"ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄʟᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄʟᴇᴠᴇʀ," ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʟᴅ ʟᴀᴅʏ. "ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴛᴜʀᴛʟᴇꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ!" — ᴀ ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ꜱᴛᴇᴘʜᴇɴ ʜᴀᴡᴋɪɴɢ

Chapter Ten: Turtles All The Way Down

Harry peeled his eyes open, just a crack. A thin sliver of light glowed from underneath the black velvet curtains covering the window.

The air was dry and stuffy.

Hephaestus, who was sitting on the floor next to the bed, flicked an evaluative gaze over Harry, and yawned. He (the cat) took a tentative step forwards, then sprung up onto the bed.

Harry glanced over at the clock on the wall; it was six-thirty. Ron was still snoring quite loudly, and Neville had rolled over almost to the very edge of his bed, his limp hand dangling off the end.

Hedwig, he imagined, would already have her head tucked under her snowy wings after a long night of hunting, fast asleep.

Hephaestus was standing in attack position, jaw open, hissing and fur on end. Startled, Harry followed the cat's gaze to the door, which had just creaked open. He reached for his wand, a Jelly-Legs Jinx on the tip of his tongue—

"Locomotor Wibbly!"

"Protego!"

Cedric, for it was he who had startled Hephaestus in the first place, shuddered. "Potter, you don't half startle easily."

"Diggory," he said uneasily. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk."

"Talk at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning?" asked Harry, flabbergasted, and then utterly embarrassed because his voice had just cracked and soared into a high, tinny squeak. He narrowed his eyes at Cedric. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Percy's big mouth. Overheard him telling someone the password."

Ah. Harry could understand.

He made a mental note to convince Fred and George to put slugs in the Head Boy's breakfast.

"Alright then," he ground out. "I'll play along. What do you want then, Ced?"

Cedric sat down on the edge of the bed; Hephaestus gave him a disgusted look and began the process of coughing up a hairball. Harry attempted, fruitlessly, to flatten his hair.

A distinct thumping sound that made the blood drain from Harry's face emanated from the large window, but he resolved to ignore it, and apparently, so had Cedric.

"Can I get you anything?" asked Harry, crossing his arms. "Cup of tea, maybe?"

Cedric scowled.

"Look — Potter — I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot—"

"Right, well I need to brush my teeth." Harry got up and made to leave the room, but Cedric put a hand on his arm.

"Five seconds to let me go, Diggory."

He did. "Potter — Harry — I want to help. Help you... hide the Muggle-borns."

Now, Cedric had his full attention. Harry slowly turned around, suspicious.

"You? Muggle-loving blood traitor, are you? I don't believe it." He raised an eyebrow. "Give me a reason to trust you." Harry stepped closer, wishing he was taller, more intimidating. He summoned shadows to the tips of his fingers, allowed the manifestation of his fury to billow around his eyes. "Nott's pawn."

Cedric swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm scared of you, all right, Potter! That's what you want, isn't it! Bloody hell — I-I'm scared of you and I'm still offering to help!"

He sighed. "It's Weasley's room they should hide in, Potter, the Room of Requirement. Everyone who knows about it can be trusted."

"And Umbridge doesn't even know it exists," finished Harry. Despite his inexplicable dislike for Cedric Diggory, it was a good plan.

He regarded Diggory, but unfortunately could not think of anything unsavoury to say at that present moment.

"Right then," said Cedric. "Let's go ask Lupin what he thinks of the idea. We'll only have to avoid Umbridge; that'll be a problem." He raked a nervous hand through his hair, which, Harry noticed enviously, was not sticking out at thirty-five different angles.

Just then, his scar smarted something fierce; Harry clapped a hand to it, under his bangs, and waved Cedric ahead of him before diving under the bed for his Invisibility Cloak.

Hephaestus let out a plaintive, disapproving meow and kicked his spit-coated hairball onto the floor.

"Trust me," said Harry, shaking out the Cloak, "I agree."

Harry wasn't the only one who startled easily. Lupin, for his part, nearly fell over when Harry tugged the Cloak off of both of them once they were safely inside the library.

"I'd nearly forgotten about that," said Lupin, watching Harry fold up the Invisibility Cloak. "What's going on? Anyone hurt?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Cedric interrupted (although it wasn't considered interrupting if Lupin had finished talking, Harry thought sourly). "Harry and I were just discussing something this morning about the Muggle-born situation."

Lupin's eyes widened.

"Not this corner," he whispered. "I've been setting Sneakoscopes up all week; even the library's not safe, it appears."

