"So... petrified, uh?"

I nodded. "As in 'not dead'. That's what Sprout said, at any rate. Dumbledore, too."

She had said it over and over, Sprout, almost like a prayer; always bringing up her Mandrakes and how they would be fully grown very soon. And 'I only left for a minute.' She had also repeated that, quite a few times.

The Headmaster had been more circumspect, more measured in his tone, in how his gaze lingered on Longbottom's fallen body as he examined the scene of the attack; but now and then his stare would jump back to me, as if perennially surprised to find me standing there by the workbench. As if I was some sort of eerie apparition myself, there only to foretell ruin and destruction.

Or maybe that's just how I felt.

They had interrogated us, and I'd expected a full inquisition; but no, Dumbledore took us at face value, apparently. Perhaps because he'd taken a quick look at a nervous, pallid Sean Higgs and ruled him incapable of such levels of deception as lying about this would require. The old wizard had theorised that Longbottom must have been lucky enough to only glimpse the creature through the glass of the greenhouse, the monster slithering past, right outside the classroom.

He also assuaged Sprout's obvious distress and guilt, telling her that it was probably her presence in the storage room that had dissuaded the monster from coming in and finishing its meal up. But it went unsaid that, had Longbottom been just a tad unluckier, he might have glimpsed it through an open door instead. And that would have put a permanent, early full stop to the boy's story.

The inquisition had come afterwards, for me. The nervous anticipation infecting Hogwarts had finally exploded into some sort of unrelenting, panicky avalanche. Everybody was well aware that something very serious had just happened, but they didn't know exactly what. The faculty had quickly sequestered the entire student body and rushed them back to the safety of the dormitories and common rooms —which had the side-effect of cutting the links of the network of gossip and rumours. And in lieu of truth people just made shit up. I even overheard an older Slytherin girl, very seriously explaining to her friends how Professor Lockhart had just saved Mr. Filch from being devoured alive —but not before the man had already lost an arm.

But slowly, my involvement in this new situation —and that of Sean Higgs— trickled down, little by little. And by the time when we finally were allowed to leave to the Great Hall for dinner, all of us marching together and escorted by Prefects and Professors, I was already fielding questions left and right.

"So it is a basilisk, then?" asked Grace Crabbe. "Did you actually see it yourselves?"

"Of course not," replied Sean. "If we had, we would be petrified ourselves too!"

"No, you idiot," explained Adrian Pucey, not unkindly, as he towered behind him. "It needs to look at you to petrify you, not the other way around."

That was when the food finally manifested in front of us, breaking apart the little group of older housemates that had been swarming our end of the communal table, hungry for news. I was half-aware of the gossip extending, radiating outwards to the rest of our house —as student talked to student— and then from there to the nearby Ravenclaw table.

I had a moment to wonder what distorted version of the truth would reach the Gryffindors, at the opposite end of the Great Hall, after the game of telephone was through and done. I noticed the Weasley Twins in particular, eyeing me now and then, as if they had learnt something already. Not that it was surprising, given that the victim was a lion too.

But the whole encounter at the greenhouses and everything that followed afterwards had left me shaken, almost flatfooted, so it wasn't until Tracey mentioned it —after elbowing me softly when I didn't react at first— that I realised Dumbledore wasn't present in the Great Hall.

"He must be dealing with the Longbottoms," theorised Greengrass, to my other side. "I have met Neville's grandmother before; she must be quite furious."

"Everyone else is here, though," I muttered, eyeing the entire faculty assembled behind the high table. "And they look..."

I paused, searching for a word. Worried, yes... but it was more than that. Snape's eyes were glued to his own soup, staring it as darkly as he would Potter's cauldron in Potions. Flitwick played with his fork continuously. And McGonagall...

McGonagall looked haunted. Lost.

And I had a good grasp of Dumbledore by now —as much as one could reasonably have, after reading the books, watching the films, and seeing him in action day after day for about two years. So I knew there was just no way in hell he wouldn't have wanted to give out an encouraging —albeit sombre— speech right now. This was the very first time that the whole school was together in the same room, after such a grave event; so he wouldn't have missed it, not voluntarily.

