore stared at it intently, until his grave, musing expression turned inquisitive as he glanced at the magnificent phoenix perched in a corner of his office.

"It has been found?" the wizard murmured, his eyes affixed on the creature. "It has been opened…"

Fawkes, who had been silently observing him all the while, flapped his fiery wings briskly, letting out a low, doleful trill.

"I see."

It was as he had feared. He had suspected before, given Fawkes' behavior during the previous months, yet now he had finally reached the correct conclusion.

Tom Riddle was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. As such, as Albus knew well, a descendant of Cadmus Peverell, creator of the Resurrection Stone.

It had been he and Gellert, after all, who had discovered the identity of the Three Brothers, so many decades ago when they had been young boys, that fateful summer in Godric's Hollow.

It had been they alone who had delved into the Quest of the Deathly Hallows as none other had ever accomplished: connecting each of the brothers to other wizarding families, discovering that Cadmus' descendants had mingled with Slytherin's, Ignotus' with the Potter line, and Antioch having died childless, his Elder Wand passing from hand to hand through acts of murder and violence.

The motives for Gellert's interest in the boys were now evident. He was still seeking the Deathly Hallows, and knew of the location of at least the Stone – or, rather, the means with which to attain it.

Yet, the matter was related to Tom Riddle alone. It did not explain Gellert's interest in Harry.

With a frown on his face, Albus pushed the issue to a side for later perusal.

For the time being, it would be imperative for him to find the link between the last known Slytherin descendant and Tom Riddle, Albus concluded. He would need to find the boy's father, for the mother had died giving birth –he did not require to stir his pensieve, he still remembered quite clearly his interrogation of the Matron of the boys' orphanage.

It would be no easy endeavor, for the father had clearly been a muggle, given the 'Riddle' surname. And the mother, an unknown witch or perhaps squib – belonging to a mysterious family which had managed to remain hidden for centuries, for Albus had had no previous reason to ever suspect that Salazar Slytherin's line had not died with Sherisse Slytherin, as was widely believed and recorded by historians.

Yet, he could not let the Stone fall into Gellert's hands, and if there was the slightest possibility of…

Albus felt his heart thundering in his chest, and closed his eyes firmly as he was engulfed with shame, the awareness of the danger of becoming prey to foolish temptation, and yet, with the persistent hope for atonement as well.

With great effort, he slowly opened his eyes as he quelled the storm of conflicting emotions clashing within him, finally focusing his mind on the most imperative of his conclusions.

The Chamber of Secrets had been found. And opened. By Tom Riddle and Harry, indubitably.

---

"Hello Harry!"

Alphard sniggered by his side as the blushing girl scampered away giggling, after Harry had replied to her greeting with a weary wave of a hand.

"You've become quite Mr. Popularity," Alphard jibed good-naturedly with another chortle.

Harry grunted in response, paying little attention. It had been like that for the last couple of weeks, ever since the Quidditch match. He had had no choice but to resignedly become used to having strangers –mostly girls– greeting him in the corridors, or asking amidst fawning giggles to hear again about how he had scored so many Quaffles.

"Your brother must be proud," prodded Alphard insistently, a wide grin on his face.

Harry grunted again, and then scowled. Tom had been in a rather good mood lately, which was so unusual that it was rather alarming. Though he wasn't so stupid as to ascribe it all to Tom's satisfaction in his 'little' brother's Chaser abilities.

Tom was up to something, and Harry was feeling quite wary. It was that the primary reason why his good cheer had quickly faded after winning the match against Hufflepuff.

Many good things had come out of it. For one, he had proved that he deserved the spot as Chaser that had been handed over to him in spite of his terrible tryout. Secondly, Harry had vastly enjoyed the hours he had spent flying with Alphard and Dorea, passing the Quaffle between them and scoring endlessly. Thirdly, now his housemates seemed to value him for something else besides being a descendant of Salazar Slytherin –which in turn, had made them interact with him with much more familiarity and much less awe like at first, which Harry was deeply thankful for. And lastly, Tom had been in the Pitch, had watched him play his best, and had later expressed what could be considered a warm and affectionate congratulation.

Granted, Tom had also smirked at him with supreme smugness and satisfaction, as though it was all his doing that Harry had proven to be such a brilliant player. Nevertheless, Harry had had the grace not to disabuse his brother of the notion, allowing Tom to revel in his own mastermind magnificence.

Regardless, his new so-called 'popularity' was one of the negative consequences as far as Harry was concerned. As well as the fact that Dumbledore seemed once more to be observing him closely.

The reason for the latter, Harry couldn't begin to understand. He simply hoped that Dumbledore was on the lookout regarding whoever had become Gellert's spy at Hogwarts.

"Your stalker is following us again," warningly muttered Alphard under his breath as they took a turn into another corridor.

Harry sighed. Myrtle's new behavior was the other negative consequence, although it had to be more due to the passage of time than Harry having become the newest Quidditch sensation at Hogwarts.

After he had threatened her in the Hospital Wing the night of the Yule Ball, she had done as Harry had told. Myrtle had stayed clear from any Slytherins, even going to the lengths of letting out muffled shrieks of fright whenever seeing a Slytherin and running from them as though fleeing from the hounds of Hell.

Thankfully, his housemates had simply found it funny –terrorizing muggleborns like Myrtle was one of the their favorite pastimes, after all– and didn't think it strange.

Yet, Myrtle's fear seemed to have dwindled in the subsequent months, outstripped by her own nosy curiosity no doubt. She seemed to be on a warpath. The Ravenclaw girl hadn't approached him, but was always observing him and following him around.

What was worse was that Tom had noticed. And even worse, Myrtle was back to using the girls' lavatory of the second floor as her bawling spot.

"In here," whispered Harry as he took hold of Alphard's arm and pushed him under a tapestry, instantly following into the hidden nook.

They heard her turning the corner and continue her chase down the corridor, vanishing.

"What does she want?" groused Alphard with an irked look on his face.

Harry shrugged his shoulders as he lied coolly, "No idea."

