Snake-Song III

Last Chapter: Harry settles back into Hogwarts and has an anti-climactic run-in with a Cornish Pixie.

October arrived with a drizzle of rain; and thus she remained, spreading a damp chill around the castle. Half the school seemed to catch a cold at once. The rumour was that Madam Pomphrey had run out of Pepper-Up Potions in her attempt to ward-off the weather's adverse effects. One girl, Ginny Weasley (who he vaguely recognised from the Weasley-Malfoy scuffle in Diagon Alley), looked so pale and wan she might've fainted.

Harry felt none of it. The years spent in a cold cupboard gave him an iron immune system. Still, just to be safe he taught himself a few tricky warming charms, and ordered heavier exercise robes. They looked rather like something Harry imagined a mediaeval noble might go hawking or hunting in, with a pleasantly furred interior. He'd even found a spell that produced a light rain-shield that, theoretically, he could use and run at the same time. Unfortunately it was NEWT level.

That wasn't Harry's only frustration. His exercise routine, as far as he could tell, was doing… nothing. Nothing except exhausting him, which was pointless and unpleasant by itself. He soon began to wonder if he was overtraining? Stongsong had warned about that in Muscular Wizardry and had recommended rest days. Was he not resting enough? Or, perhaps more worrying (especially for his aching thighs), was he not exercising enough?

There was no obvious answer, and no immediate way to obtain one, so he continued with his planned regime and hoped. Days passed; he saw Davis thrice more around the Lake, and the weather only grew cooler. He'd managed to convince Wayne to duel a few times a week (just to get my heart-rate up, he'd said) and, surprisingly, Michael Corner had sought him out for practice. Harry had been only too happy to oblige.

Unfortunately, Corner wasn't very good.

One cold October evening, Harry became so vexed that he broke a promise to himself. Of the three books the Huntan had gifted him, he'd read only Muscular Wizardry; and until he'd seen some results from his training, he'd told himself that he wouldn't read the others. A reward, of sorts. The same idea had motivated him through last year's reading list.

But no results were forthcoming, and he was tired of waiting. He wanted to improve; he needed to improve. So he swiped Battle-Transfiguration: a Straight Line, by Enrique De Luna, from his trunk, returned to the Common Room, and began to read.

The pages were new and neat, thick with the grain common to wizarding books. Harry flicked with the introductory pages impatiently until he arrived at Chapter One: the Basics of the Basics.

Finally, he thought, settling deeper into his armchair, something interesti-

"-Hullo Harry," said Ernie MacMillan, dropping himself lazily in Susan's usual chair (she was off researching Herbology at the library).

Harry felt his knuckles whiten as he gripped the book tighter. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? "Yes, Ernie?" he sighed, a little snappier than he'd intended.

Ernie didn't seem to notice. "Had a good day?" he asked blithely.

It was difficult for Harry not to roll his eyes. Chit-chat. Why did wizards love chit-chat just as much as Muggles?

"Not bad," he replied, hoping his brief answer would hurry Ernie to his point. There was a moment's uncomfortable silence; a little too uncomfortable, so Harry filled it; "What about you?"

"Better now I've gotten over that blasted cold," Ernie replied pompously. He truly loved to hear himself speak… but at least Justin wasn't with him. Together, those two could talk for England, wizarding or Muggle. "But Professor Snape really got to me today, you know? You were there after all - you saw how he was looming over me while I was stirring the Swelling Solution. How am I – how is anyone, really? – supposed to concentrate with him looming over them like a great big reptile?"

Harry thought Snape resembled more a bat, but he wasn't going to give Ernie more fuel for his fire.

"Anyway, yes, sorry, I've rambled a bit, haven't I?" Ernie chuckled to himself.

Harry said nothing. He was not in the mood.

The silence stretched once more. This time, Ernie stumbled into it; "... So, er, I've been thinking – you know, the Quidditch try-outs are coming up, right? There's a Chaser spot available, and I thought… I thought…"

Could this conversation get any slower? "You want to try-out?" Harry ventured.