Which meant there was something else going on, something that had prevented him from being here. The formidable Augusta Longbottom was a candidate, certainly... but it just didn't seem like reason enough.

But then my eyes fell on Draco: on his satisfied stance, chest puffed and nose raised up in the air, his shit-eating smirk written across his face. He had obviously heard us, and was obviously waiting for a prompt, dying for any of us to ask him just what it was that he knew.

I could pretty much imagine what he was about to tell us, so I didn't feel the need to indulge him, opting to ignore him instead as I focused on filling my glass with some apple juice. Parkinson however bit the hook: "Do you know something, Draco?"

The boy preened for a beat, looking around the table to gather more attention towards himself, the prat; then he finally said: "He's out for good, Dumbledore. The Board of Governors finally got wise and suspended the fool. That old disgrace's not coming back after this, ever."

"Oh! That's simply brilliant, Draco!"

"Your father's doing?" asked Zabini.

"Obviously."

"Do you think that's wise?" said Daphne.

Zabini nodded. "Right. No love lost for the Headmaster either; but I trust the likes of Sprout or Flitwick even less, to keep us safe from a wild basilisk."

"But it's not a wild beast, is it?" argued Draco. I could see his growing annoyance at being second-guessed —or at least, at having his father be second-guessed, which might be even more of a crime in his eyes. But he surprised me by biting his tongue and replying in a measured, albeit condescending tone: "This is the Heir of Slytherin's plan; they must know what they are doing."

Hmm...

Tracey eyed me, waiting to see if I'd correct the blond boy, but after a beat of my silence she said: "That's not true. The Heir of Slytherin was–"

I placed a hand on her arm, forestalling her. Because yeah, we could tell him that the monster was actually on the loose, that there was no dark, clever wizard planning these attacks from behind the curtain. And that, as a result, his father's misguided schemes were just as likely to come and bite us back in our collective arse.

But the thing was, I had glimpsed an opportunity right now, staring me in the face. I wanted to turn Malfoy away from the path of the dark side, so to speak, and this seemed like an unexpected, handy lever I could use to help me in that task.

What I needed to do was impress upon him the inherent danger of these sort of schemes, that when you played with Fiendfyre, as it were, you shouldn't expect to walk away unscathed. That very idea had been the core of Duskhaven's teachings in regards to dark magic, last year, and it also held true for the dark wizards themselves.

But I had to put it in other words. He hadn't paid any credence to Professor Duskhaven, and he wouldn't heed my warning either if I sounded too moralizing. It had to come from an angle of self-interest instead. I waited a moment, working quickly through the possibilities, assembling the words in my head.

Then I said: "I thought the Heir's plans were to attack the Muggleborns, drive them away. But Longbottom was —is— a pure-blood. So... it seems like you people are also in the menu." I then took a large bite of a piece of bread, as if to emphasize the point.

"Hardly," he said, rolling his eyes. "The Longbottoms are blood traitors, everybody knows that."

"Oh. I wonder then, what the Heir's opinions on loyalty must be. Important to know that after today, no?"

He sighed. "What do you mean?"

What, did I really need to lead him all the way up to the conclusion? Zabini over there seemed like he had already picked up my meaning.

"Well," I explained, "Just that the Heir's definition of traitors might be wider than yours, and include those that they consider disloyal too. Like all those families that supported You-Know-Who at first, then turned their backs on him and the whole Death Eater schtick the moment he was defeated? You know which ones, the ones who claimed they were Imperiused and such..."

Like the Malfoys, of course. I didn't have to say it outloud, though: the tense, frozen moment that followed had a silencing, chilling effect on the table, as the scions of the pure-blood families crossed stares with each other. Draco tried to play it cool, but I saw him noticeably gulping and straightening up his posture, his earlier satisfaction having seemingly vanished.

Surprisingly, it was Thomas Avery who spoke next, from three seats away. The first-year boy said: "She is right. You should write back to your father, Malfoy."

Uh. Was he publicly supporting me because he was in the homework-sharing group? Followers had some uses indeed; who would have thought?

More surprisingly still, Theodore Nott also nodded and spoke aloud: "Either the Heir is more... zealous than he believed, or they have lost control over the monster. In either case, we are in danger too."

