Snake-Song IV

Last Chapter: Harry and Alan argue; the Chamber of Secrets is opened.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware. The words spread through Hogwarts like cursed fire. For the next few days, it was all anyone could talk about; even the looming Gryffindor - Slytherin Quidditch match had been forgotten in the flood of nervous excitement. Harry couldn't go ten minutes in public without hearing the words 'chamber' or 'secret' – and 'Slytherin', for that, as it was generally agreed, was the nature of the Heir. One usually followed the other; and not in fearful terms either, though the Heir – whoever they were – had left more than mere words to announce themselves.

The thing the crowd had surrounded (that wasn't the message) turned out to be Mrs. Norris, Filch's pet cat. She'd been petrified which, apparently, was a sort-of semi-permanent freezing. It could be cured, albeit at great expense.

No one was particularly eager for her revival. Harry hadn't truly crossed paths with the caretaker or his cat, but neither were well-liked amongst the students of the castle. Filch himself had been disconsolate, openly weeping at the sight. Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for the old man, especially when he learned Argus Filch was, apparently, a Squib – a person born to magical parents who could not use magic themselves.

Imagine, he pondered, living in a magical school for decades, yet being unable to use magic yourself? How painful each day would be. It did not surprise Harry that Filch had grown embittered; Harry had felt something of the same in primary school, when Dudley had isolated him from the rest of the class. Now, after decades of loneliness, the heir had ripped the old man's only companion away…

Even so, none of the students seemed to care. They were more curious than fearful. The identity of the heir had become a great topic of gossip. "It could be him," Justin had insisted one afternoon. They were trudging through the muddy grounds outside the greenhouses, having just finished a Herbology class. "Everyone must be related to everyone in the wizarding world."

Ernie had rolled his eyes. "It's not that simple, Justin. There are more witches and wizards than you think – there are other schools, you know, and home-schoolers."

"Yes, but we're not talking about homeschoolers, or other schools. Hartin is here, and he's angry. Who's to say he's not found some awful ritual to make himself the Heir?"

To his right, Harry heard Susan suppress a burst of laughter with a cough.

Ernie didn't bother; he openly rolled his eyes. "Those don't exist," he explained, exasperated. "And Hartin has no connection to Slytherin – and he's an idiot, for that matter."

For the last day or so, Justin had become obsessed with the idea that Matthew Hartin was the Heir of Slytherin. Mostly because of his hostility to Harry himself. It was a flattering idea. It was also absurd, knowing what he knew. According to McConnell, Hartin hated everything Slytherin stood for.

Harry did not say as much, though. Hartin's past was not his secret to reveal.

"Perhaps," Wayne added glibly, "the Heir is a Muggleborn, pretending to be the Heir as a joke. Or perhaps they're a secret Pureblood pretending to be a Muggleborn – or perhaps they only recently came to know the truth about their ancestry. Or perhaps it's a teacher."

There was the fuel Wayne so loved to add to the fire. Harry remained silent and let them argue it out.

Though the idea that the heir could be a teacher was… interesting.

There was precedent for it – considering Quirrell – but for two teachers in two years to be rotten? No one found that likely. Even so, Snape's strange expression when he'd seen the petrified Mrs. Norris had been peculiar… While Professor McGonagall had looked pained, Lockhart had thrown himself into a tizzy of manic, useless, bluster. The Headmaster – of course – was beyond reproach.

Professor Flitwick seemed agitated the next morning, jumping at his own breakfast when the House Elves popped it in. Professor Sprout looked at her own breakfast as though it were ash. As a consequence of her nocturnal shifts, Professor Sinastra was absent. The elective teachers – Professors Kettleburn, Vector, Trelawney, Burbage, and Babbling – Harry found more difficult to judge. He didn't even know what half of them taught.

The first lesson after Halloween was History of Magic. Professor Binns, as usual, read off his notes endlessly, droning until half the class was near falling asleep. If he was even aware of Mrs. Norris' petrification and the writing on the wall, he gave no indication he knew of it.

The class perked up as Hannah Abbot raised her hand.

Binns looked at her as though she'd grown a second head, which had started singing opera. Harry suspected no one had asked him a question during his lecture since he'd died.

"Yes, Miss–er–?"

"Abbot, sir," Hannah said perkily. "I was wondering if you could tell us something about the Chamber of Secrets?"

The class stilled; if anyone had been nodding off, they weren't now. Anthony Goldstein was leaning so far forward on his desk he was almost standing.