Ernie shook his head, surprise blooming across his reddening, sizable cheeks. "Merlin, no! I'm not really for that sort of thing, you know? No, I thought… maybe you could try-out."

Harry blinked. Was this an attempt at advice? He briefly considered it. He did enjoy flying, and Qudditch seemed a decent game… but it would take up a lot of his time. The Hufflepuff Quidditch Team, he knew, practised at least twice a week. It could be good exercise, but would it beat running?

No, it wouldn't. "It's not a bad idea," Harry offered. He returned his gaze to his book, signalling that the conversation was over. "but it'd take up too much of my time."

Ernie reddened further. "Wha-what time?" he said. "It's only a few times a week."

Harry felt his mood drop further, a spark of anger igniting in his chest. Was he still arguing? Who did he think he was? "I practise magic out of hours, you know?"

"And you're really good, the best of us… I just thought… I just thought… you know? I saw you – we all saw you – fly with Jorkins last ye–"

Alan. The thought fanned the spark into a blaze. Harry turned his gaze to Ernie. "Sorry?" he said coolly. Warningly.

Ernie's reddened cheeks paled. For a moment it looked like he'd push on with his argument; his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his eyes darting as if searching for inspiration. He found none; "Er, uh – I'll leave you to your book."

Harry watched him scamper away to Justin, the fire inside his chest sputtering out. Merlin, he thought to himself. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He could see what Ernie was trying to do – he was trying to make him make friends. But he didn't want friends. He wanted to be left alone with Susan and his books.

After all, what'd happened to the one true friend he'd made outside of Susan? Alan wouldn't speak to him. Harry could only guess what'd happened to the Jorkins family after Gabriel was – effectively – expelled after the debacle with the Philosopher's Stone, but it was likely nothing good. Whatever it was, it was enough for Alan to hate him.

No, it was better to stay away.

He took a moment to settle down and returned to Chapter One: the Basics of the Basics.

An hour later, Harry put the book down, pensieve. He wasn't sure what to think of it. At least, now he understood the meaning behind the curious title – the Straight Line referred to the methodology De Luna was intending to teach. It was a straight line; a short-cut. The book's purpose was to teach the reader how to cast duel-ready transfigurations without understanding the broader magical theory usually required. It wasn't systematic; it was a brute-force approach, something Professor McGonagall had specifically warned against.

Harry frowned, noting Justin Finch-Fletchley still glaring at him from across the Common Room. He'd been doing it on-and-off the whole hour. He was easy to ignore.

Hadn't he brute-forced a fair few charms he didn't really understand? The warming charms he sometimes used while running were for fifth years, and the rain-shield he was learning was intended for NEWT students – seventh years. Eventually, he knew he'd crack it – probably before Christmas, if nothing distracted him. Quidditch certainly wouldn't.

Even so, he disliked taking short-cuts. While duelling ability was his chief concern, he did want to understand the magic he was casting; otherwise he would never be able to use it to its full effect. But would brute-forcing transfiguration now prevent him from learning it properly later? It was doubtful.

His mind returned, unhappily, to the incident in Fairyland, and the duel against Quirrell before it. He did need to improve, and sooner rather than later…

… And it wasn't like Muscular Wizardry was helping at the moment…

That decided it. Harry read on.

For a week, the book helped Harry clear his thoughts. De Luna recommended a duellist carry chips of Janson Spruce or Aragonese Beech in his pockets. Both were common potion's ingredients, and therefore very cheap. More importantly, both had weak Invariabilia Corpora, while still being magical flora. They were mouldable.

The general concept was to transfigure them into simple shapes during a duel. They could be turned to stone and enlarged, or shrunk and pelted at an opponent. Theoretically, this was much easier than relying on whatever happened to be lying around at the time (what De Luna called 'the state of play').