He was pretty certain she wanted revenge, though. To find out what they were up to and go tattle on them to the Headmaster. He shouldn't forget that she was a Ravenclaw, and surely suspected that her lavatory was important to them for some reason.

With the coast clear, they finally reached the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his dancing Trolls.

Once in the Room of Requirements, they settled down, books on the Animagus Transformation surrounding them as they arranged their purchases on the floor.

"Right," began Harry with tome in hands, as he skimmed the pages with his gaze, "according to this, the Egyptian Ritual is fairly simple. We need to…"

At long last, they were prepared to take the first steps into discovering their possible Animagus form. They were both feeling rather excited yet nervous too. If they passed the Egyptian test it meant they had the ability to become Animagi and they would be given some clues regarding what animals they were.

If the ritual didn't work, that was the end of it.

Half an hour later they had everything ready. They sat on the stone floors, face to face, amidst a complicated looking diagram they had drawn with their own blood – the ritual was, clearly, a Dark one– copied from the pages of the guide book, and at every cardinal point, Egyptian ancient runes, what muggles would consider hieroglyphics, had been etched.

Each symbol represented an element, and laid on top, their own offerings, procured by their own hands and with personal meaning to them.

Above the Ankh rune –the Life of the Nile– Alphard had set a goblet he had nicked from the Slytherin Table during lunch, having then used it to fill it with water from a natural source, the Black Lake.

They now both took a sip from it as the incense they had purchased and lit wafted and smoked, making Harry begin to feel a bit heady.

On top of the Ma'at glyph –representing the God of Air, Winds and Skies, Shu - Harry now placed a jar he had used to collect air during the last Quidditch training session while he had been flying high up in the sky on his Tinderblast.

He chanted the foreign litany required by the ritual, as they took turns to open the jar and inhale deeply from it.

Harry did his best not to cough or choke, as he suddenly found his lungs burning and his eyes watering. He didn't know if it was happening because the ritual was already taking effect or rather because the incense around them was now smoking so much, and with such a pungent odor, that he was feeling quite sick.

Spluttering the next incantation, Alphard quickly set a small, open box on the Khet rune representing Fire, containing a dying ember from one of the hearths of the Slytherin common room.

They winced, as they touched it with their index fingers, pressing until the mildly hot ember burned their fingertips.

Harry intoned his last part in a hoarse, chopped voice as he dropped a folded handkerchief on top of the rune depicting a goose, representing the God of Earth, Geb.

The handkerchief held a handful of soil he had grabbed from the Forbidden Forest the last time he had visited Nagini, and with grimaces on their faces, they both took some with their left hands and brought it up to their mouths, forcibly swallowing the soil.

At that point, Harry was certain something was already happening. His stomach lurched and churned, his eyesight became clouded, and he felt outright intoxicated, his head throbbing and swirling.

Finally, making a great effort, they both intoned the last required enchantment as clearly as possible.

The moment they had uttered the last syllable, everything seemed to flare to life before Harry's eyes.

He didn't know if he was seeing such due to his Magic-sight ability or if Alphard was truly glowing with magic, the diagram etched with their blood on the floor flashing as though lit with fiendfyre, the element runes they had drawn floating out of the floor to suspend in mid air above their offerings, like fluttering tendrils of light.

Alphard seemed to be swaying, with black pupils widely dilated in his grey eyes, looking drugged and unaware, as the boy suddenly flung out an arm.

In an instant, the handkerchief holding the remains of soil shot into his outstretched hand, the Geb rune flying towards Alphard and then instantly sinking into the boy's chest.

Harry blinked and squinted repeatedly through watering eyes. Alphard had succeeded! And just like that, so quickly, so simply…

Yet… something was not right. The ritual didn't seem to have concluded, Alphard still looked to be in some sort of trance after his part was done, yet nothing was careening towards Harry either.

Supposedly, the ritual would end after those who could be Animagus were successful, and Alphard had already proven to be.

Harry knew that if he had an Animagus form also related to the element of Earth, according to the Egyptians, the handkerchief in Alphard's outstretched hand would fly to him and the Geb rune would rematerialize and sink into his chest as well.

But none of those things were happening, and he didn't seem to have an affinity to any of the other elements either. Nothing was moving yet the ritual clearly had not ended yet.

Suddenly, as his throat and lungs burned, his eyes watered and the blister on his fingertip ached fiercely, he saw it through his foggy vision, his mind swimming hazily.

The jar containing air and the ember were tottering and rolling jerkily on the floor, as though hesitant, their respective runes floating in the air, wobbling, as if something was making the magic of the ritual feel confused.

The next moment, Harry yelped.

If it hadn't been for his instinctual reflexes, the items would have smacked him right in the middle of the face. The jar and ember had abruptly shot towards him like bullets, their associated runes flying quickly after the objects as though not wanting to be left behind.

And Harry had to flop his limp hands frantically to avoid being struck in the eye and forehead, feeling as though he was moving in slow motion as he yelped and caught the careening jar and ember.

He saw the Keht and Ma'at runes sinking into his clothed chest, branding something within as he suddenly felt flashes of hotness and iciness at the same time coursing through his body, making beads of sweat form on his forehead while he shivered with cold.

A split second later, everything went dark. All the incense sticks and candles snuffed out as if a wild wind had blown them off.

"What-" suddenly croaked Alphard's voice, sounding disconcerted. "Lumos!"

Harry blinked against the bright ball of light hovering on the tip of the boy's wand.

"What happened!" breathed out Alphard, glancing around with a confused and flummoxed expression on his face. "Where's everything?"

Harry realized what he meant when he finally noticed that they now sat on empty stone floors.

It had all vanished, the diagrams and runes they had etched with their blood, their 'offerings', the incense and candles. There was nothing left but what the Room of Requirements had provided – some couches and the shelves filled with books.

"Did it work?" said Alphard hopefully, his chest heaving and breathing fast. "I think it did! I think I saw the handkerchief come towards me-"

"It did," muttered Harry, staring right back at him in slight bewilderment.