"History is my subject," he wheezed "I deal with facts, Miss Abbess, not myths, nor legends. Now, where was I? Yes – in August…"

"Please–sir," Goldstein said, "isn't there something factual about the Chamber? It's affected history, hasn't it?"

This time, Binns looked so surprised that Harry thought he might fall through the floor.

"That," the ghostly professor said with reluctance, "is true, I suppose. Many historical figures have sought the Chamber, hoping to exploit the treasures therein; and more than once Hogwarts has been thrown into panic through the fear of Slytherin's monster."

A current of unease flooded the room. Monster? The class seemed to lean forward at once, and Binns looked taken aback by the sudden show of interest.

"Well… it would not harm to speak of it… Very well–let me see… the Chamber of Secrets… You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a millenia past – the precise age being some controversy – by the four great witches and wizards of the age. They gave their names to the four houses, and built this castle together – the castle, at that time, looked very different.

"Isolation was their key concern, especially in an age when Muggle-repelling wards were not so advanced as today. Magic was known, back then, by common people – and feared by no few, earls and peasants both. Thus Hogwarts was built as a retreat, a stand against persecution.

He paused to take… well, not a breath, but stock of the students. They were still listening intently. "For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But soon disagreements sprang up between them.

"A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students that were admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical knowledge should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle ancestry, believing them untrustworthy – an unnecessary risk. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school."

Binns paused once more, pursing his lips. Harry thought Slytherin seemed like a deeply unpleasant man. "Reliable historical sources tell us this much," Binns admitted. "But these honest facts have been obscured by the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story tells that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. "Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic."

For the first time in centuries, it was as if Binns had cast a spell. Total silence blanketed the classroom. A deep, uneasy silence – the kind that a conventional man would label as the sort a knife could cut.

No one had a flip knife that day though so, instead of testing the aphorism, they all watched Binns. His ghostly visage looked faintly annoyed. "The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," he eventually said. "The school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, and by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible."

That didn't seem to make anyone feel better. Susan leaned forward then, skittishly, raised her hand. Harry, in turn, raised his brow. Susan rarely asked questions in class; she wasn't comfortable with public speaking. "P-Professor," she began haltingly. "W-What is the secret s-supposed to be?"

"That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control," Binns replied, matter-of-fact.

The class shifted, nervous. Many looks were exchanged; and none of them were happy.

"I tell you, the thing does not exist," Binns said blandly. "There is neither a Chamber nor a monster."

The class didn't seem convinced. They murmured to each other, all whispering – Harry expected – the same thing. It was the same thing he was thinking. If Slytherin was such a great wizard, couldn't he hide the Chamber? If he enspelled the Chamber so that only his bloodline could find it, it wouldn't matter how long or hard it was searched for…

Harry knew it in his gut. The Chamber had been opened. He told Susan as much as they left the classroom.

"I… I agree," she said softly, "Something petrified Mrs Norris after all – the poor thing – and I don't think a student could do it."

"Unless Wayne's right," Harry murmured back. They were leaving the other Huffepuffs. He didn't want to be overheard. "It could be a teacher."

"Twice in two years?" Susan shook her head, her long braid whipping. "It's unlikely."

"Then it's a monster, then," Harry said, "a thousand year-old monster that obeys a student."

They turned a corner and found themselves in that corridor. Only the writing on the wall remained, crimson like blood.

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

Harry ran his eyes across it. Nothing stood out. "This won't do for the Slytherin's popularity," he said. "The Quidditch game will be a mess."

Gryfindor vs Slytherin – Hogwarts' great rivalry – was to be the first game of the year, just a week on Saturday.

Susan stared at the message. "We have worse to worry about," she shivered, "much worse."

"It could still be fake," Harry said, steeling himself. "An elaborate prank – masterminded by a student with a grudge against the old caretaker."

Susan looked at him dubiously. There was that familiar glint in her blue eyes. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

No, Harry thought to himself, not really. The writing almost seemed to stare back at him.

…

…

Between Halloween and the first Quidditch match of the year, summer finally left the Highlands. Cool autumn crept up in its stead, and soon turned cold. Harry remembered when he, Alan and Susan used to watch the sun set on the gallery bridge, at least until the weather grew too cold. He remembered how, one night on that bridge, Alan had told him and Susan about his adopted Muggle family; how he'd felt torn between the Jorkins' and the family who had raised him.

It was a painful thought; Harry's decision to pursue Gabriel Jorkins had disgraced her – and her family by association. He'd put Alan in a terrible position, and he felt its effects with increasing severity every day.

