"Harry!" Ron exclaimed when he saw him peeking out from behind a bookcase. Multiple "shhs" and "shut ups" were called out, while many students just glared.

"Sorry about that," He whispered sheepishly, plopping down beside Hermione.

"We," Hermione began, but it was obviously targeted at Harry, "are turning in early tonight. We are going to be in bed by ten at the latest."

The potion study session lasted an hour. Honestly, Harry didn't even know the Shrinking Potion and the Shrinking Solution were two different things. The brewing process was almost completely different, too. It would be a miracle if he passed.

They trekked to the Chamber of Secrets after the two boys had worn Hermione's last ounce of potion teaching. Moaning Myrtle screamed at them when they entered and only went away after Harry started to hiss in parseltongue.

"Do we have to slide down?" Hermione peered down the pipe, which was covered in slime and rust.

"Er," What would Tom Riddle do? "Stairs?"

The screeching grinding of pipes and stones made them cover their ears. The awful sound only lasted for a minute, but his head was still ringing. Hermione peered down the pipe, and just past the entrance was a set of stone stairs. She said something that Harry couldn't hear.

Countless flights passed until they were finally at the bottom. He groaned at the thought of climbing up them; it had to be as far down as Hogwarts was tall. At the bottom, the pile of animal bones was much the same, besides being covered by a thick layer of dust.

With a joint Wingardium leviosa, they all worked together to clear the entrance of the heavy boulders. Past the door with the hydra on it, the Chamber of Secrets lay.

Besides more grime, the Chamber was just like it was when he was there in his second year. Snake statues dotted the walls of the arched ceiling, which had a large rectangular floor that stretched to the statue of a screaming bearded man.

The basilisk's skeleton lay in the centre. All the flesh was gone, eaten away by the corrosive venom or the rodents that scurried around the maze of tunnels. It was much bigger than he remembered. He thought it was around 15 metres (~50 feet), but it surely was at least 20 metres (~66 feet).

"I thought you were exaggerating about how big the basilisk was!" Hermione exclaimed with wide eyes.

"I think I was underestimating it..." Harry stepped forward, only for ankle-deep, algae-laced water to pour into his socks.

"Well, we can test out our scourgify." Ron pointed out, already drawing his wand.

The cleaning went quickly. They admittedly only cleared out the water and a spot near the entrance to sit. Underneath all the growth, the black floor shone like obsidian under the dull light of the torches they lit.

Harry threw his bag on the floor next to Ron. They sat, parchment at the ready, as he withdrew the diary. Now, in the chamber, it felt more powerful than it had in Dumbledore's office. At least it wasn't as strong as it had been when Ginny almost died.

"It's hard to believe that this caused so much terror." Hermione nudged the diary with the tip of her wand like it was an animal she wasn't sure was dead.

"Yeah, it feels dangerous, but it's just a book." Ron agreed. He flipped open a page and frowned at the ink smears. "It had writing in it? Harry, did it have this before?"

Yes, it did. "No, it was just blank. Probably just the leftovers of when I stabbed it; it bled black ink."

"Shame, I would love to see whatever a sixth-year You-Know-Who wrote about." Ron closed the book with a disappointed sigh.

Hermione let out a snort. "Could you imagine? 'Dear Diary, a girl asked me out today. I told her to go away because I was cramming for exams.' It would be hilarious!"

"No, no, this is You-Know-Who we're talking about. It'd be more like, 'Today, a muggleborn stepped on the back of my shoe. This only confirms that they are a blight on the world and must be vanquished.'" He said in a haughty, raspy voice. Both of them broke out in laughter.

"You're right as if anyone would ask him out." Hermione shook her head

"Hermione, you didn't see him! Top of the class and Head Boy too; people would throw themselves at him." Harry scoffed. Tom Riddle, as evil as he was, was undeniably attractive.

"Wow, Harry, I didn't know your type was young Dark Lords." Ron teased. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I don't have a young Dark Lord type; I just have eyes."