His head seemed to have cleared, not having the incense smoking around them certainly helped, and his eyesight was back to normal, yet he still felt his mind a tad slow and mushy, not to mention his rolling stomach.

Alphard blinked at him. "So I got Earth?"

"Think so," mumbled Harry distractedly, as he rubbed his chest. It was hurting, as though someone had kicked him hard there. He half expected to find a bruise, but his skin looked unblemished when he opened his collar and took a peek down.

"Oh," grumbled Alphard, looking a mite disappointed. "I was hoping for Air, myself. Some sort of bird would have been nice." He scowled. "If Earth means a flobberworm I'm not going through with it!"

The next second the boy was riffling through the pages of the nearest Animagus book, muttering under his breath, and looking fierce, as if challenging the book to dare inform him that his Animagus form was indeed some sort of crawling bug.

"Well, it isn't that bad," rattled off Alphard, gaining a modicum of good cheer as he perused some chapter with his grey eyes. "I could be a cat, or a hedgehog, or a badger, or a dog apparently…" He scrunched his nose. "Or a mouse – I don't particularly fancy that one, but-"

"But you did it," said Harry slowly, a smile forming on his lips as he began to gather back his wits. "You can be an Animagus, Al!"

Alphard looked up from the book and stared at him. "Yeah," he then whispered, as if just realizing this himself. Abruptly, he beamed widely and triumphantly punched the air with a fist. "Yes, I can! I passed the test!" He stilled, dropping his arm. "And you?"

"Um… I reckon I did too," mumbled Harry quietly, frowning as he rubbed his forehead. "It was strange, though."

"What did you get?" demanded Alphard excitedly, leaning forward towards him.

"The jar and coal," said Harry, looking down at his hands in remembrance. "Air and Fire."

"What?" Alphard gaped at him, before he snorted. "You can't have!" He shook his head in amusement. "You can only get one. Think hard to recall which one it was."

Harry glanced up at him, bewildered. "It was both. I tell you-"

"It couldn't have been!" interjected Alphard with a chortle, before he flicked his wand and cast several spells, conjuring glass and water. "Here, have a drink to clear your head. That awful incense must still be affecting you…"

Harry did take a sip from the proffered glass, thinking hard and raking his brain, but he was quite certain it had been both the jar and ember. The memories of what had happened during the ritual were a bit foggy, but not that much as to make him imagine things.

He said so to Alphard, who responded by frowning at him, looking half worried and half perplexed.

"If you're sure…" said Alphard, trailing off, giving him a very strange look.

"I am," snapped Harry defensively, scowling. "I'm not making things up! Why are you looking at me that way – what's the matter?"

"It's just that… I think I read something like that somewhere…" muttered Alphard under his breath, as he quickly rose to his feet and reached the shelf of books, taking one after the other, perusing and discarding tomes in his apparent hasty search for the right one.

"Here it is!" the boy announced suddenly a moment later, as he gripped an opened book in his hands, his grey eyes skimming through a chapter. "Er… well, it is possible after all."

Alphard shot a peek at Harry, glanced back at the pages of the tome, and peered at him again, a look of surprise, wonder, and awe on his face.

"Well, I knew you were powerful," said Alphard, now in a cheery and playful tone, chuckling happily and waggling his eyebrows at Harry. "But not this much. I suppose it's the Slytherin blood in you."

"What are you blabbering on about?" bit out Harry as he jumped to his feet and approached the boy and book.

"See?" said Alphard as he pointed a finger at a paragraph as Harry hovered by his side, leaning down. "It says here that two elements choosing a wizard in the Egyptian Ritual is very rare. Has only happened a few times in recorded wizarding history. The first, to some Dark Lady of Medieval Times who could turn into a Thestral, then to a wizard who-"

"Had a Demiguise as his Animagus form," Harry said, taking over as he read out loud the sentence Alphard had indicated.

"Exactly," piped Alphard, a wide, excited grin on his face. "Two or more elements are associated with magical creatures! Regular animals just have one." He stared at Harry with his big, grey eyes, still looking a bit stunned, before he whopped gleefully and rambled off, "This is fantastic! You can turn into a magical creature! I hope it's a dragon, that would be so neat, you could let me fly on you and we could-"

"It says only very powerful witches or wizards could have a magical creature as their Animagus form," interrupted Harry who had kept reading in silence.

"Of course, it has only happened eight times in wizarding history, hasn't it?" interjected Alphard with a laugh. His face lit with glowing pride and satisfaction, as he yabbered on, "It's brilliant, Harry. It means you must have very powerful magic in you and-" he looked pensive for a moment, before his face split into an even greater, very toothy grin "-and I don't think even the Dark Lord himself can do this. I've never heard he could transform into a magical creature, not even that he's an Animagus. And believe me, if he could do it, he would have announced it far and wide!" He jabbed a finger into the book, chortling exultantly. "The ability to do something like this is the mark of someone with Lord-like levels of magical power!"

"So it says," muttered Harry slowly, a dubious expression on his face. "That's why I think something went wrong during the ritual. The jar and ember didn't immediately fly to me like the handkerchief did to you…"

However, no matter how many times Harry tried to explain, Alphard waved off his concerns, stubbornly and resolutely certain that Harry was imagining things and that everything had gone without a hitch, and that it all meant that Harry had some serious power stacked up in him.

Harry soon gave up in trying to convince his friend.

"It's going to be hard to find out what you are, though," mused Alphard by the time they had to leave to reach their first class of the afternoon. "The books don't have tables with lists of magical creatures associated with each element as they do for regular animals. We'll have to wait for the Mayan ritual to start gaining clues about your form." He patted Harry on the back comfortingly, beaming. "Don't worry – we'll do that one soon. From what I've read, it'll be quite a trip! And the apothecary in Knockturn Alley promised they would be sending me the magical mushroom in two weeks!"

Harry shot him a wary look.

After the weird things that had happened during the Egyptian Ritual he wasn't that certain that he wanted to experiment with Mexican magical mushrooms, of all things. He felt dismayed just imagining what could go wrong in that case.