It was a sentiment Harry shared. All of the prefects had been stripped of their duties, and a few students had been elected to an 'Inquisitorial Squad' - thankfully, no one in Gryffindor, so at least their common room was safe. He was beginning to see the few half-blood Slytherins less and less, and they all looked extremely stressed.

Hogwarts isn't safe, thought Harry uneasily. Not without Dumbledore. Without Dumbledore, what's stopping Voldemort from marching up to the front door?

Despite himself, Harry shuddered. Cedric gave him a weird look, but he simply glared.

Lupin beckoned the two of them over to the silent area of the library; it made sense, Harry supposed, since no one was supposed to be talking here, anyway.

One of the little Sneakoscopes, which looked like a small brass telescope with a blinking eye instead of an aperture, swung around to observe him and Cedric, and, unperturbed, swung back.

Harry, for one, doubted the Sneakoscope's judgement.

"Go on then," said Lupin, crossing his arms. He glanced around the area, as if expecting Umbridge to jump out at any second. "Harry?"

"It's Cedric's idea," he said in a monotone voice, gesturing at the older boy, who promptly and eloquently explained what he had suggested to Harry, and Lupin listened with his arms folded and an inscrutable expression.

"Yes," he said finally, stroking the stubble on his chin. "That does seem like a sensible plan, except for one thing."

"What?" asked Cedric, evidently surprised that his plan was not utterly flawless.

Well, it's obvious, thought Harry smugly. Umbridge will notice all the Muggle-born students suddenly go missing, and then she'll go and search for them. Surely someone on their side has to know about Ginny's room, too.

"Penny for your thoughts, Harry?"

"Nothing," he said grimly. "It'll be a lot harder than making Lockhart disappear, I think."

Cedric's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Come again?"

Harry ignored him, and turned to Lupin.

"Indeed," said Lupin. "I'll have to think about it, Harry. Try to keep everyone out of sight. Don't come to the library. I'll contact you when I've found a solution. Leave under that cloak, and go right to the Great Hall, have breakfast, and act normal. Again, I'll find you."

Morning was Transfiguration; a roaring fire in the classroom fireplace kept the air dry and warm while McGonagall lectured on Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration; Umbridge was supposed to be visiting the class, but was notably absently.

"What is the first of the five exceptions to — Miss Granger?"

"Food, which cannot be conjured from nothing."

"And why not?"

Again, Hermione's voice cut through the stuffy silence.

"Because conjurations produce simulacra, Professor McGonagall. Chapter thirty."

Harry hadn't read Chapter 30.

"And why are simulacra insufficient in some situations?"

Hermione was chewing her bottom lip in concentration. "Because simulacra are unfaithful copies of reality."

There was a rustle behind them, and Harry turned his head. Anthony has raised his hand.

"Baudrillard says there are four types of representation, of which simulacra is one. Simulacra have no relation to their original, or no original at all. There's no reason conjured food shouldn't be nourishing; it's just that the human mind refuses to accept this particular class as reality."

"Who's Baudrillard?" asked Hermione, swivelling around her seat, eyes wide at the thought of a new book to read and a fresh distraction from Umbridge's tyranny.

"A philosopher."

"A Muggle," one of the Ravenclaws sitting at the front cut in. "So it's irrelevant."

McGonagall looked rather pinched in the face. "Well," she said diplomatically, "I am yet unfamiliar with... Baudrillard, but Mr. Goldstein's explanation is fair enough. Ten points to Ravenclaw. To continue, the second exception to Gamp's Law..."

Ron nudged Harry. "McGonagall had better be careful."

Harry made a noise of agreement. Losing McGonagall would indeed be quite dangerous, as not only would that leave Snape 'in charge' by default, but Umbridge didn't seem to be quite as afraid of any other Professor as she was of the inscrutable Head of Gryffindor.

But he could see that Ravenclaw telling Umbridge about how McGonagall was a 'Muggle-sympathizer' and everything going directly downhill from there.

He continued to think about this and absorbed no more of the lecture on Gamp's Law after that; as they were leaving class, he began to formulate an entreaty to Hermione for use of her notes.

Just then, someone in a Ravenclaw tie shoved Hermione, hard, and she stumbled into the person in front of her. He heard "Mudblood!" shouted.

Harry recognized the mop of curly hair and the snub nose immediately; Terry Boot, the boy who'd acted suspicious of Harry when they'd met in the Ravenclaw dormitory. Ron had reacted faster, and Harry head him snapping "Eat slugs, Boot!"