Their laughter continued into the late hours. The diary was a good resource, as always. Harry transfigured two normal books into lookalikes for their testing. Dark magic radiated so intensely from it that it was difficult to tell which one was the cursed one when placed side by side.

After almost three hours of work, they were able to tell which one was the real diary by about a cat's length apart. It needed more practice, but identification was worth most of the points in the exam. They could at least pass if they nailed that section.

"Guys, uh, how are we getting out?" Ron asked when their session drew to a close.

"We have the stairs," Hermione pointed out. Both of them cringed.

"Hermione, I—we love you, but we don't trek up to the library all the time. That's at least ten flights of stairs, actually, maybe twenty." The reredheadighed.

Firmus Nebula

The spell left his lips before he could process that his wand had been drawn. In the middle of their circle, a dark, almost black, cloud formed. He reached out, and beneath a wispy layer of smoke he felt a cold, solid surface. Curious, he stepped onto it.

"Mate, where'd you learn that?" Ron inquired, nudging the cloud with his foot.

"I think I read it in a prank book." He lied.

He could roughly steer it by leaning and shifting his weight. Stepping back would cause him to fall, while stepping forward would cause him to rise. He summoned two more for his friends, who each hopped on with some minor scepticism.

"It's a little hard to move," Hermione almost fell, but Ron caught her arm.

"It's this or a million flights of stairs."

Besides a few blunders by the non-quidditch player, they made it back to the bathroom within a few minutes. Myrtle screamed at them again, but they were gone before she could accost them any more.

Harry knocked back a Dreamless Sleep potion as he lay in bed. He kept the diary-wrapped cloak under his pillow again, along with his wand. A strong buzz and chime would go off at seven to wake him up. Hopefully, it would work; soaking in cold water was not how he wanted to start the day of his Transfiguration exam.

The grogginess still carried on into his morning, but was quenched by a Pepper-Up potion. By eight, everyone in the Great Hall was kicked out while the O.W.L.S. writing portion was set up.

Nervous fifth-years gathered at the closed doors. Somehow, Harry didn't feel any of it. There was an odd calmness to him, detached in the way one would daydream.

His thoughts wandered throughout the exam. It wasn't like he wasn't paying attention; his work was just as good as it would be if he had been fully focused, but the stress evaded him. The two hours of questions and short essays breezed past him.

"How are you not breaking at the seams, Harry?" Ron asked in a hushed whisper as they left the Great Hall, sitting around the entrance while they waited to be called for the individual practical exam.

"I'm not sure." He admitted, "I did get a lot of sleep yesterday."

His nerves (or lack thereof) remained the same regardless of the explosions or other noises on the other side of the door. By the time it was his turn, most of the people around him were in shambles.

This year it was mostly on vanishing and inanimate objects to animate creatures. He flew through transfiguring a cauldron into a badger and completely vanished his iguana. Professor McGonagall looked at him proudly from behind the ministry officials as each one of his spells was perfect.

"Well done, Mr Potter. Your exam is finished, expect results within four-to-eight business days." One of the officials, whom he recognised as an Auror, said.

He wandered back to his dorm after wishing Ron good luck. It would be another four hours until his herbology exam, and he could use a long nap. This calmness that settled in his mind would not last forever, and any scrap of sleep he could get in these times was of the utmost importance.

Nobody was in the fifth-year dorm when he arrived. He kicked off his shoes before crawling into bed, still in his robes. Under his pillow, he adjusted his cloak-wrapped diary to a more comfortable position.

Harry fell asleep almost instantly, the lingering touches of exhaustion lulling him into a peaceful slumber.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. The wallpaper was all but gone—little more than scraps of beige paper on a brick wall. Floorboards were splintered and discoloured, as if they were replaced only after being broken beyond repair and switched out for scrap pallet wood.