Alphard seemingly took his expression for one of enthusiasm, and giddily nattered on about the 'awesome' hallucinatory experiences when under the influence of the fungi that he had read about, as they made their way to Herbology.

---

A few days later, the first thing Harry caught sight of as he ambled in, was Tom standing in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets, right before Salazar Slytherin's carved face, looking very pleased with himself.

That in itself, according to Harry, was cause for concern. His brother, as of late, had been very prickly and irascible, a clear indication that something was not going his way, which Harry always took as good news. Now, his brother seemed positively gleeful.

Harry sighed as he reached him, asking with wary curiosity, "What are you up to?"

"Good, you're here - Behold!" said Tom, shooting him a superior smirk as he then extended his arms and hissed grandiosely, "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!"

Harry quirked an eyebrow when the stonewall in the carved mouth rippled open. When nothing else happened, he blinked, and shot his smug brother a glance.

"Is that supposed to impress me?" Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes. "I manage to do that with a simple 'open' and no need of pompous phrases-"

"Ah, but I've enchanted it," interjected Tom, looking supremely self-satisfied. "From now onwards, it can only be opened with my phrase."

"Wonderful," said Harry sarcastically, before he cast him an incredulous look. "Is this what you've been doing all these months?"

Though before Tom could reply, his attention was snagged when the Basilisk slithered out of the carved mouth, the poor thing looking as though it wasn't the first time it was going through the motions.

Zar looked outright exhausted and rumpled.

Harry gaped and shot Tom a look of appalled disbelief. "How many times have you made Zar do this!"

Tom waved him away, smirking widely as he approached the creature, silkily praising its swift obeisance as he petted and scratched the Basilisk's soft scales under the jaw.

Was that how his brother had been spending all his time cloistered down there? Coining pretentious phrases and giving them a try until he found the one he liked best, to be used in replacement of a simple, straightforward 'open'? Just because Tom wanted to utter something properly dignified, ceremonious, and puffed up? And making poor Zar look winded and dizzy with exhaustion, to boot?

Harry sighed in resignation, because he knew Tom was indeed self-importantly and ridiculously vain like that.

He was a shameless, megalomaniac narcissist to the bone, his brother was, and didn't even try to hide it, like any normal person would do.

Harry vaguely wondered how he put up with it, at that. And what was worse, how he could actually like his brother in spite of it, liking him in a way that… well-

He grunted, shoved away the horrible thoughts that kept sidling into his mind at the most unexpected of moments, and scowled darkly at his brother's back, vastly irritated.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry bit out snarkily, "Oi, you asked me to come here. Said you had something important to show me." He scowled. "I hope it wasn't just for me to witness this!"

Tom glanced at him over his shoulder, as he halted his pampering of the Basilisk, and said coolly, "It was not. I…" He hesitated for a moment, as though the next words cost him some effort to spit out, a grimace on his face. "I would like to have your opinion on some matters."

Harry instantly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What matters?"

Looking much more like his usual arrogant self, Tom smirked at him.

"You'll see," he intoned silkily as he grabbed his discarded schoolbag from the floor, pulling out from it several parchments.

As Tom riffled through them, apparently choosing which to show him first, Harry began to feel ominously wary.

Except when they met to keep learning and practicing the Dark Arts in the Room of Requirements, they barely spent any time together nowadays. Harry was incredibly busy with Alphard and their progress with the Animagus Transformation, unbeknownst to Tom, and with the constant Quidditch training sessions under the maniacal directorship of Dorea Black, who, as the date of the match with Ravenclaw approached, had increasingly turned into an outright demented despot.

Not to mention that he was still working on deciphering the ancient runes of Von Krauss Castle's wards to find a way to imitate their power to disable their Trace Charms, and he was keeping up with his studies of Healing.

All in all, Harry barely had time to breathe. And all the while, Tom had been secluding himself in the Chamber of Secrets during every bit of spare time he had, doing who knew what – for he had refused to tell Harry, thus far.

"Did you finish translating the journals?" prodded Harry with a bit of impatience as his brother continued organizing his papers.

Tom shot him a fleeting look, as he said crisply, "We'll talk about that afterwards."

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, having caught the displeased and aggravated tone in his brother's voice.

Shuffling his parchments, Tom remarked in a vague, seemingly distracted tone of voice, without looking at him, "By the way, little brother, you will have to deal with the mudblood. Or I will deal with her for you."

Harry tensed at once, piercing his brother with his eyes, who was still pretending to be engrossed with his papers. "Myrtle posses no threat to us."

"The mudblood," said Tom in a soft, low tone -never a good sign- as his dark blue gaze flickered up to Harry's face, "has begun using the lavatory once more."

"Then you should use the passage behind the mirror to get here," pointed out Harry shortly, intently watching every twitch in his brother's face, "like I do when I hear Myrtle wailing inside the loo."

"That way is much lengthier," intoned Tom, his eyes slightly narrowed. "And much more difficult to use without being seen."

"But it can be done," snapped Harry acerbically. "I do it all the time."

"I do not see why I should do so as well," hissed out Tom, any pretense of calmness vanishing as he gave him a very nasty sneer. "It's not for me to go out of my way just to spare a mudblood's-"

"You leave Myrtle alone!" barked Harry furiously, a frisson of alarm running down his spine.

Tom arched an eyebrow at him, a semblance of a thin, ugly smile curling his lips. "My, you feel deeply about it. Why so worried?" His dark blue eyes narrowed to slits. "I know there's much you haven't told me regarding the girl. And now I see that she must have done something, as it is making you react thus."

"I haven't the foggiest what you're yapping about," groused Harry, shooting him a dirty look. "I just meant that she's harmless."

"Doubtful," said Tom silkily. "Yet we'll broach the issue later." Without another pause, he finally held up a parchment as he approached Harry, raising it to his eyes. "What do you think?"

At first, Harry couldn't fathom what his brother was referring to. In the piece of parchment he could distinguish nothing but a long list of names that had been crossed over –very weird names, discarded, apparently, in the midst of an array of single letters scribbled all around, as though Tom had been playing with them to form words.