A loud bang, like a sonic boom resounded, and a green jet of light shot out of Ron's wand.

The group of students had cleared around Ron and Terry, standing in a tense ring.

Terry had gone absolutely green in the face, with his arms crossed tightly around his stomach. He took a tottering step back, then leaned forward and retched a slimy, black mass full of writhing bodies.

Slugs, thought Harry, with a faint touch of amusement.

Then came the unmistakable click, clack of an all-too-familiar pair of kitten heels, which came to rest behind Terry, who was on his knees now, each wave of nausea coming faster.

Ron had gone so pale that Harry could count every freckle; Anthony had grasped Hermione by the elbow and was leading her away from the commotion.

"I didn't think it would be like this," he heard Hermione sob. "When Professor McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley, and everything was... I thought everything would be perfect. And it was."

"What do we have here... not fighting, are you, Mr. Weasley? I must say you have been well-enough behaved until now."

Ron said nothing; Harry ached to step forward and snap that he was only protecting Hermione, but she wouldn't care.

Umbridge glanced past Ron, making eye contact with Harry. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see that everyone else was beginning to back away.

He felt as sick as Terry looked.

"No!" said Ron quickly. "Not Harry! He didn't do anything wrong!"

But Umbridge simply extended her hand, and smiled sweetly and grotesquely.

"Come to my office," she said.

Harry glanced up and down the corridor, trying to calculate the chances of him and Ron being able to make a mad dash for it.

Desperately, he muttered, "Hello?" under his breath in Parseltongue, but there was no answer. If only he could convince the basilisk to come out of retirement and eat Umbridge.

But by then he and Ron had both been seized, and he must stick with Ron for moral support, if nothing else. Promptly, they were deposited in two chairs in the pink-laden office; Harry thought some kitten plates had been added to the walls since they'd last been in.

He watched the cat clock behind Umbridge, its diamond-shaped eyes clicking ominously from side to side.

"May I offer you tea?" asked Umbridge. "Pumpkin juice, perhaps?"

When no response was given, she placed her hands on the table and gave them both a simpering look.

"Are you often prone to violence, Mr. Weasley?"

"No," said Ron shakily. "I'm not."

A small bead of sweat had formed on the tip of Ron's forehead, and was slowly, slowly rolling down to the tip of his nose. Harry clenched and unclenched his hands under the table, his fingernails leaving red half-moons in his palms. He glared at the little floral plate that read 'Headmistress Dolores Umbridge.'

There was a cake stand laden with biscuits; shortbread, topped with powdered sugar and what looked like strawberry jam. They smelled stale.

Harry cleared his throat. "Ron's not violent, Professor."

Umbridge's mouth twisted into something between a smirk and grin. "Then explain, Mr. Potter, his obvious enthusiasm for Dark magic."

"I do n—" Ron started.

"I do not believe Eat slugs is part of the Hogwarts curriculum," said Umbridge. "Thus, it must have been learnt at home... or in the library..."

Ah, thought Harry, his stomach turning over. She wants Ron to incriminate either his family or Lupin.

"I didn't learn it anywhere," Ron protested.

"It was just an accident," Harry added quickly. "I saw it all, he probably didn't even mean to—"

Umbridge raised her hand to silence him. "Oh, Mr. Potter, don't even attempt to cover for Mr. Weasley. I wasn't born yesterday. Now then, Slinkhard on the very basics of Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation?"

"Mente definit modum," Ron rattled off in a morose tone. They'd only been lectured on it all year. "Intent defines method."

Umbridge's smile grew shark-like. "Which means that you fully intended to harm Mr. Boot."

She drew back for a minute, and pulled out a large, strange-looking quill from the drawer. It looked like it might have come from a black swan, with its nib sharpened to a wicked, obsidian point. The quill seemed to have a foreboding aura about it.

"You will be writing lines," said Umbridge, pushing the quill and a piece of parchment towards him. Harry saw Ron's shoulders relax instantly. "I must not disturb the peace."

"How many lines?" asked Ron, reaching for the quill. He began to write, then stopped. "I haven't got any ink."

"Oh, until it sinks in," said Umbridge absently. "And never mind about the ink, Mr. Weasley, for you won't be needing it."

Ron gave Harry a somewhat nervous glance, and shrugged, putting the nib of the quill to the parchment. Umbridge took a sip of her tea, eyes fixed on Ron as she did.