In practice, Susan got to laugh at him as he failed, again and again, to transfigure a cut of spruce into a stone slab. Most often they simply turned into stone-grained wood or wood-grained stone (both of which shattered easily); except once, when a chip of spruce had formed into a perfectly formed baked potato.

Susan had almost fallen off her chair in laughter.

He took it easily. Every failure was progress.

His focus remained unbroken until early Thursday morning. He'd just finished an exhausting Astronomy lesson with Professor Vector (foolishly, he'd gone on a run that morning, so climbing the stairs of the Astronomy Tower felt like climbing a tower to hell). Now he was practically limping through the corridors of Hogwarts, having fallen behind his fellow Hufflepuffs. Only Susan had remained with him.

Hogwarts appeared different in the dark. All the corridors took on a sinister tint; their shadows grew large and black, and who knew how many portraits were still awake, watching sleeplessly in the dark? Rain was drizzling against the stained glass windows like the tears of a grieving god, drawing strange shapes on the dappling moonlight whose rays cast cool outlines on the flagstone floor.

And Harry spotted something in the shadow. He stiffened, and stepped in front of Susan, his hand reaching to his holster. "Who's there?"

The figure stepped into the moonlight.

Harry's chest tightened, crushed by a whirlwind of confounding emotions. "Susan," he eventually said, "please go on ahead."

He wasn't looking at her, but he felt her stop. He felt her gaze, heard her sigh, then felt her touch upon his arm as she walked by.

Alan Jorkins nodded as she passed. His grey eyes were silver in the moonlight, but shone as hard as steel. "You can take your hand off your wand," he said once she was gone. "I can't beat you. I could never beat you."

Was that an insult? Harry wasn't sure, but he felt insulted. Hurt. He let his hands drop to his sides. "I suppose… I suppose this isn't something we can work out by duelling, is it?"

Alan scoffed. "Most problems can't be fought away, Potter. Didn't my cousin try to teach you that? Or maybe that's just the Muggle in me talking."

That wasn't fair. Had Alan even got the whole story? "Alan, I–I never wanted any of this to happen, you know that right? But Gabriel was involved with this group, SLEF, the Sorcerer's Leag–"

"–League for Equality and Fraternity, I know," Alan interrupted. "Not a fan of equality or fraternity, are you? Will you rebuild that fancy hall of yours and lord over all the poor Muggleborns and poorer, dirtier Muggles?"

That was even less fair. Anger was beginning to win out against all those other confusing emotions. "What's that supposed to mean!? SLEF planted bombs in government buildings – they were lucky not to kill anyone Alan!"

"The real SLEF, Harry, from ages ago! Not Gabriel's group! You knew her, didn't you!? Would she really hurt anyone!? She wanted to help people–not blow stuff up!"

Harry reddened in a rush of anger; "How was I supposed to know if Gabriel's SLEF was any different!? How was I supposed to know she wouldn't give the Stone to an adult who would do who-knows-what!?"

Alan looked almost feral; his eyes glistened. His voice cracked painfully; "I DON'T KNOW, HARRY, MAYBE YOU COULD'VE TALKED TO HER!?"

"OH, YES, HELLO GABRIEL, ABOUT THAT ILLEGAL GROUP YOU'RE PART OF – SAY, WHAT'RE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE ONCE YOU'VE STOLEN IT!?

"GOD-DAMMIT HARRY, YOU'VE BUGGERED ME! MY AUNT WON'T TALK TO ME, OR HALF MY COUSINS! THEY WERE TEACHING ME HOW TO BE A WIZARD, AND NOW… AND NOW…"

For a long, tense moment there was silence, broken only by the tap-tap-tap of rain against the windows. Then Alan curled over… and sobbed, his voice an awful whisper. "You've–you've broken my family apart." He held his face in his hands.