"What's this?" mumbled Harry bemused.

Tom shot him a scathing look before he used the tip of his wand to tap the very end of the parchment.

Harry's green eyes darted down, blinking when he simply found 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' carefully written in his brother's slanted, thin cursive quillmanship.

"Er…"

"You simpleton, must I spell it out for you!" jeered Tom with angered impatience, as he flicked his wand in the air. "They are all anagrams employing my name, you dimwit."

Glittering scarlet words began appearing in mid air as Tom kept swishing his wand, until they spelled 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'.

As Harry watched in bafflement, Tom finally waved his hand and the glowing letters began jumping and rearranging themselves, until one sole phrase remained.

"I am Lord Voldemort," Harry read aloud slowly, gazing at the glittering words hanging in the air. Blinking repeatedly and scratching his suddenly tingling scar, he shot his brother an utterly confused look. "Er – what?"

"That will be my new name!" bit out Tom, visibly seething with fury and exasperation at Harry's slow-wittedness.

"New name?" croaked Harry, swallowing thickly as he felt as though the ground had been yanked from under his feet, because he realized instantly what it all meant, because he was suddenly feeling deeply frantic and panicked, because it was as though he had been hit by a rolling boulder – no, by the relentless, unstoppable force that Tom seemed to be, having progressed in his plots so far, and Harry hadn't even imagined…

He wanted to yell at his brother that he was still in school! That it was madness! No doubt, he would have screamed it with a touch of hysteria in his voice if he could have managed it, but he couldn't.

He stood rooted in place, with a pale face, silent, as it got worse and worse, as Tom now began showing him the other parchments, with increasing gleeful smugness.

It all seemed to flash before Harry's eyes: first, a drawing in black ink, heavily detailed and perfect –making him fleetingly realize that Tom's sketching abilities were certainly far superior to his own- for he had no trouble recognizing it as a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth instead of a tongue.

Dazedly, Harry's gaze automatically flickered to the carved stone face of Salazar Slytherin that seemed to be watching them from its lofty spot in the Chamber of Secrets.

"Indeed, that is where I got the idea from," Tom's voice was now saying in superior tones, sounding as if coming from far away. "It will symbolize my Parselmouth ability and Slytherin ancestry, obviously. I'm thinking of simply calling it the Dark Mark. I have already chosen the dark spell I will use to brand my followers with it. I need only tweak it to adapt it to my symbol and to the traits I wish the brand to posses…"

Many other things came after that declaration, some parchment with the title of 'The Knights of Walpurgis' with a long list of political views and discussion themes.

"Surely you realize what inspired this?" Tom was chuckling sharply under his breath. "The first gathering of the Slub Club – I knew the potential then. Only, I will be much better at it than Slughorn, will I not? And I will use it for entirely different purposes. After all, it's no social club I'll be forming but one to shape and mold opinions, and soon, I will have my selected students parroting my every belief and kissing the ground I walk…"

"What do you think of the initial name of my especial 'club'? Fitting is it not? I trust you remember Walpurgis Night's importance for dark purebloods. I heard Malfoy babbling to you about it during the summer in Von Krauss Castle. I hope the knowledge sunk in, little brother, for I'm not about to give you a history lesson of muggle massacres during the Middle Ages…"

And more and more came, but Harry was completely oblivious as Tom kept showing him more parchments with who-knew-what ideas.

He was still stunned with utterly horrified stupefaction, and a crushing sense of devastating defeat, so overwhelmed that he felt catatonic with helplessness.

After the things he had witnessed during the first meeting of the Slug Club, he had thought things were moving too fast. Now, he knew it had all spun way out of control, so far from his hands, that finally, it speared through.

He would never be able to catch up with Tom. He would never be able to keep up and be two steps ahead of him to attempt to derail Tom's path of becoming a Dark Lord, and much less thwart it.

So far, during the year he had had to do so, his attempts had been feeble at best and had failed spectacularly.

He had only attempted to persuade his brother that becoming the Minister of Magic was a much worthier and sensible choice. Tom, of course, had snidely laughed at him.

Short of Harry being able to offer Tom the spot as 'Master of the Universe', there was nothing else that could tempt his brother away from wanting to become a Dark Lord.

But he had thought he would have time to try other things. He would have never imagined that Tom was rushing through all his plots so speedily, already planning to put all these things into motion the first chance he got – while still being a schoolboy! Gathering future followers, wanting to 'brand' them, coming up with names and agendas and the sort…

Harry suddenly felt as though he was suffocating, when the traitorous voice of his own mind seemed to whisper that it would be much easier and simple to just yield to the inevitable.

To actually do what he had promised Tom: to help him. Instead of trying to figure out ways to eternally outsmart and thwart him. And he had never been good at that, had he? Oh, he had outmaneuvered his brother occasionally, but never with issues of such seriousness and importance as that of Tom's life ambitions.

As Tom kept grandiosely ranting about his plans, Harry still paying no attention, he felt as if a ray of bright sunlight was spearing through a mass of dark, stormy clouds. It was the solution, wasn't it? To help.

And what was to say that Tom couldn't actually be a worthy Dark Lord? A good one, not a deranged, murdering madman. Not someone causing devastating wars like Grindelwald was doing. But a true leader, a force of positive change in the world.

It would be hard, with Tom's prejudices against muggles and muggleborns. Harry wasn't stupid to actually think he could change those, but he could change the way Tom went about it. His brother was, after all, cunning and practical. And could surely understand that a voice of reason and moderation would appeal to more people than a voice of radical hatred and violence.

And if Tom couldn't see that, Harry would help him to. Why, he could even research in the library about former Dark Lords and most successful politicians and surely there would be some that would serve as good examples. Tom actually listened when presented with good arguments.

All throughout the year, he had felt burdened with the self-appointed responsibility of dealing with Tom's mad ambition. It had even made him despise and bitterly resent his own brother at times. It had made him feel miserable.

He didn't want to be forever shackled to Tom, forever wary and on guard, watchful that his brother didn't take it all too far.