"My father would not put me in danger!" protested Draco, crossing his arms and scowling like a petulant child.

"Maybe he didn't know himself," I said. "Dark wizards are known to be notoriously cagey about their intentions, you see."

That worked too. Making him used to the idea of his father being fallible, of him being mistaken. Because Merlin knew he would be, in the future. It would only help Draco to be aware of this fact sooner rather than later.

The boy looked conflicted for a few long seconds, as he searched with his eyes for some escape, for someone who would side with him; assuage his newfound fears and doubts. Parkinson averted her gaze, using her fork to play with the beans in her plate, as if digging for the place in which she'd left her spine.

And then something impossible, something amazing happened. It was like the boy had bit into a lemon, like he was fighting his own throat to prevent the words from escaping. But eventually, he said in a shaken voice: "Very well; I will write to him tomorrow, since you lot are so worried. But he probably is already well aware of what the Heir plans to do."

It was a triumph, that I managed to school my features into calm indifference rather than outright celebrate my victory, burst into jubilant dancing right then and there. Not because of his letter —nothing at all would come out of that; as I quite suspected Lucius Malfoy would rather lose a son than lose face. But because for the first time ever, Draco had stepped out of his father's shadow. Not entirely, mind you, just a little toe to test the waters with. But you know, baby steps and all that.

So despite the strange events of the day, that night I went to bed feeling somewhat satisfied with myself. But after that, things changed deeply at Hogwarts, and for the worst: we were no longer allowed free reign of movement, instead we were escorted to and from the classrooms, the Library, the Great Hall or wherever we should be. Always in large groups; always with a Professor, or a Prefect, or both, and always with a rooster at hand. Even something as simple as going to the loo was supervised.

I knew it was wise, and cautious, and the right measure to take given the situation. But something about it being enforced, about having my freedom stripped away just like that, it simply angered me. It was irrational, for sure, as given the choice I knew I wouldn't want to be on my own either. But since I hadn't been given the choice, it made me grumpy and annoyed as all hell.

Also snappy to my friends. And although I would apologise then and now, at some point even the ever polite, measured Daphne Greengrass must have had enough, because she joked that if she ever heard the words 'gloomy gulag' again, she'd have no choice but to poison my tea.

At least I hoped she was joking; she wasn't smiling when she said it.

My Potions partner also felt the brunt of my indignation. And I figured that was the probable reason behind Hermione giving me the silent treatment a couple of days later. But when I cared to pay more attention to her, I realised that she was actually observing me out of the corner of her eye, as she worried her lower lip and fidgeted with the ingredients on the desk.

It harkened back to her behaviour earlier in the year, and so I didn't pressure and simply gave her ample room to gather her courage and say whatever was in her mind. She waited until we were already bottling the day's potion to hand off to Snape; then she said: "Erm... Sylvia. We... overheard from a Slytherin that you might know where the Chamber of Secrets is?"

Sure. A Slytherin all-right. I decided to make her sweat a little, replying with a simple: "Oh?"

"And... well, that only a... a Parselmouth can open it?"

"That's right," I said after a beat. "Why? Do you know of any?"

She fell silent once more, then turned in her seat to look at Potter and Weasley across the room. There was some silent communication there, one that I wasn't privy to, before Hermione turned back to me once more, nodded to herself, then whispered: "Harry, he is a Parselmouth."

I didn't have to fake my surprise at all; because while I was aware from my fore-memories of Potter's little gift, I hadn't expected her —or him, really— to trust me enough as to share it with me outright. Unlike in the original timeline, this Harry was keeping the secret under wraps, possibly aware of how it would sour the public perception of him should it go widespread.

Hermione forged ahead, saying: "So all we need is for you to tell us where the entrance to the Chamber is, and then he could open it and we'd be able to get inside–"

"And then what?" I challenged her. "Fight the basilisk head-on?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. Harry believes he could talk to it, convince it to leave the castle and head for the Forbidden Forest instead, just like Hagrid did with his own... well, nevermind that. But it would be the best solution, wouldn't it? The basilisk would leave us alone, and it wouldn't be harmed itself either."