There was a sheetless metal-framed bed with a yellowed pillow and a thin blanket folded neatly at the end. A dresser that was marred with tick marks and rusted handles was adjacent to a chipped school desk.

Despite the run-down place, he felt joyful.

Pale, scuffed knuckles knocked lightly on the floor. A whisper of a hiss came from under the bed. A small garden snake darted out from it, crawling onto his threadbare trousers. He reached out a finger, and the snake touched the tip of its nose to it.

"Was that fast enough?" She hissed, letting him pet the scales on her head.

"Yes," The voice from his throat was higher-pitched than the last time: "Remember, you must hide when I do this."

"Yes, yes, I will do that." She momentarily coiled up and hopped into his sleeve.

The snake slithered up until she poked around the collar of his shirt. She curled her head into the hollow of his throat. He could feel her heartbeat as faintly as she could hear his. He idly played with the end of her tail.

The pounding of footsteps shook the hall. He manoeuvred the snake so it was concealed under his neckline. In one movement, he hopped onto the bed and pulled out a book from the crevice between the mattress and the wall.

He barely managed to get it to open to a random page before the creaking door slammed open.

"Harry!"

A shield was out in front of him before the water could hit his bed. A yelp came from the other side of it, and a soaking Ron glared at him. Harry smiled sheepishly. Ron cocked a grin and shook his head, droplets of water spraying across Harry.

"Yes?"

Ron handed him a letter, "Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to give this to you."

"Thanks, what time is it?'" He yawned.

"About noon. They're having dinner on the quidditch pitch, something about a picnic?" Ron shook his head, "Anyways, I'll see you there."

Another yawn escaped his lips. He wanted to curl up and stay in bed. It was so warm—warmer than usual. Still stuffed under the covers, he broke the seal of the letter.

'Harry,

I have heard news that is of the utmost importance that requires your presence. Please visit me in my office today when you have at least one hour to spare.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,

P.S. I enjoy ice mice'

Noon; his herbology exam would be at two. But he hadn't eaten, and running down to the pitch, eating lunch, and going to his office would take at least an hour. Decisions, decisions.

"Dobby!" He called after a moment of thought.

A "pop"' later, and the wrinkly house elf appeared beside him. Someone must have given him more clothes, as he now sported an additional five socks and a small, handknit Ravenclaw scarf.

"Is Master Harry Potter sick?" Concerned, Dobby visually started to panic.

"No!" He reassured quickly, "I'm just tired. Dobby, would you mind grabbing me a light lunch? They're serving it on the pitch today,, and I'm on a time crunch. I have a meeting with Dumbledore."

"A meeting with Headmaster? Dobby wishes Master Harry Potter good luck! And Dobby will bring him a lunch!" He popped away without another word.

He begrudgingly sat up from his heated cocoon. At least he was already dressed. He ate his lunch silently as his thoughts went back to the dream.

A snake, he hadn't considered it much before, but it would make a great pet. He was a parselmouth, as far as he knew he could at least communicate with it, if not outright control it.

Tom Riddle had full control over the basilisk. Even if it was because he was the heir of Slytherin, a snake must be interested in talking to the only other person in the United Kingdom that could understand them.

The corridors on his way to the office were desolate. From a passing glance at the pitch, everyone appeared to be there. Even the studious Ravenclaws had departed from their stacks of books to have a picnic. He sighed.

"Ice mice." The eagle statue rolled out of his way.

There was a murmur behind the door, obscured by privacy wards. He hesitantly knocked on the door, and the conversation stopped for a moment. Harry stepped back at the sound of pounding footsteps.

"Potter," Snape sneered as he opened the door, "Out of my way."

The professor clipped his shoulder as he marched past him. A snarky comment almost escaped him, but he held it back.

"Harry, my boy, come in," Dumbledore called.

As he entered, he saw Dumbledore repairing some broken knick-knacks on the floor. He smiled at him, a twinkle in his eyes. After stopping to stroke Fawks, Harry awkwardly stood by his desk while he worked. Dumbledore led him to a side room with a pensive in the middle of it.