If he helped him now, as Tom had wanted from the start, he would be satisfying his brother early on, and later, Tom wouldn't have grounds to ask more of him. Later, when he graduated from Hogwarts, he could pursue the life he wished for himself.

Like a ray of hope, he could even envision it as though it was a dreamy reality forming before his eyes. He would find a nice girl, and have loads of children – he had always wanted to be part of a big family- and he would have a quiet life, and a fun job.

Harry's green eyes sparkled, a slow grin forming on his face. After his first Quidditch match he had even began playing with the idea that he could be a professional Quidditch player someday.

He had enjoyed every aspect of it: executing all those sly and complicated tactics with Dorea and Alphard, the liberating sensation of recklessly flying at top speed with all his worries vanishing from his mind, the loud cheers from the crowd, enjoying the fact that he was entertaining them, making them happy, making them enjoy the game as much as he did, and then his housemates hoisting him on their shoulders, appreciating him for something he was good at, something he deserved, instead than for having Slytherin blood which was due to no feat of his.

The fawning attention and popularity he could do without, but he reckoned it was part of the package, especially if he wanted to become a professional player. And perhaps by then it wouldn't be that bad. Perhaps, Alphard would want to become a Quidditch player as well, and they could both try to be recruited by Alphard's favorite team, the Puddlemere United. And he would have a fun job that would feel like no chore at all, whilst having his best mate with him in his chosen career, forever doing what they enjoyed the most, together.

"Are you listening!"

Tom's sudden whiplashing voice, sounding vastly angered, abruptly yanked Harry from his fuzzy daydreams.

Harry blinked at him, a mite taken aback to find himself still standing in the middle of the gloomy Chamber of Secrets as he was confronted with a seething Tom, his handsome features dark with fury.

Harry stared at him, feeling his body relaxing and his determination strengthening with his final decision. It felt like breathing for the first time, so powerfully liberating. Moreover, he realized that the choice he had made would change much for him, and them.

"Alright," he then said sharply. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. What's this rubbish about Lord Voldymort?"

For a moment, Tom gazed back at him in silence, whether from surprise due to Harry's sudden turnaround or something else, he didn't know.

Though his brother then apparently recovered quickly, arching a supercilious eyebrow at him, as he enunciated acidly, "It is Lord Vol-de-mort. It is formed by the anagram of my own name, and can be deconstructed into the French terms 'vol de la mort' which I feel is quite fitting as it means 'flight of death'." He sneered at him, as he added caustically, "Representing my quest to become immortal, which I will accomplish, rest assured-"

"It's stupid," Harry interrupted harshly and mercilessly before his brother could pompously expound on the matter. He shook his head despairingly. "If you go around calling yourself Voldymort you'll be the laughingstock of the nation-"

"Voldemort!" hissed out Tom angrily, ripping the parchment from Harry's hands. His face contorted, as he spat in a very low, ominous, and menacing tone, "No one will laugh, little brother, I assure you. I will make certain it becomes an ineffable name that will instill terror in anyone who hears it. I will suffuse it with such fear and reverence that none will dare utter-"

"Off the top of my head, I can come up with a thousand nicknames for Voldymort that people will use to ridicule you and that you won't like," interjected Harry, guffawing. "Like Moldyshorts and-"

"It's VOLDEMORT!" roared Tom furiously, looking fit to be tied.

Harry shot him an unimpressed look, before he rolled his eyes. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, brother. I'm only saying that it's a poor choice, especially if it does mean 'flight of death'," he added pointedly, "because it just makes it sound as if you actually fear death-"

"I fear nothing!" snarled Tom savagely.

Harry generously chose not to dispute that issue, since they were both perfectly aware that Tom was terrified of dying and there was no point in rubbing salt in the wound.

"Not to mention," Harry plowed on, scoffing, "that if you want to become a British Dark Lord you cannot go around with a French name."

"Patriotism, from you?" sneered Tom in a very ugly tone of voice, making it clear that he was not enjoying the criticisms.

At that, Harry did feel mildly insulted for he did consider himself to have a healthy dose of proper English pride.

Though, he simply countered with a reasonable tone of voice, "It's you who is always telling me that good leaders vie for the national interests of their country, isn't it?" He scowled as he added sternly, "And a British Dark Lord should have a British name. That's what's right. So just use your own name, you idiot!"

Tom towered over him, his face contorting with livid fury as he spat, " 'Tom Riddle' is not a-"

"Not that!" interjected Harry with exasperation. "I already know why you don't like your name." He shot him a sour look. "Had to put up with your complains about how common and ordinary it is since we were in nappies, hadn't I?"

"Then which name?" demanded Tom sharply, narrowing his eyes at him as if certain Harry was setting things to mock him with some silly answer.

"Your middle name, for starters. You have one, so use it," said Harry with a trace of bitterness in his voice. The fact that their mum had died before being able to give him a middle name as well, had always saddened him, but also made him feel deprived and envious of his twin. He waved a hand. "Marvolo sounds unique and wizarding-like enough. And I've never heard of a muggle called that."

"You're suggesting 'Lord Marvolo'?" sneered Tom contemptuously. "It sounds imbecilic-"

"I'm suggesting Marvolo Slytherin!" snapped Harry impatiently. "Lord Slytherin, you fool! That surname is rightfully ours to use if we want to, so use it." He gave him a scathing look. "And you won't need to 'suffuse it with fear and reverence' - it already has that, in bunches, on its own!"

"Marvolo Slytherin," repeated Tom quietly as though rolling and tasting it in his mouth, a gleam growing in his dark blue eyes, one of slowly developing appreciation and pleased satisfaction. "Lord Slytherin…"

Harry thinly grinned at him. "Liking it already, are you?"

"Perhaps," said Tom succinctly, wiping his contented expression from his face, before he arched a demanding eyebrow at him. "And the mark?"

"Lemme see again," Harry muttered with a sigh, taking hold of the parchment with the drawing, and grimacing. "Well, it's not pretty, is it?"