Uh.

That... wasn't that bad a plan, all things considered. It would depend on how thoroughly conditioned the creature was; but giving that it was already ignoring the Heir's orders in what respected to pure-bloods, I gave it a fair chance of working.

I didn't need to ask why they hadn't gone to a teacher with this, though. Without Dumbledore, it would fall to McGonagall to allow it, and she would never take that risk.

But should I take that risk?

On the one hand, they —we— were twelve years old, and the monster was a blasted giant snake —a venomous snake that could petrify and kill you with merely its gaze, and wrapped in an armoured skin capable of deflecting magic. So yeah, the answer seemed obvious.

But on the other hand, I was well aware of the threads of destiny, fate, or whatever you'd wish to call it, tightening all around us. Like the world itself wanted an encounter between the beast and the Boy Who Lived. Like preventing it from happening could end up being the worst choice, in the end.

And so if there was going to be one, perhaps this —a controlled, planned one— could be the better option.

Or perhaps I was simply trying to convince myself to go ahead with it. Because in truth, I too was tired of living under the shadow of the monster. I hadn't fancied my chances alone against the basilisk, but... this could work, right? And besides, I could think of a plan B to fall back to, in case Potter's persuasion skills didn't quite cut it.

"Fine," I said after a beat, "but I'm going in with you. And you'll have to bring a rooster."

"Brilliant! We could go just before Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Lockhart is an idiot, but even he would get suspicious if four students were suddenly missing from his class; especially if one of them is the Boy Who Lived. No, we will meet on the second floor corridor at midnight, by the staircase. Oh, and make sure to also bring your broomsticks."

The rest of the day passed as in a haze, unable to focus on my lessons, the worry and apprehension settling into a knot in my stomach. Time itself seemed to slip through my fingers, the hours quickly passing by as they hurled me towards what could very well be the end of me. The end of this short, second life.

And perhaps it was this strange, odd sense of bold invulnerability that casting bloody magic granted one, that prevented me from going into paralysis right then and there —no basilisk needed. The mistaken sense that I could face anything, as long as I had a wand in my hand and an incantation ready at my tongue.

Maybe because of that, the girls didn't notice anything out of the ordinary —or maybe it was because the feeling that we were all living on borrowed time was pervasive enough through the entire student body. I almost hoped they'd confront me, force me to come to my senses; but they never even realised.

And so, sooner that I had hoped for, I laid awake on my bed in our pitch black dorm room as I waited patiently for everybody else to fall asleep. Then I slowly, smoothly got out from under the covers, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, grabbed my broomstick —that I had previously hid under the bed— and stepped towards the room's door.

And then I paused.

I was very aware that this —going behind the girls' backs, joining the Golden Trio in a harebrained adventure— was pretty much another betrayal, a dagger to the back of our circle. All day I had been trying to push the thought out of my head, telling myself that they'd never need to know, that I'd be back in my bed well before morning.

But the truth was that I'd been delaying the decision, the choice I had to make. Until I found myself standing there in the darkness, by the door, and I simply could not procrastinate on it any longer. I had to choose, right then.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then nodded to myself and walked up to Tracey's bed. I shook her arm softly, and under the glimmer of the weakest wand-lighting charm I could produce, I muttered to her to meet me in the common room. Then I left the dorm.

The common room was hauntingly empty, lit only by the fireplace, the large windows showing the unfathomable, abyssal darkness of the lake. It wasn't an auspicious sight, and I welcomed the company when a bleary-eyed Tracey finally joined me, still very much wrapped in the cobwebs of sleep. She grunted an interrogative noise at me.

"I talked to Granger before," I explained. "We are going into the Chamber of Secrets; they have a plan for dealing with the basilisk that might actually work, you know. But I need you to stay here and awake, in case it doesn't, and to raise the alarm if I'm not back in a couple of hours... give or take."

That woke her up all-right. And I had to shush her so that she wouldn't wake the entire house in turn. Then I had to explain the plan to her in detail —twice— before I convinced her that no; that I wasn't under the Imperious spell or something.

"And Potter is a Parselmouth?!" she repeated. She seemed stuck on that particular point.