Harry saw shimmering tears splash against the flagstones. All his anger left him at once. For a moment he was frozen; comforting people had never been his strong-suit – especially when he was partly to blame. He approached Alan as though he were a wounded lion, his hand stretched out. "I'm sorry," he whispered, intending to touch his back reassuringly.

"Get–get away from me," Alan said, throwing his arm in Harry's direction.

Harry jumped back. It was just an aimless flail, but it spoke more than words.

"Half of them," Alan continued brokenly, "half of them support Gabriel and hate me. The other half support me, and still don't really like me."

Harry had no idea how that felt. He never would.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and fled into the shadows of Hogwarts.

…

…

As November approached, Harry's mood did not improve. He found it difficult to concentrate. Justin was refusing to speak to him – not that they often spoke at length – but it made speaking to his housemates awkward in a group. Worse, his mind lingered on his argument with Alan. He replayed it endlessly, seeking answers in the recesses of his mind. Had he made the right decision?

At the time, he and Susan had decided to keep it all to themselves. They'd told themselves they couldn't go directly to Gabriel but that, he now knew, was an excuse. They were just too afraid to talk to her about it. They'd decided not to speak to Alan, either. They'd told themselves he didn't need his familial relationships muddied more than they already were… but what did they think was going to happen if Gabriel did try for the Stone… which she had?

Nevermind what they could've told the teachers.

It was difficult to come to any other conclusion than they'd made bad choices. And it was too late to fix it. Sometimes, he felt like he'd aged five years in one.

Halloween's approach didn't make anything better. The more he learned about the wizarding world, the keener he felt the approach of 31st October. Live bats were nesting in the rafters of the Great Hall (what wonder hygiene spells must've been!); Hagrid had been growing vast pumpkins since the end of the last term, which were now carved into lanterns large enough for a grown man to sit in. They floated freely above the student's heads at dinner. Rumour held that Professor Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the evening itself.

But while the rest of the castle came alive with anticipation, enjoying the decorations, the atmosphere, Harry-

"No, Wayne, I'm not sulking."

The last lesson of the week had just ended – a dull Transfiguration lesson – and Harry stormed out the room, feeling Wayne Hopkins' gaze clearly on his back.

He had made an unfortunate joke and, as Harry's mind cleared, he knew he shouldn't have taken it so badly. He had no right to ruin Halloween for everyone else. They weren't responsible for his parent's deaths. Just Voldemort. His mind flew back to Quirrel, to the evil face in the back of his head… Voldemort who was still out there. A terrible sensation hit him then, an awful shudder of foreboding.

The Dark Lord would return. It was just a matter of if he was strong enough to face him. Harry's hand absently felt for his wand and, when he grasped it, he returned to his senses. He'd been walking aimlessly, furiously.

No – he looked up, and saw it had not been aimless at all. His feet knew him better than he did. He'd stopped right before the Duelling Hall. The old Duelling Hall, now the Self Defence Club was defunct. Just where he'd waited out the night the year before… where the Troll had attacked.

Harry snorted. There would be no troll this time. He pushed open the door. It was just as he'd left it two days before, when he'd duelled Michael Corner. Dust was beginning to encroach in the corners of the room. A few items from its past remained, piled in one corner – including all four ceremonial sword-bearing candelabra.

One of which had pierced straight through the Troll's throat.

Harry sat in one of the chairs, opened Battle-Transfiguration, and began to read. Susan joined him soon after. She barely said a word, just smiled, and sat beside him. They read in silence for a while until the door opened with a creek. A familiar head of chestnut-brown hair peaked around the crack.

Skittish brown eyes met Harry's own.

"Granger?"

Granger jolted in place, but didn't flee. "Uh–hello, um–Potter, Bones. Can I… can I come in?"

Harry and Susan shared a glance. Granger hadn't really spoken to them since the incident with the troll. She'd gone very jittery for a while thereafter, and half the year thought she'd leave. Eventually her nerves had settled, and – from Harry's brief assessment – had made friends with Neville Longbottom and a couple of Ravenclaws.