"What teenage Voldemort are we looking at today?" It was a bit odd for him to say this was urgent.

"We are viewing a different memory today. The time has come that you are old enough to know this." He patted him on the back, "If it is too much for you, I will excuse you from your exams for today."

Harry gulped.

Dumbledore didn't reach for the locked cabinets containing the memory vials. Instead, he pressed the end of his wand against his temple and withdrew a silvery string. It was dropped into the pensive's bowl, and it swirled around the clear liquid until it held a shimmery surface.

He was in a private room in the Hog's Head. Nothing more than a grimy room with a wooden table and chairs. In front of him looked like Professor Trelawney. Her hair wasn't grey, and she fidgeted more.

"Thank you for your patience, Ms Trelawney. I'm afraid that my office has been compromised." He passed her a pint of butterbeer.

"It - It is no problem, Headmaster Dumbledore! I know we're in troubling times, and I am very flexible with these things!" Drops of liquid split over the edge when she picked it up.

"Yes, yes, these are dark times. Have you been fairing well?" Dumbledore drank from a flask.

"It has been tough. My great-grandmother is Cassandra Trelawney, and I - " Her eyes glazed over.

"Ms Trelawney?"

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...

Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...

And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...

And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…"

She spoke in a voice that wasn't her own. It was deeper, not feminine but not masculine either, and its cadence was jerky and unnatural. As soon as she finished her speech, her eyes were unglazed. The woman blinked, a little confused.

The world faded.

A hand was placed on his back. "This is why Voldemort targeted your family. You, Harry, were one of two wizard children that fulfilled these requirements. But he chose you, marked you." He tapped his lightning bolt scar.

"I have to kill him before he kills me."

He clutched the rim of the pensive. His stomach twisted, and acidic bile ran up his throat. The world swayed around him; he couldn't tell top from bottom.

This. This is why everything happened. Because of a damn prophecy. Four lines were barely sentences. His parents, Cedric, and Sirius, had to die because of it. How many others had fallen prey to it? Hundreds? Thousands?

Five years of constant deadly situations. The reason he had to live with the Dursleys. Brought to the point of breaking and only scraping by the skin of his teeth. And Dumbledore had kept it from him for years.

"Harry, I know you may be distressed by this, but I have one more request." He guided Harry's hands away from the pensive. He dropped something cold in it.

It momentarily snapped Harry out of his reverie. He glanced down at his hand. It was a gold-banded ring with an octahedron stone. It had odd carvings on it that, when looked at from the top point, made a symbol of a circle within a triangle divided by a straight line.

The residue on it was tenfold stronger than the diary. It was distinctly Voldemort and made his scar tingle.

"This is another cursed object. I would also like you to study this while you are home. You, more than anyone else, need to know how to recognise this. Do not worry about Voldemort, I have placed stronger wards around the property." He prodded at the ring.

"Okay." Harry numbly responded.

"I needed to see you before you left." Dumbledore guided him into the main office. "Next term, you will learn more about these cursed objects."

"Okay."

"Now off to your exams," He opened the door with a flick of his wand. "If you feel well enough?"

"I'm fine."

His head was empty as he wrote down his short answer on the effects of gillyweed. Words left the tip of his quill, but it was like he wasn't the one writing them.

His destiny was to kill or be killed. Doomed for blood to be spilt. Not that it hadn't already happened. How many injuries had he - Merlin, his friends too - sustained over the years? Hospitalised, petrified, and nearly drained of life by a cursed diary.

And that would continue until he or Voldemort died.

Ink splattered over his parchment. He picked up another anti-cheating quill and asked a supervisor to remove the excess ink.

"Harry, is something bothering you?" Ron asked, pausing his stride to let Harry catch up to him.

"I—Dumbledore showed me another memory." He turned away as he said it.