Harry had a distinctly bad feeling about this, as he watched Ron write, wincing in confusion as he did. Ron started, wringing his hand, which shone with red, thin, bloody letters; Harry could make out the words I must not disturb the peace in Ron's own handwriting shimmering under the lamps in the office. He watched in startled silence as the cuts healed over into a faint, reddened scar, only to bead with blood once more at each new line.

Harry immediately felt sick to his stomach. His hand went to the scar under his hair, tracing the thin, jagged line. He choked.

It wasn't the Obscurus's idea, this time. No. It was his.

Sticky, oily black threads unspooled from his fingertips, whispering like spider silk, clinging delicately to the underside of the desk, creeping like obsidian vines.

NO— no no no. Taking it out on Umbridge would only make everything worse.

"You can stop for now, Mr. Weasley."

The shadows snapped back into place.

Instead, he cleared his throat, and said: "What about me, Professor?"

"Hmm?" Umbridge looked up from what appeared to be fifth-year Defence essays.

"Shouldn't I also... write lines?"

If only I could get a closer look at one of those quills! Lupin might know something. Only he said not to contact him.

"How good of you to remember," said Umbridge, her voice light and bouncy. "In fact, I had this from the Minister for you to read over, Mr. Potter."

She pushed a stack of parchment over to him; Ron, to his side, twitched, his eyes darting to the page. For a while there was no noise but the turning of pages.

There were affidavits from parents and former students, Ministry reports, press releases — all describing Dumbledore as nothing short of a menace to society.

"Lies," Ron hissed under his breath. "They're all lies."

"I've read them," said Harry. "What do you want me to do? Agree?"

For a second, Umbridge looked rather purple in the face, not too far off Uncle Vernon's choicest shade.

"No, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "I don't want your heart it in, no, not necessarily. I want you to think about any complaints you might have about Dumbledore, and to slot them under my door by the next week. Otherwise, Mr. Weasley may just find himself in detention again."

That's it, thought Harry, still nauseous. She wanted to show me how much she could hurt Ron, just to get to me, so she could get to Dumbledore.

"You are excused. Take this note and hurry to class."

Next minute, Ron was tugging him to his feet, and the door was shut behind them. Harry stumbled along the corridor behind him, his head still spinning.

What am I going to do now? He couldn't put Ron in further danger; but nor could he write lies about Dumbledore.

It's the frying pan or the fire. I suppose that's just how it has to be from now on.

At least, he thought, Terry's having a terrible time coughing up slugs.

She'd been a bit weird ever since the cave, Tee reflected, the cold seaside wind slicing through the seams of his bright orange anorak.

Another freezing day in Bristol. Brilliant.

He'd been a bit weird.

"I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I swear."

His throat was thick with so many words he'd spoken a lifetime ago.

One more museum — one more museum and he was going to drill a hole through his skull.

A wizard — Lord Voldemort — sitting on a bench in front of the train station, crumpling a piece of paper smeared with fish-and-chips grease.

He was going mad.

He was trembling — his irritable fingers shaking on either side of a cigarette — how is it possible that they still make them the same? Nothing's the same. Even I'm not the same.

He excused himself, got up and stumbled to the door marked 'MEN' in peeling red letters, pushed into a stall and locked the door behind him, gagging at the putrid stink. Tee fumbled with the locket, running his nails under the seam and pulling to no avail.

"Open!" he hissed angrily. The emerald stones glinted, almost... serpentine?

Then, Tee understood. He put the locket to his mouth, whispered, "Open."

As if the clasp had been spring-loaded, the top of the locket sprung back, revealing two glass picture windows, both cloudy as if someone had breathed on them. He rubbed his thumb over the glass, but they were foggy from the inside.

"You bring me to a place like this?"

I know that voice. Tee turned. My voice.

Softer. More refined. Graceful.

Jet-black hair, slicked down with pomade and artfully curled in front; a simple black suit, dark robes folded over his shoulder. A little sharper around the eyes; a little more well-built in the torso. Minute changes, like a set of Muybridge's cabinet cards. A man foggy at the edges, seen through a mirror.

It's not every day you get to meet yourself, ten years later.

"You are not human. You are not real," said Tee. They could not both be real. Either he was real and the other one was not, or vice versa. He was real. He must be. He must establish this fact.

Locket-him smiled, all jagged and sharp-eyed. His eyebrows arched, nostrils widening in fury. Head tilting.

How bizarre to speak with a simulacrum of yourself, in a toilet stall no less.

"Real?" he spat. "Of course you wouldn't understand. You've been fattened on someone's dying soul like a suckling pig. That's all."