"It's not meant to be 'pretty', but to inspire an awareness of-"

Harry ignored his brother's sneering, virulent rant, as he kept staring at the brand.

"I reckon it's fitting," he said at last, as he musingly trailed it with a fingertip. "It does represent all the things you said before and it looks scary enough." He cast his brother a wry look. "Which is what you were going for, I assume."

"Why, thank you, little brother." Tom shot him a wide smirk, suddenly looking much more calmer. "I am vastly proud of it myself."

"Now, about this club of yours you want to form," began Harry tentatively, swallowing his dislike and misgivings.

That discussion didn't go over too well. Tom became particularly incensed when Harry honestly expressed that the name 'Knights of Walpurgis' just made him think about the Knights of the Round Table.

"It has nothing to do with that inane muggle fairtytale!" Tom spat in livid tones.

Harry frowned at him. "It's no fairytale. We covered Merlin and Arthur's Era in History of Magic, first year. Don't you remember-"

Clearly ignoring this, Tom hissed out acidly, "No educated wizard would confuse the Knights of Walpurgis with King Arthur's pathetic lot. Only you would, you simpleton!"

Harry shrugged. "Fine, it's your club, not mine." He scowled as he glanced down at the parchment in his hands. "But about these list of conversation topics…"

What followed was a very unpleasant hour in which they disagreed about every single point, their tempers gradually flying till boiling point.

"I'm just saying," gritted out Harry through clenched teeth, "that we're in no rush! We've got four years left at Hogwarts, take it slow, brother!" He pointedly waved the parchment in front of Tom's nose. "If you begin by discussing these political views in your club, you will leave no one in any doubt that you're vying to become Grindelwald's replacement-"

"Which I do," countered Tom in a sharp, caustic tone.

"But there's no need to publicize that so soon!" bit out Harry hotly, glowering at him. "One thing is to support mainstream dark pureblood ideals, and another to support the more… er… radical ones," he tried to say as diplomatically as he could, not wanting to get into another quarrel regarding muggle and muggleborn rights. "You want to 'mold their opinions', right? So it would be much easier if you were trying to convince them of the more moderate views and not the ones about just killing them all! Especially if you want to have students of other Houses in your club."

Tom gazed at him in silence, hopefully he was mulling it over, and Harry grasped his opportunity as he added, "In fact, if I were you, I would not mention your opinions regarding muggles and muggleborns at all. Because if a professor gets wind of the things you're discussing-"

"Do you believe," interjected Tom in a vicious tone of voice, "that I will not take measures to ensure the secrecy of the Knights of Walpurgis and the topics discussed in my gatherings?"

"Do you think," retorted Harry in a deadpanned tone, "that even if you make them all take Vows of Secrecy or something of the sort, some of the professors wouldn't still find out?"

"None would," jeered Tom scornfully. "None have the capacity or ability to-"

"Dumbledore," intoned Harry simply, having the pleasure to watch as his brother snapped his mouth shut, bristled like a scalded cat, and glowered venomously at him, intense hatred for the wizard visible in Tom's expression.

"Right. Thought so," Harry said smugly, before his expression turned grave. "I'm not risking Dumbledore finding out and expelling us just because you want to move too fast. Curb your notions, and all will be fine. Go around spewing about killing muggles like a raving maniac, and you won't even get a chance of garnering a following."

"Very well," sneered Tom in a grudging and irked tone. "I will take your advice under consideration." His dark blue eyes gleamed as he suddenly shot him a deeply pleased, arrogant smirk, as he added magnanimously, "Not bad… Not a bad idea at all, little brother. My new name."

"I live to serve," said Harry sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

Tom's smirk widened and his eyes gleamed, at that, but Harry was quick to speak before his brother dared spout something unfortunate.

"I reckon I'll be expected to go to your little club's meetings?" he said resignedly.

"Of course," bit out Tom sharply, narrowing his eyes. "How would it look if my own brother wasn't in attendance?"

"Right," grumbled Harry under his breath, not looking forward to it. He blinked, as he suddenly recalled a very important issue. "Oi, you said something about the journals?"

For some reason, that wiped Tom's smirk off his face, leaving him looking darkly vexed and sour. "Very well, come along. I will show you."

As they made their way into the hidden study below the Chamber of Secrets, Harry mused that actually helping his brother had been much easier than he had expected.

Furthermore, it felt profoundly gratifying. He couldn't help feeling pleased with himself, and even with his brother.

It seemed that reaching an agreement was indeed possible with Tom when Harry showed himself to be sincerely willing to lend out a hand.

---

Seated on a spartan chair before the desk and shelves filled with the journals of Slytherin's descendants, Harry perused again the stack of parchments containing Tom's translated notes.

"What am I looking at?" he finally muttered, a deep, puzzled frown on his face.

"Those are detailed instructions for a ritual," replied Tom arrogantly. "I found that same ritual in each and every one of the journals. All the diaries are entirely focused on the subject."

"What?" Harry glanced up at him at that, blinking in surprise. "Ritual? A ritual for what, exactly?"

"That, little brother," intoned Tom superiorly, "is the crux of the matter. I have yet to know."

Harry shook his head. "You're not making any sense. Explain."

Tom shot him a darkly aggravated look, before he expounded in thickly lecturing tones, "Slytherin's son, Saturnus, was the first to write about this ritual. I believe he was the one to conceive the idea of it." His lips twisted, as he sneered, "However, it became quickly apparent to me that he did not posses much brilliancy of mind. In his journal, he merely laid out the first basic notions. Yet, each and every one of his descendants picked up from where the previous generation left off, each adding more to the ritual in a clear attempt to complete it. Some successfully perfecting a stage, others not contributing much – obviously in accordance to their own knowledge, skills, and capacity."

Pausing for a moment, a grimace of dissatisfaction contorting his lips, Tom added in a grudging, low voice, "I must admit that not many of our ancestors were bright. I've counted only five who truly made remarkable progress with the design of the ritual. Those -" he smirked widely at Harry "-were indeed astoundingly brilliant, like myself." He then tapped a finger on his notes. "Nevertheless, the ritual is still incomplete. From what I could understand of it, Sherisse Slytherin's father was the last to add to it. Alas, I'm fairly certain it lacks the ultimate, last stage for it to be viable or successful."