"Oh, sorry, mate. Going to need a Dreamless Sleep tonight?"

"Yeah."

Ron didn't inquire further.

The common room was a wretched place. Only he and Dean Thomas had packed the night before, it seemed. Ron was chucking clothes and school supplies into his trunk while Neville was sitting on his, trying to get it to shut enough to latch it.

Part of Harry wanted to apply an expansion charm to Neville's trunk, but he stayed in his place instead.

It gave him some much-needed amusement. Last night he woke up with a searing pain in his scar that lasted for hours, and he couldn't go back to sleep. A smell of burnt flesh permeated him for three showers until he got it off.

Harry didn't even remember where the days went. His exams were hazy; he knew they were completed, but when he tried to remember anything, it was all just blank.

He stayed with Ron up until the last minute, when both of them had to run to the station. Hermione looked at them disappointedly when they finally arrived.

Her chastising and nit-picking on them kept his thoughts away from his end destination. The Dursleys. Had they known about the prophecy? He shook his head. No, they would have let it slip in some way. Looking back, they accidentally hinted at him being magical several times, even if they despised him for it.

They would have leveraged it against him. Or at least made sure he stayed safer. Countless times he had nearly died, and Petunia must have at least known about a dark wizard that wanted to purge muggles from his mother. Hagrid had mentioned that, although strained, their relationship lasted until their parents' deaths.

A low stir sat in his stomach. Eating three chocolate frogs and a box of Bertie Bot's Beans on a panicked stomach wasn't the brightest decision. He dismissed himself to the bathroom.

After dry-heaving into the toilet for a few minutes, he was feeling a modicum better. Harry caught himself in one of the several floor-length mirrors. He looked green, tired, with a layer of sweat over him.

He was splashing water on his face when he heard the door swing open.

"Busy crying, Potter?" Just his fucking luck.

Harry flicked his hand, drying his face with a bit of magic, "Can't I piss in peace, Malfoy?"

"It's a public bathroom. Do you think you own this too? Strutting around like you own the whole castle." The blond walked behind him, they held eye contact through the mirror.

"I don't strut," Harry said sternly, "But if anyone does, it's you."

"Oh, I strut, of course. But I, unlike you, deserve it." He stopped in his tracks.

He tried to step away, but Draco's arm shot out and blocked him from moving.

"I must say," Draco leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper, "My condolences for your godfather's death. It must have been so tragic."

Shatter. He held the blond up by the throat against the mirror. His magic blasted out of him, paralyzing Draco in fear and cracking the mirror even further. It was thick in the air, almost too much to breathe, and looked like a fog.

"Don't," Harry growled. He wanted to snap more, but he was already struggling to regain his composure. It was something he always pressed down but now it seemed almost impossible to do.

They stared each other down for what felt like hours. The burn within him slowly dissipated enough for him to wrangle it back into place. With a final hiss, he dropped the pompous brat to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He left the room without a glance back.

Otherwise, the rest of the journey was uneventful. Ron spent half the time trying to teach him chess strategies, but he was lost after the first ten minutes. The train screeched to a stop far too soon for Harry's liking.

Mad-Eye Moody (the real one, he hoped) and a woman with striking blue hair were conversing with his relatives on the other side of platform 9 3/4. By the looks on their faces, it wasn't a pleasant one. He gulped.

The two Aurors left when he arrived, the other one wishing a nice summer, while Moody just tugged her along. Vernon was glaring down at him silently. The man stayed silent throughout the entire drive home and didn't even complain when Harry needed help putting his trunk in the back of the car. Silence from Vernon was never a good sign.

"Boy." His stomach dropped when the front door clicked.

"Yes, sir?" What had the Aurors told them?

"Your freakish people said your murderous godfather is dead." Petunia's shrill voice made his ears ring, "And that those, 'Death Eaters' will go after you. Unfortunately, some freakishness is over our house, and as long as you stay within our property, it protects us as well."