For a wall was slowly building between him and Susan and the rest of the year. He was increasingly losing track of conversations between the Hufflepuffs, the small talk that patched each day together. Now, when he did listen, he didn't know what to say half the time, and he felt awkward saying it. Slowly, he felt himself becoming a stranger… and he was dragging Susan with him.

He had thought that, perhaps, Granger would fill the gap that Alan had left. Instead, she had begun to speak – of all people – to Alan. They could often be found together in the library, sometimes with Neville Longbottom, speaking in whispers about who knew what. Harry certainly couldn't imagine it; Granger was bookish and… strained, while Alan was, while intelligent, easy-going and relaxed. They had nothing in common.

Nothing except him. And that burned. Sometimes, when he was doing very little – say, playing a board game with Susan – he'd sit up and think about them befriending each other, and a vile prick of jealousy would strike him. I saved your life, he imagined telling Granger, and this is how you repay me? By making friends with Alan, who rejected me?

It was a childish thought, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He consoled himself with the fact that he was, in fact, a child.

Granger's warning regarding Creevey had come true. Colin Creevey was a small, mousy boy with a large, expensive magical camera. He hung it from his neck, and it was so heavy that it seemed to give him a hunch. He was very, very interested in Harry. "Hiya Harry!" was the first thing he'd said when the younger boy finally tracked him down. Then he took a photograph; the camera went off with a blindingly bright light and a crack.

Susan hadn't been very happy with that. Harry smiled at the thought; but his own thoughts were interrupted by a sudden wave of cheering, then even louder boos. He blinked, refocusing; the day of the game, and Slytherin… Harry squinted… had just won. Malfoy, the new Slytherin seeker, had just caught the snitch. It was glinting gold in his hand, as he displayed it defiantly to the booing pro-Gryffindor crowd.

Movement took Harry's attention; to the right, a couple of Gryffindor's were jostling with a Slytherin chaser. Madam Hooch flew over to break it up, but the Gryffindors were having none of it. The chaser gave as well as he got but, outnumbered, he lost his balance… and fell.

They must've been forty feet in the air.

The crowd held its breath, their boos and cheers fading, and watched the fall as if in slow motion.

Harry saw, in the corner of his vision, the Headmaster stand. "Arresto," he intoned, his deep voice clear over the silent field, "momentum."

A blue flash flew toward the seeker. It must've ripped straight through his magical resistance, because the spell slowed his descent to a crawl. He landed without even a sound.

Harry and Susan glanced at each other. "Hogwarts will be a firepit soon at this rate," he muttered.

Susan said nothing, but nodded grimly.

That night, his sleep was interrupted. Something was moving by the foot of his bed; he blinked blearily at the small shape then, coming to, whipped his wand off his nightstand. "Lumos!"

Dobby the House-Elfs' massive light-bulb sized eyes stared back at him.

"Dobby?" he whispered harshly, "what're you doing here?"

Dobby's large, bat-like ears drooped at his tone. "Dobby only came to ask the great Harry Potter to remember Dobby's warning," he said pleading. "It is… it is beginning."

There was utter fear in Dobby's eyes. Harry cancelled his spell and returned his wand to its proper place. "I understand," he said. "The Chamber of Secrets had been opened."

Dobby nodded desperately. "Yes, yes indeed, Mr. Harry Potter sir. Harry Potter must stay strong, but stay away – stay safe! Harry Potter is a light in the dark; he must always be safe."

Harry wasn't sure about that, but he was curious. "Dobby, how did you get into the school?"

"Dobby has friends in the kitchens," Dobby said, rather more plainly. Then he vanished.

And the next day at breakfast, the Headmaster announced that Colin Creevey had been found, petrified.

Harry's veins felt like they'd turned to ice as whispers erupted throughout the Great Hall. It is beginning, he heard Dobby's voice say mournfully. Could he have done something? Had Dobby known? Or had Dobby just discovered the petrification himself, and decided he needed extra warning?

There was no way to know. Dobby didn't belong to him, after all. He could not be summoned, as Harry knew bonded House Elves could be.

Rather, he threw himself once more into training. There was nothing else to do. Even with all its shortcuts, battle-transfiguration remained beyond him, and his attempts to learn Arresto Momentum all failed, but his physical conditioning – he believed – was truly improving. After months of circling the Black Lake, it was becoming less of a struggle to make it around.

That had a few knock-on effects. No longer was he quite so exhausted all the time. And because he wasn't so tired, his other endeavours improved in turn. He couldn't help but feel as though he'd turned a corner, especially as he had even detected some improvement in the flexibility of his wrist. That would make spellcasting even easier.

Despite Hogwarts' less than happy atmosphere, his mood further improved halfway through December. Harry and Susan were walking to lunch when they spotted a gathering around a notice-board. An announcement, Harry wondered?