Which meant, in a sense, that she had more friends than him.

Harry quickly banished the thought.

"Granger? Um–sure."

Granger almost tiptoed in and, after a moment's indecision, took a seat opposite Harry. A large box was tucked under her shoulder.

Up close, Harry could see clearly the tension in her face – the straight line of her mouth, the worry pinching at her chocolate brown eyes. It was faintly amusing. He had no intention of being mean to her, or sending her away.

But he suspected she'd had much experience of that before.

"I–I thought since it's been a year since – you know, since the Troll, and I thought you might not be at the feat because of– Oh, Merlin I'm bad at this!" Hermione puffed out a frustrated sigh, strong enough the strands of frizzy hair that had settled as her fringe. "I thought you might want the company."

Harry smiled as warmly as he could. Perhaps they could be friends after all? "We'll be glad of it."

Granger smiled back dazzlingly, her teeth slightly book-toothed. "I brought a board game – if you want it."

She set down the box under her arm. Harry leaned over; there were many wizarding board games, too many to count. Granger had brought… Monopoly. Susan was looking at it quizzically. Harry suppressed a chuckle. That was very Granger.

A few minutes later, the Gryffindor girl had set the board between them and portioned equal amounts of monopoly money between them, along with their chosen tokens. Harry took a train counter, while Susan preferred a horse and rider. Granger had a wheelbarrow, and muttered something about a broken arm.

It took a few minutes for her to explain the rules to them (Harry having only a general idea of the game). They began haltingly. Susan was stilted and, to be honest, Harry felt he was little better. Granger, clearly used to the rules, was characteristically efficient.

"This game is…" Susan wrinkled her nose as though she'd smelled something unfamiliar, "very Muggle."

"You don't have Monopoly at all?" Granger said.

"Wizards don't own other wizard's houses," Susan explained. "Monopoly doesn't make any sense."

That was… interesting, Harry thought. "How does housing work in wizarding Britain, then?"

Susan gave an elegant shrug. "I don't really know. You'd have to ask my cousin – he's involved in W.A. ."

"Wards?"

"The Wizarding Authority for…" Susan's brow furrowed, "for the Regulation and Development of Spaces. They control housing. All I know is that… we live in them."

Harry chuckled, while Granger frowned. She rolled her dice; and landed straight on Susan's property. Her frown deepened. "It makes sense, I suppose. Witches and wizards need to be careful about where they live, or they'll break the Statute of Secrecy without meaning to."

Susan accepted the monopoly money happily; her initial scepticism seemed to be vanishing. "W.A. is important, but so boring. Merlin, Peter goes on and on about Cee-cee-tee-vee and Muggle police."

Harry saw Granger smother a smile at Susan's pronunciation. He purposefully caught her eye; laughter burst from her lips like a bursting dam.

… While Susan glanced between them cluelessly. "What?"

Granger proceeded – as respectfully as she could – to explain the proper way to say C.C.T.V. Susan's cheeks reddened, but she took it in good humour.

It was, nice, Harry thought, to have someone else to talk to. He rolled the dice.

The game carried on seemingly endlessly, which Harry found odd. He'd never actually played monopoly before. Was it supposed to take so long? Susan, he suspected, was wondering the same. Granger made no mention of it – but she had said, in passing, that she and her parents often played together.

Despite that, Susan soon eased into a comfortable lead. That Mayfair building was just so powerful. Harry rubbed his money vanishing reserves between his fingers, and stared at the board. What was he doing wrong? There had to be a strategy…

"... RIP…"

The whisper wrenched Harry from his thoughts. "Huh?"

What on earth was that? He peered around the old Duelling Hall. The sconces were burning low, sending flickering shadows across the room. He turned, his chair scraping against the stone floor. There was nothing behind him; just a few old desks piled up against the wall, the sword-holding candelabra… and the rug that covered the blood-stained floor. The duelling platform was long gone.

"Potter, are you okay?"