"Yes. But it's his secret, so please don't tell anyone."

"... Okay," she muttered at last. "Okay. I'm going with you, then."

"What? Tracey–"

"No, Sylvia; this is crazy, I won't let you go on your own to fight a basilisk!"

"It's not a fight–"

"It might turn into one!"

"–and I won't be alone!"

"They are Gryffindors! If things turn bad, they might abandon you there!... Is it... is it that you don't trust me?"

I sighed and shook my head, "No. I... I just remember last year, how... how it hurt you, what happened. And you are right, this might get dangerous too. I don't want you to get hurt again."

There was a pregnant pause after that, Tracey's eyes going to the very same seat by the fireplace where she'd taken refuge, during those sleepless nights. Then she stared at me with renewed resolve and declared: "If I can get hurt, then so can you."

"But–"

"And you know I'm also good at duelling, better than Weasley and Granger. If they are going, then I'm going with you. You know I can help, like I did last year."

"You'd also help if you stayed here, to raise the–"

"No. I'll wake Daphne and Sally. They can wait here for us."

I nodded at last, shrugging and muttering a "Fine." I knew it was a lost cause, that she wouldn't budge; I had known it ever since I woke her up. Odd then, that I felt relieved. Relieved that she hadn't been furious at me, for even thinking of going behind their backs.

And relieved that I wouldn't be on my own, too. That I would share this with her, no matter what happened next.

"Give me your wand," she said, reaching with an outstretched hand. "I'll go and wake them up."

"What?"

"You heard."

I blinked. "Wait... you don't trust me to stay here and wait for you?"

She rolled her eyes, and motioned with her fingers. I muttered a curse under my breath, but extracted my wand and placed it on her waiting hand; then plopped down on the closest couch with my arms crossed.

"Right," she said, turning towards the stairs. "It will just be a moment."

"Don't you dare losing it," I muttered darkly.

It only took a few minutes, after that. Sally was as confused and sleepy as Tracey had been, but Greengrass looked fresh and annoyingly alert, despite the hour. They were equally surprised at the daring plan; but while they suggested —in the strongest terms— that we remained within the safety of the common room, and they offered to join us, none of them pushed back too hard when I told them to stay behind.

Partially because it was true that we needed someone to warn everybody else, should things go awry. Partially because we all knew Tracey would be more effective at this than them. Tracey had been there at every session of the Duelling Club so far, while Sally's interest had quickly dwindled in the weeks since winter break. And as for Daphne, she had never even cared about defensive magic at all.

But mostly because our friendships were unequal. It had been Tracey with me last year, under the forbidden corridor. She had taken the risk, and she had suffered through those nights after. There was a connection there, an unspoken link between the two of us that Daphne and Sally didn't fully share.

And so it was just the two of us who left the common room that night, advancing through the eerie, dark corridors of Hogwarts, broomsticks in our hands. This time I didn't enjoy the escapade, the school at night feeling not freeing, but menacing and dangerous like never before. But we moved quickly and smoothly, thanks to there being not as many patrols at night as it was the norm —the prefects had begun sticking together too, not to become themselves a target for a basilisk on the prowl.

The meeting point by the second floor was empty when we arrived, but just a few seconds later the three Gryffindors appeared out of the sudden, as if they'd just walked out of a corner's shadows —or, more likely, out of Potter's invisibility cloak. They seemed taken aback at Tracey's presence, but only Weasley —who was carrying a birdcage covered in a dark cloth— reacted openly, muttering "great, another snake," as he shook his head.

"Come on," I said, urging the group to follow me. "Speaking of snakes, it would be ironic if the basilisk killed us here, while we are on our way to its den. I refuse to die in such an embarrassing way."

"I'd rather not die at all," said Potter. But they all got in motion after me without protest.

All but Weasley, who was in front of me. He did a double take, then spat out: "You are wearing faeries!"

"Yes, and?" I shot back, maybe with a little too much bite. He raised his hands and said: "It's nothing! I just... well, didn't think you'd be into that, is all."

"Next time I'll make sure to wear my other pyjamas, the ones with skulls and crossbones," I grumbled. It wasn't even a lie, I did have a pirate-themed set back at the Residence.