Strangely, the knot of students grew silent as they approached; they even made way for him.

Then he read the new notice, and knew why.

Professor Lockhart was starting a duelling club.

Harry sighed. Lockhart was an idiot (a fact Susan had admitted for over a month now)… but he had to go. It would look awfully strange if he didn't; and he certainly didn't need Hogwarts' atmosphere of suspicion pressing down on him.

That was how Harry and Susan found themselves in the Great Hall at eight o'clock that evening. The dining tables had been replaced with a duelling platform… the old Defence Club's duelling platform. A strange sensation washed over him at the sight, a queer sort of anger. Reusing Gabriel's platform felt like… sacrilege, somehow. At least they hadn't brought the ceremonial candelabra.

Regardless, what seemed like half the school was gossiping around it. Many of them spoke of Professor Flitwick, who'd been – reportedly – a duelling champion before he became a teacher. They all wanted him to lead the club, but Harry suspected otherwise. Professor Flitwick was reluctant to even discuss his duelling background; Harry had tried to approach the topic more than once.

He was soon proven right, as Gilderoy Lockart – superficially dashing in periwinkle blue duelling robes – rose to the stage. He waved a hand for quiet. "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!"

Lockhart smiled his most charming smile, and tried to meet as many eyes as possible. "Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions – for full details, see my published works. I know you had a short-lived club last year, but I'm told it lacked an adult, a teacher." Lockhart smiled charmingly. "And – of course – me."

Harry felt, for a moment, the crowd's attention pass to him, while he tried not to show the anger bubbling beneath the surface, his jaw tightening until it hurt. That was a low blow, but one that Lockhart didn't even seem to know he'd struck. Idiot.

"Now, let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,"

Snape looked like he'd rather be mucking out an Abraxan stable than sharing a podium with Lockhart, who continued; "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry – you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

Harry could not help but wonder if Lockhart knew just how embarrassingly stupid he could appear at times. Didn't he know the rumours surrounding Snape, as a duellist and a secret practitioner of the Dark Arts?

"Now," said Lockhart, flourishing his wand in a parody of a Gireht stance. His arm was held straight, his body side-on to narrow the target. But it wasn't a very good impression of Gireht. One of his feet was misplaced, and he looked very stiff. "An example, just to pique the interest. To show all young folk what wizards can do!"

The crowd watched in interested silence.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart said, "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.

Behind him, Harry heard Wayne smother a chuckle.

"One–two–three–"

"Expelliarmus!"

Predictably, Snape beat Lockhart to the punch, blasting the DADA professor off his feet. He flew backwards off the stage and hit a solid stone wall.

Half the crowd winced. Harry saw the faint edges of a smirk slip – just for a moment – across Snape's face. Hmm, Harry thought, perhaps I should start calling him professor again?

If he kept doing things like that, he just might.

Unfortunately, Lockhart was fine, though his fine hair was more than a little skew-whiff. He jumped atop the platform on unsteady legs. "Well, there you have it!" he said, tottering back onto the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm – as you see, I've lost my wand – ah, thank you, Miss Brown – yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy – however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…"

Snape was looking… displeased, to say the least.

Lockhart seemed to go a little paler as they matched eyes. "Enough demonstrating!" he said awfully quickly, "I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs–"

"–No," Snape interrupted. His voice was quiet, like a spider scuttling across the wall, but Lockhart fell silent all the same. "–I believe another demonstration is in order, to show the students what they can accomplish if they apply themselves… competently. Even without your tremendous leadership, many students gained from last year's Self Defence Club, though it ended in… infamy. I think we should make their talents an example, as… motivation to… improve."

Motiv-ation to… imp-rove. Snape spoke those last words so slowly, so patronisingly, that Harry imagined that, if words were poison, half the student body would've just died on the spot.

And then Snape turned straight to a very particular third year. "Up, McConnell."

… Merlin. He could see where this was going; he wasn't ready.

Snape's dark eyes glittered with malice. "Up, Potter."

Well, he definitely wasn't going to extend the courtesy of calling him 'Professor' when he was out of earshot now

Harry took a deep breath and mounted the podium, meeting McConnell's pale blue eyes. The older boy shrugged, uncaring. He'd barely managed to beat him the year before, Harry thought, and now much of the school was watching…

It came down, he supposed, to a simple question; how much had he improved, and how much had McConnell improved?

Harry suspected he'd grown a little quicker, a little more nimble on his feet, but his spell repertoire was much the same as the year before. And he definitely wasn't ready to use Enrique De Luna's transfiguration shortcuts in a duel yet.