"Kill the girl," the spectre suggested, "and we'll both have enough to eat. I'll have enough strength to be seen by others too, hold a wand—"

Tee twitched.

"I can't."

"Of course you can," said Locket-him with an idle flick of his hand. "Don't be shy, Tommy."

"No," Tee repeated. "I can't."

Locket-him finally seemed to grasp that he was physically incapable.

"A life-debt," he said, as if the word tasted bitter in his insubstantial mouth. "Clever little rat."

He made a noise of agreement.

"We must go immediately to the master soul, as soon as we locate him."

Tee's response was indignant, and immediate.

"Why should I help you, anyway? What if I bring you to this master soul — Lord Voldemort — and he decides what to do with you? What if he doesn't want you walking around? What if he doesn't want me walking around? Didn't we end up in these objects for a reason?"

"Of course we did," snarled Locket-him. "We're Horcruxes. Have you forgotten that, too?"

"But you are me—" Tee barrelled on.

"No. Not quite. You are the first."

"First what?" pressed Tee. "You know we hate being spoon-fed for the sake of dramatic—"

The specter regarded him with a distasteful look.

"The first shard of our soul."

But that only half-explained it. If he had not retained some resemblance of his body and mind, the salt and mercury would never have taken form, no matter how long they were forged in sulfur.

He must be different, Tee decided. He did not remember, but not because he could not. It had come back in bits and pieces, when he'd drunk the potion. For his memory to have eroded, his mind must have existed. He had been substantial before Lockhart ever died.

For me to be substantial, must I not cast a shadow?

But he decided to keep that thought to himself.

"And what I am meant to do with you?" asked Tee haughtily, putting his hands in the pockets of his anorak.

Locket-him clicked his tongue. "Aside from finding me a suitable meal?" He regarded Tee with a greedy look.

"Which entails?" Rather like a snake angling for a fresh mouse, isn't he?

"Never mind that. The first order of business is to get back to him. If our defences in the Cave were so easily breached, something has clearly gone awry."

"We've died and come back," said Tee.

For the first time, Locket-him looked well and truly frightened. "By — By WHO?" The last word ended in a guttural sound that resounded loudly against the tiled walls.

"Will you shut up in there?" someone shouted. "Taking a shit's not a social activity!"

"Muggles!" hissed Locket-him.

"I'd rather not make a scene," said Tee diplomatically, because he'd really sincerely like to avoid the headache. "Look, if you just get back in the locket, I'll go and sort things out —"

"No you won't," snarled Locket-him. "You're too invested in your Cinderella story with Little Red Riding Hood, aren't you? You're going to take her to the quaint little cottage her parents got offed in, and make sure she gets there in one piece. Is that the big plan? Follow the little girl up and down the country like a dog?"

"If you were real, I'd—"

"You've lost it," taunted Locket-him. "You've gone soft after all these years. You don't want to be great anymore, do you? Where's your ambition? Where's your cunning? Where's your brain? What have you got to be proud of? What's the extent of your aims now — a handshake from Dumbledore after returning her safe and sound?"

"I don't want a handshake from Dumbledore!"

Locket-him laughed, sharp and harsh.

"Don't tell me you're attached to the little brat!"

"Of course not," Tee scoffed. "She's Ruby Potter. Harry Potter's sister. I could hold her for ransom; don't you know how much her brother would bid for her? I'd at least ask for a reward."

"We're not petty swindlers."

"I'm penniless."

"You are a fool, that's what you are."

"Get back in the bloody locket."

"Tommy dearest," said Locket-him sweetly, "who is Harry Potter?"

"I'd rather not say," said Tee with a hint of melodrama. "I've had to endure such disrespect from you. You slept for decades; I was awake. I survived; that's where all my ambition and cunning and all that went. When you're ready to stop being a condescending prick, you know where to find me."

"We must talk to him."

"Don't worry; I'll do all the talking."

With a smug and superior smile, Tee slammed the locket shut, and the wraith disappeared. He had a wild-ish fantasy of him telling his story to the great and wise Lord Voldemort, nodding his head while the tiresome, snake-like locket wraith was forced to stand there in utter silence.

Besides, he wasn't afraid of Harry Potter. Harry Potter was a child. There had to be some explanation.

How many more of me are there? His mood had not improved, and his head swam.

It's all turtles, thought Tee, shaking his headas he began to comprehend the ludicrousness of the situation. He nudged the stall door open. Turtles all the way down.

A/N: Sorry this chapter was posted late! I was pretty busy with university stuff and didn't want to rush in the interest of quality.