He shut up after that, joining us, and together we entered the infamous bathroom, not too far away. The horrifying, creepy state of the bathroom was even more intimidating at night, illuminated only by my wand, and everybody paused by the door, eyeing the place like it could be full of boggarts.

"This is Moaning Myrtle's bathroom," announced Hermione, as if expecting one of us to award her some house points for the titbit.

"Yes; and she is probably nearby," I said, motioning vaguely to the soft gurgling sounds I could hear coming out of one of the stalls. "So lets be quick now, and don't provoke her into making a scene. Come here, Potter."

The boy eyed his friends for a beat, then took a deep breath as he stepped up to me. "What do I need to do?"

"Just tell the sink to open."

"Open."

"In Parseltongue, preferably."

He nodded, squared his shoulders and then pronounced a sibilant, uneasy noise, dripping in malice. A noise that made my arm's hairs stand on end.

"Merlin, it's true," whispered Tracey, her eyes wide. "I knew you said it was true, but I... I didn't think–"

But she stilled as the sink opened up with a deep scrape, revealing the wide pipe underneath. And now that I could see it, this idea sounded even crazier. Because it was dark like ink, my wand only managing to illuminate the first few feet of it.

"Um... Right. Follow me, slowly," I said, stepping ahead and mounting on my broom. Then I paused, reached for my pocket, pulled out my sunglasses and put them on.

"Really?" asked Tracey, unbelieving. "That's what you're thinking of now?"

I shrugged. "Leave behind a pretty corpse, no?"

She shook her head in exasperation, but mounted her own broom, as did the Golden Trio. And together, we started our descent.

It was slow going, the pipe barely wide enough for the broomsticks to fit without scraping the sides, and always twisting this and that way. It was also way, way longer than I expected, going on and on seemingly without end. And while I was sure Potter might have been able to fly its full length at speed, it was me on the lead; and I wasn't that agile a flier.

But we made it out, eventually, the five of us landing on a damp tunnel, the air cold and humid.

Everyone paused to stare, looking around in anxious fascination —even me. Because I might have had the advantage of my fore-memories, but that's not to say finding myself a mile deep into the Earth wasn't making me seriously reconsider the wisdom of this little outing.

"Here," said Hermione, handing me her pocket mirror. "If you are going to walk ahead, it's better if you use this to check the way."

Oh. So I was going to walk ahead here too, it turned out. Good to know.

"It's too dark, Granger. I can't see shit in this."

"You would, if you took out those silly spectacles," said Ron.

"Yeah, not happening," I muttered. But still I took the mirror, handing her my broomstick back, then raised the intensity of my light to compensate. I noticed Hermione was looking at my sunglasses with a curious expression, but I pre-empted any questions by simply forging ahead.

We walked for a few minutes in reverent silence, only broken by Ron's whimper and Tracey's curse when we passed the enormous snake skin.

The tunnel bent and narrowed for a while after that, and we kept advancing, doing our best not to step on the bones of rodents that littered the floor. And then the tunnel twisted one more time, and I saw it. A wall, and the door on it, surrounded by two carved snakes.

"It's already open," muttered Hermione, who seemed to enjoy stating the obvious.

I said: "Uh-huh."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because the Heir never returned to close it again, after I kicked the shit out of Luna. And don't give me those looks, you lot know it wasn't really her on the driver's seat."

"I'm going in," said Harry Potter, ignoring the rest of us as he took a step ahead. "Wait here. I will try to talk to–"

"No, I'll go first," I interrupted. Then, because I couldn't exactly explain that I was better protected, I added: "I'm better at duelling. So if the basilisk's not in a listening mood, I might be able to do some damage to it."

"But we are not here to fight it!" protested Hermione.

"Sure. Tracey, you take charge of the rooster and wait outside with Granger and Weasley. If we shout, jinx the bloody bird until it cries its lungs off."

"Got it," said my housemate, picking up the cage and aiming her wand at it with a focused expression.

Hermione looked appalled between the two of us: "What?! We're not going to hurt–"

"Ready, Harry?"