"You are not allowed to step a foot past the lawn, you hear me? And take your freak things upstairs; if anyone attacks, run far away from us. Don't need you mucking about grabbing your things when you could be leaving." Vernon bristled and practically pushed him to the stairs.

"I understand."

"Good. Now out of my sight." Harry didn't need to be told twice. He got off easy this time.

He sighed as he flopped onto the cot in the second bedroom. Like in his second year, he was confined to his room. At least he had his magical things this time. And this time, he could get his summer homework done now, not the day he got back to Hogwarts. He thought that they would ease up after his O.W.L.S., but it only got worse.

At least Hermione had given him her spare parchment.

The silvery cloak revealed a golden corner. Harry laid down on his bed, running his fingers along the cover of the book. Hard to believe that this caused so much destruction. The magic that emanated from it, which was once threatening, now almost comforted him.

His muggle house had nothing magical besides the wards, and those could only be felt when you were about to touch them. And his other items, besides the invisibility cloak, didn't flow with energy. It was his one scrap of magic in the otherwise desolate house.

Hours later, he awoke to a crack outside. Several cracks. Bleary-eyed, he left the diary on his bed as he walked to the window. There wasn't much to see outside, but the moon illuminated enough of it to see dark shadows running around.

He sighed at the alarm clock. Midnight. Whatever was going on outside would wait until the morning. If they were magical, they shouldn't be able to get in; if not, then why was it his problem that people were in his neighbour's backyard?

Three days later, the gardens were finally done. Petunia barely kept up with the work for it over the school year. Somehow, a mint plant had gotten into the garden and was syphoning the nutrients and water from the flowers. The lines on his hands burned and were swollen from the small cuts.

Each hour stretched longer and longer, but after the first week, most of his catching up was done. Instead, he was banished to the room most of the time. Besides cleaning and making food, and the occasional mowing of the lawn, he wasn't needed.

In short, he was restless. There was so much to do: Voldemort was making moves, the Order of the Phoenix was combating those plans, and then there was Harry.

How was he supposed to defeat the Dark Lord? Voldemort was over fifty years older than him, and even when they considered the decade of haunting as a spirit, he had been training for almost three times longer than Harry had been alive.

Harry knew he wasn't the strongest student, either. His instincts were good, but his spell library was poor at best. Why wasn't he being trained? Seeing the memories of Tom Riddle didn't really give him much insight. He already knew the man was cold and calculated.

Why was he left defenceless?

Angry tears flowed down his cheeks. He wiped them away with a growl. The boy wanted to punch a wall or throw something. But Vernon would know. And he didn't want to upset him more than he already had. The throbbing ache in his back was a reminder enough.

More cracks came from outside. Every damn night, they snuck around and caused a small ruckus. Infuriated, he yanked out a scroll of parchment and ink. He dipped his fingers into the inkwell. In large letters, he wrote his plea.

'Please stop making noise at midnight. I need to sleep.'

It sounded reasonable enough. He wedged it in the corner of his window. In the morning, he'd remove it. They should see it by then; he'd even leave his lamp on to help illuminate the note. The boy stuffed his spare cloak against the crack in the door and manoeuvred the rest of them around it. Best that no one inside saw that his light was on.

The noises didn't stop that night. The next morning, he stared deeply at his neighbour's backyard. There was no trace of people except for a broken branch. He took his note down, bitterly, he'd try again tonight.

The lack of sleep followed him into his chores. He burnt a piece of bacon, spilt soapy water onto the floor, and hovered the ends of the curtains, causing small tears in them. Each time, he was barely able to cover up his mistakes before anyone saw them.

At noon, Petunia demanded he clear out the gardens. Stacks of leaves and sticks from the neighbour's trees had blown into the rose bushes. He pricked his fingers on the thorns more times than he could count. When he blindly reached into the bush to pull out another leaf, he felt something different.

He pulled out a scrap of parchment.

'No.'

He recognised the writing from the diary.