Harry twisted back. Granger was looking at him oddly.

He glanced at Susan. She too looked bemused.

"Didn't you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That…" Harry let the room go quiet. "That whisper."

They listened for a long, long moment.

Nothing.

"Harry," Susan said, "I can't hear anything."

She sounded ever-so-slightly alarmed. After all, nothing good ever came of hearing voices only you could hear.

It was Harry's turn to shrug. "I must be hearing things. Never mind, let's get on with Susan's victory march."

Granger rolled her eyes; Susan smiled innocently. They carried on with the game. The next two turns ended with Susan accumulating yet more money, while Harry's own reserves began to dwindle. He'd make it back, he; that was the way the game went - a sort of push-and-pull based on whose turn it was. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

He was passing yet another hundred pounds to Granger when she said; "Watch out for Creevey, by the way."

Harry blinked. "Who?"

"He's a first-year Gryffindor," she told him dryly, "who would very much like the autograph of The-Boy-Who-Lived. He never stops talking about you."

Harry supposed that wasn't too unusual; in his first year, he'd noticed a lot of them. They'd mostly quietened down as the year went by. He'd become – he hoped – just another student. "He'll get used to me."

"I'm not so sure about that," Granger said. "He's too afraid to go near you. The mysterious duellist, the celebrity who doesn't mix with the riff-raff.."

Harry felt his brows arch in surprise. He'd never considered how the other students really saw him – outside of his small circle of friendship… if two people could be called a friendship.

It was then that Susan interrupted; "That's funny," she said sharply, "until now, I could've said the same about you."

Silence stretched around the table like a strangling hand; Granger looked down at her lap.

"... I'm sorry," Susan said. "That was uncalled for. I-I was just…"

Granger shook her head, sending her frizzy hair flying. "It's okay, you were just defending your friend. I'll.. I'll go, I think."

She made to stand, but Harry stood first. "No," he said. "You're right – it's okay; let's continue."

Granger smiled shakily. "A-are you sure?"

"Of course."

Granger breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down. They carried on thereafter.

The strange sound – a terrible, frozen voice he thought he'd heard – vanished into the back of Harry's mind.

At least for a few more minutes, until it broke into his thoughts with the sound of a distant scream.

They all leapt to their feet. It had come from the floor below.

"What was that?"

Harry opened the door, peering through the crack. Nothing. Then he realised he was being silly; he pushed the door open. Granger gasped. He ignored her, and paced to the nearest staircase. Practically flying down the stairs, he saw a growing crowd congregating around… something, something hanging from the bracket of a sconce.

No, Harry realised, with growing horror; it wasn't something on a sconce they were really interested in. It was writing on the wall. Foot-high words in bright red that Harry struggled to read between the taller figures of the older students. He pushed closer with his elbows.

Below the writing a pool of water had settled, shimmering in the torch-light.

But Harry didn't care. He was staring up at the words, which he could now read:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

"The heir," he heard more than one student mutter, "Slytherin… Muggleborns… what's this mean?... Trouble…"

Harry never saw who'd said that, but he knew in his gut he was right. Trouble, he sensed, was coming to Hogwarts. He just didn't know what kind.

Dobby had been right all along.

A/N:

Well… who could've expected that! The plot of the Chamber of Secrets, actually happening? Madness.

Sarcasm might be the lowest form of wit, but I still enjoy it.

Aside from that, Harry and Alan have at it, Harry and Hermione grow just a little closer, and Harry is frustrated by his lack of gains… 'bro'.

Of course, despite his Victorian/Edwardian style education, Harry is still twelve; twelve year olds are not known for their patience.

NEXT CHAPTER:

Harry learns about the Chamber, has a… rather unfortunate duel, and resolves to ask for help from an unlikely source for his new quandary (three guesses what that is, and the personage of the source).

Read it next time on The Duellist… or on D-iscord, where it is already out; or read that and the chapter thereafter on P-atreon.