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding more confident than I felt myself. I nodded, and moved ahead, looking through the mirror into the chamber as I crossed the entrance. I walked slowly forward, the sounds of my hesitant steps echoing against the walls and the far away ceiling; the sounds of my hasty heartbeat echoing against my own ribs

Then, when nothing moved or attacked us, I finally raised my gaze.

It was majestic, and creepy as all hell. The powerful pillars with engraved, twisting snakes, the greenish hue that bathed it all, the enormous sculpture of Salazar Slytherin in the far end —mouth agape, giving the wizard a disfigured, inhuman expression. It was a sick monument to... I wasn't sure what. Inferiority complex, I supposed.

We took a quick look around the room, doing our best to dispel the thick shadows behind the pillars with our combined wand-lighting charms. But I was aware we were procrastinating, and soon enough I pointed with my wand at the mouth hole in Slytherin's statue and whispered: "Your turn, snake charmer."

He nodded, took a few steps ahead and spoke again in that hissing, maddening language. Louder, a longer sentence this time. We waited in silence for a beat after that, but nothing happened.

Then he tried again, even louder, the words —if you could call them that— merging into each other. And again we waited, ready for an attack, for a reply. And again, nothing.

After a third try, I started to relax. The fourth one only confirmed it. By then, the rest of our group had entered the Chamber of Secrets, joining us. They all looked around as in a trance, taking in all that absurd ostentatiousness.

"It's not here," I explained, not bothering to hide the mix of relief and frustration in my tone as I kicked a pebble with my foot. "It's probably left for good, the bloody pest."

Not that I blamed it, after... what was it, a thousand years or thereabouts? Yeah, I'd be dying to move out of this place too, given the chance.

We still spent over twenty minutes looking for it, making noise and going so far as to throw stones into Slytherin's mouth —just in case it was asleep, as Hermione put it. But to no avail; the chamber was annoyingly, completely safe.

And I wondered whether Dumbledore had visited this place, too. Was this why he'd been unable to stop the monster, put an early end to its attacks? Had he been just as frustrated, just as defeated as I felt right then?

The walk of shame, as we retraced our steps back to the pipe and then rode our brooms up to Myrtle's bathroom was silent and meditative, nobody willing to admit that we weren't sure where to go next from here, what to do after this. My fore-memories were of no help, for once. And when Harry ordered the sink to close, and we exited the bathroom to the corridor outside, the reality of it was clear to read on all our faces: tomorrow, the basilisk would still be loose at school. Soon, it would attack again.

And perhaps the next victim wouldn't be as lucky as Neville Longbottom.

We parted in that strange, weird companionship of failure, and Tracey and I descended together the spiralling stairs towards the dungeons, only having to pause for a minute to let the Bloody Baron past us by. The ghost looked at us for a moment, but then ignored us as he went straight through one of the closed doors.

I was wishing for the respite of my bed, when we finally entered our common room, for the sweet embrace of sleep, of not having to worry and stress, to plan and strategise for however many hours remained until morning. We hadn't fought the creature, in the end, but all that coiled tension from the little escapade had done a number on my nerves anyway.

That didn't mean I wasn't preparing to rail at the girls, too. At Greengrass and Perks, who I was sure we'd find asleep. I had some very sharp darts ready to throw at them, to give them some good ribbing for not being able to stand watch.

But no, I was denied of even that little pleasure. Daphne was sitting by the fireplace with a book on her lap, reading at leisure, and she stood up the moment we entered.

"Well?" she asked. "What happened? Did you manage to get the basilisk to leave?"

"No luck," I said. "It wasn't there."

"But we found the Chamber!" said Tracey, a little more enthused than I felt was warranted. "We were inside the Chamber of Secrets! It's real, Daphne!"

She then began a recounting of the whole adventure, not skimping on any details of what we'd found that deep under the school. I myself turned to look for Sally, who I found sitting in front of the windows to the lake. Odd, that she hadn't reacted to our arrival. Slowly, I approached her.

And then my body froze, my heart skipped a beat. A keening noise leaving my lips as I took in her rigid, stiff, life-less posture; her wide open eyes, her unblinking gaze fixed ahead, into the depths of the black waters outside the room.

"It's in the lake," I heard myself whisper.