Then Snape leaned down to McConnell and whispered something in his ear.* McConnell gave no indication he'd heard the professor except a slight nod. What was that? Some tip to help beat him?

Lockhart coughed. "Bow, please."

They did.

"Now – Three—two—one—go!" he shouted.

Harry fired off a pair of relashio's, then readied himself to dive to the right. McConnell had always tended to aim slightly to the left.

But McConnell raised his wand and replied with; "Serpensortia!"

The tip of his wand crackled, and a great black snake slithered onto the podium. Harry stilled, and immediately knew he'd failed; that moment of surprise was going to be enough for McConnell to put him on the backfoot–

Nothing happened. McConnell was watching too. What was this?

Either way, Harry didn't know a spell to get rid of a snake. He could hit it with a hex, of course, but he knew nothing except a stunner that would disable it. And did stunners work on snakes? He knew they worked on mammals, but snakes were rather differen–

"Let me, I'll get rid of it!" shouted Lockhart. He waved his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang. The snake flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack.

It slithered straight towards Justin Finch-Fletchley, furious and hissing.

Harry could not explain the next ten seconds. He ran towards the snake as though the podium were an ice-rink, and shouted; "Leave him be!"

And bizarrely enough, it did. The snake lowered its rearing head, and sat – as if awaiting further orders. Harry felt himself relax. That was weird… but it'd worked.

So why were the gathered students looking at him like he was a rampaging Troll?

…

…

Susan had dragged him out the hall then, and into an abandoned classroom. She looked panicked – scared, even. "Y-you never said you could s-speak to snakes!" she cried.

It was the first time she'd stuttered while speaking to him since last year. Harry winced at the hurt in her voice. "I… I haven't really thought about it. I mean, this is only the second time I've ever done it – except once at the zoo. I accidentally vanished the glass of a boa constrictor's tank after speaking to it… long story. I just… I don't know, I moved before I knew what I was doing. I told the snake to leave him alone."

Susan frowned. "I-it didn't sound like that Harry," she said, "people w-will think otherwise."

What was this about? Harry shrugged. "So? This'll be forgotten in a week, and they'll be talking about the heir again."

"You don't understand," Susan replied anxiously. "T-this is about the heir. Salazar Slytherin could s-speak to snakes. He was a Parselmouth."

"Oh,"

It took a few moments for Harry to join the dots together. But once he did… "Oh, Merlin's scraggly beard! They'll all think – they'll all think…"

Susan nodded despondently. "Yes."

"But… I'm not… Dammit. How can I prove I'm not the heir?"

Harry heard noise outside the classroom. The duelling club must've been dismissed. He suspected he would not be attending again, at least for a while. In fact, now that he thought about it, he suspected he wouldn't find many duelling partners anytime soon. Morgana, this just gets worse and worse…

"You… y-you can't," Susan eventually said. "No, wait… there are… t-there are a few, no… there is… someone who can help you. I think."

She looked… reticent to say the least. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Her eyes dipped to the floor. "Y-you need a H-Hereditary Cartographer, someone s-skilled in tracking through a-archives to research your a-ancestry."

Harry braced himself. "And who… who would that be?"

"T-there is only one family I know of who has a s-student in Hogwarts who might… might help. Daphne Greengrass. H-her family are renowned."

Daphne Greengrass. Harry recalled the name; she was a Slytherin, a girl he'd mostly ignored, with dark-hair. She always wore strange shaded glasses. He tried to think of moments when he'd spoken to her… and came up short. But they had, he thought, searching his mind, interacted, right?

Oh. He'd once knocked her over in a corridor once. And Tracey Davis was her friend… who he'd recently called Davids.

Oh.

Right.

Glossary:

A Hereditary Cartographer, in a Muggle context, would be a genealogist.

Why I've interpreted the events of canon this way, with Snape specifically asking for a snake to be summoned, will be explained in the next chapter.

A/N:

Much of the dialogue here has been repurposed from the original text, which is unavoidable. I can't change things that have no reason to change, and I'd expect that every class that Binns teaches would ask, effectively, the same question.

NEXT CHAPTER:

Harry approaches Daphne Greengrass. Is she happy to see him? Well, I'm sure you can guess. If you're good at something, never do it for free…

Read it next time on The Duellist… or on D-iscord, where it is already out.

Take Care!

JoustingAlchemy

D-iscord link: /mw2vyjM45m (go to the symbol, join a server, then fill in the template with the above character string. Or copy-paste it from my profile, or the description of this story.)