"Alright," said Harry slowly, an utterly bemused expression growing on his face, "but what does it do?"

"I've told you," hissed out Tom angrily, poisonously glaring at him. "I've been unable to fully discover that."

Given Tom's now murderous expression, it was clear to Harry that his brother's failure in doing so had been vexing and frustrating him for quite some time.

"Um… but you must know something about it," pressed on Harry, infusing as much tact in his tone as he could muster.

"Of course I know plenty!" spat Tom irascibly, glowering intently down at him. "It is a very Dark ritual – one of the darkest I've read about. It calls for the sacrifice of lives. The killing of thirteen people." He shot Harry a very nasty smirk. "Of mudbloods, in fact."

Harry cast a wary grimace at the notes about the ritual, before he frowned at his brother, eyeing him suspiciously as he said tartly, "Are muggleborn victims a necessary requirement or a preference?"

"Both, I should think," retorted Tom, his smirk widening in malicious relish, evidently enjoying the very idea of it and Harry's appalled reaction.

"What else?" demanded Harry, frowning as he skewered him with his gaze.

"The ritual can only be successful after the thirteen lives of mudbloods are taken, killed by the one wishing to be affected by the magic of the ritual," said Tom loftily, waving a hand dismissively. "However, the last stage of the ritual necessary for it to conclude requires imbibing a potion. It is the brewing instructions of this potion which are incomplete."

"Who's the intended subject of the ritual?" asked Harry, now with deep curiosity no matter how it all sounded quite gruesome.

"How should I know?" bit out Tom with vast annoyance, as he briskly waved a hand in the direction of the shelves of journals. "Not one of them mentions who it was intended for. They all seem to know, as though it was implicit. But it is never mentioned - not once."

"But what's the ritual's purpose?" insisted Harry impatiently. "You must have some idea – some suspicion!"

"At first," murmured Tom quietly, as though speaking to himself, a gleam of remembered giddy excitement flashing in his eyes, "I thought it was a ritual to exponentially increase one's magical power, absorbing into oneself that of the mudbloods killed, strengthened by the number of victims – precisely thirteen, one of the most powerful numbers in magic..."

He trailed off, his lips twisting with immense displeasure as his voice turned back to normal. "Alas, later I realized I was mistaken." He shot Harry a fleeting look. "It does give its subject magical power temporarily, to enable the person to use that magic the instant after the potion is imbibed, I believe. Yet the ultimate objective of the ritual is not very useful or inspiring."

"Which is?" gritted out Harry in sheer frustration.

Tom shot him a quelling glare. "I've told you before, I can only make suppositions-"

"Then make them!" snapped Harry peevishly.

It was like trying to pull the words out of Tom's tongue with prongs! Although he could partly understand his brother's reluctance to share his theories, since Harry hadn't told him about the magic binding the Basilisk precisely because he still couldn't figure it out and couldn't tell him anything conclusive.

Tom darkly glowered at him before replying with unceremonious, dismissive succinctness, "I believe its purpose is to empower a wizard to enable him to lift off a dark curse that is affecting him."

At that, Harry stared up at him. And kept staring stupidly as his brother's words sunk into his skull, leaving him utterly dumbstruck.

"Yes," jeered Tom with disgust, clearly misinterpreting Harry's stupefied, frozen look. "It is essentially a type of healing ritual. Thus you can see how it hasn't pleased me to discover that I've been wasting all these months translating and piecing together such a useless, inane ritual. My only hope is that perhaps it can be modified to truly magnify one's power-"

Harry was on his feet and madly dashing out of the study before his brother had even time to shout his name.

Suddenly, it was as though an avalanche of startling, stunning realizations impacted in his head like shooting meteors.

Half hysteric with incredulity, half with sheer numbed astonishment, he let out a hallow laugh as he sprung up the spiraling staircase, as he hissed "Open!" to the base of the metal snake statue, as it shifted to a side and allowed him to jump up into the Chamber of Secrets.

It was as if he had only needed one more unsuspected piece of the puzzle for all the other innumerable, floating pieces to fall from foggy clouds and land back to earth, clicking together one after the other, forming a puzzle which became increasingly complex and larger, yet more clarifying with every new piece that Harry had had swirling around in his mind for ages.

Nagini's scorched clearing in the Forbidden Forest… what Helena Ravenclaw had witnessed happening there… Sherisse Slytherin's last moments of life… the one who had tried to aid her… the peculiar choice of words Santi had employed when telling him about it… the real reason why Santi had wanted him to know… the way Harry had been aided when he had been stuck in the portraits of Hogwarts… what had truly happened over a millennia ago… the Slytherin descendants' tradition of writing diaries… the Basilisk's response to Harry's first question… the Basilisk's foggy memories, lack of crest, the old scars on its body, and its mission… the how and why of Godric Gryffindor's magic binding the creature…

All of it finally made sense, bizarrely and outrageously, such an overwhelming and flabbergasting discovery – possibly the greatest in Wizard History in the opinion of most- and he, Harry, had been the one to find out, to unravel an enigma and mystery that felt as ancient and perplexing as Time itself.

And at the vortex of it all, the true catalyst, as Harry knew well: Santi. The very being he hadn't seen in ages and yet seemed to be deeply ingrained in every event that affected his life.

As Harry halted before the slumbering Basilisk, coiled under the carved face of Slytherin where Tom had left it, he stared at the creature.

He heard thundering footfalls reaching him, he heard Tom's angered voice snipping, he felt his brother stop by his side, harshly demanding an explanation for his behavior, and Harry automatically pointed a finger at the creature.

He didn't even ponder if it was wise to reveal it to Tom, didn't have the presence of mind to even consider and make such a simple decision.

He just needed to say it aloud, to hear it and finally be able to believe it himself.

"That," whispered Harry breathlessly, still frozenly pointing with a finger, "is no Basilisk. That, is Salazar Slytherin."