Chapter 11: The Dueling Club

With Draco buried in Quidditch practices and Gemma spending every free moment in the Hospital Wing for her apprenticeship, Harry found himself with fewer distractions and even fewer excuses to stop digging.

He spent more and more time in the library, chasing threads that always seemed to unravel. Voldemort. Other dark lords. The nature of fear, control, magical corruption. His reading list had grown darker and more obscure with each passing day and so had the rumors. Whispers trailed after him in the corridors, quiet enough that teachers didn't hear but pointed enough that Harry knew what they were saying.

He's obsessed with You-Know-Who.
He's studying Dark magic.
He was sorted into Slytherin…maybe…

None of it mattered. Not compared to the knot of unease still coiled in his chest from Knockturn Alley. He had to understand. There had to be something that explained it. Some missing chapter no one wanted to talk about. But the books gave him nothing. At least, nothing useful.

Voldemort, it seemed, had simply appeared one day in the 1970s like a nightmare that had always existed. Pre-1970, the records were scattered and contradictory, full of speculation and wild theories. One book claimed he had studied under a vampire lord in the Carpathians. Another suggested he had spent years isolated in the deserts of North Africa, learning forbidden rituals from cursed tombs. Harry found a passage that suggested he had never been human at all. The further back he looked, the more ridiculous the claims became.

No birth records. No schooling. No lineage anyone could name and yet the oldest and some of the most traditional pureblood families had fallen into line, and the death eaters had touted blood supremacy the entire time. There had to be something but there was a giant piece of the puzzle missing.

Somehow, Halloween passed him by. The feast came and went, but Harry barely registered it. He was too busy dodging Snape's suspicious glances, avoiding Lucius Malfoy's elegant but predatory presence in the halls, and tracing one dead end after another through brittle pages and ink-stained margins.

He hadn't meant to isolate himself, not really but he hadn't stopped it either. So when Draco slapped a folded flyer onto his Transfiguration notes one morning, Harry blinked at it as if it had appeared from nowhere.

"You're going," Draco said simply, sliding into the bench beside him.

Harry opened the parchment.

Duelling Club: A New Tradition Begins. All years welcome. Great Hall, Thursday evening.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you my social coordinator?"

"Since you stopped blinking in sunlight," Draco muttered. "You're two grimoires away from speaking in cryptic prophecy and growing a beard."

"I'm not growing a beard," Harry said, deadpan.

"Yet," Draco replied. "But I'm not risking it. You need air. You need people. And frankly, you're starting to scare the first-years."

Harry considered pointing out that he had scared the first-years since their first week without needing to do anything at all, but he didn't. Not because Draco was right, exactly, but because there was something about the idea that tugged at him.

He folded the flyer and tucked it into his robes.

"Fine."

The Great Hall had been transformed for the long house tables had vanished, leaving an open space where a golden duelling stage now stood at the center. The enchanted ceiling crackled with a faint charge of magic, as if it sensed the tension humming through the gathered students.

A crowd had already begun forming, excitement buzzing like electricity in the air.

Harry stood among the Slytherins, arms crossed, as Professor Lockhart strode onto the stage, his peacock-blue robes shimmering obnoxiously under the candlelight. He immediately frowned, this was not what he had signed up for.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear students!" Lockhart beamed, flashing a dazzlingly white smile. "It is with great pleasure that I introduce you all to-"

He paused dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.

"…The Hogwarts Duelling Club!"

Scattered applause echoed through the hall. A few first-years clapped enthusiastically. The older students? Not so much, clearly disappointed that Flitwick or Snape wasn't in charge, who were both known for their duelling prowess.

"We're all about to witness a crime against duelling," Draco groaned beside him.

"I'm surprised he didn't make us buy his book first," Pansy snickered.

Harry, meanwhile, was anything but amused. A prickling sense of unease had settled low in his stomach, the kind that rarely proved wrong. Lockhart had already proven himself a menace in class: vain, incompetent, and oblivious to danger. Now he was grinning like a showman before a crowd. Worse still, Snape stood to the side of the platform, arms crossed, his expression coiled into something venomous.

That unease hardened into certainty the moment Lockhart swept out an arm with theatrical flair and announced his assistant. Professor Snape ascended the stage like a thundercloud given form, black robes billowing with deliberate menace. His face was carved into cold disdain, sharper than Harry had ever seen it. And he had seen Snape furious with Charlie. This was something colder and more deliberate. The kind of danger that smiled thinly before it struck.

A hush fell over the crowd and every Slytherin immediately perked up.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Blaise murmured, smirking.

Lockhart clapped a hand on Snape's shoulder, completely unaware of the danger he was in.

"Professor Snape has graciously agreed to assist me in demonstrating the proper techniques of duelling!" Lockhart announced. "Now, now, don't be shy, Severus-I promise to go easy on you!"

Snape's lip curled.

"How… generous of you," Snape said silkily, drawing his wand with deliberate slowness.

Lockhart flourished his wand, striking a ridiculous duelling stance. "Now, on the count of three-"

Snape didn't wait. With a flick of his wrist, a violet jet of light blasted Lockhart off his feet. The man soared backward, hitting the ground with a spectacular crash. Laughter erupted across the hall.

"Did you see his face?!" Draco wheezed, nearly doubling over.

Lockhart, to his credit, staggered back up, dusting off his robes like nothing had happened.

"Ah! Yes, a fine example of the dangers of being caught off-guard!" Lockhart coughed. "Moving on! Let's pair you all off!"

Students hurried to find partners, eager to avoid being assigned one.

"Oi, Potter!"

Harry barely had time to raise his wand and glance around for a partner before the shout cut through the hall. He turned sharply, tension already prickling at the back of his neck. Draco was stepping onto the duelling stage, a faint smirk on his lips. His voice had been mocking, causing Harry to be momentarily confused but then he realized it wasn't aimed at him at all. It was aimed at Charlie who now stood across from Draco.

"You really want to do this, Malfoy?" Charlie's voice carried easily, sharp and clipped. He climbed onto the platform with stiff movements, rolling up his sleeves like it was a street fight. Harry's stomach twisted. He knew what this was. Draco had seen an opening and taken it, poking at Charlie's pride where it was already raw. And of course, Charlie had walked straight into it.

"Terribly, actually," Draco tilted his head slightly, his tone calm, almost amused. But Harry recognized the focus in his eyes. He wasn't playing around.

"Very well. A duel between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter," Snape gave a weary sigh before nodding his assent.

Harry glanced toward him, a protest rising in his throat, but he knew it would go nowhere. This wasn't about him, not really. And Snape, for all his posturing, wasn't going to stop it.

"Oh, how thrilling. A duel between rivals," Lockhart clapped his hands together, entirely too delighted, as if this were some dramatic play put on for his entertainment.

Draco and Charlie dipped into matching, exaggerated bows. There was nothing respectful about them. Harry stepped back from the edge of the platform, his wand still loose in his hand. His pulse beat hard in his ears. This wasn't a friendly match. It wasn't even about proving skill. It was about proving something else entirely, and Harry wasn't sure anyone in the room saw it clearly except him.

"Three!" Lockhart shouted. "Two! One! Begin!"

Charlie fired first, but Draco was faster. His wand moved with precise, fluid confidence, a flick of control that cut through Charlie's spell mid-air. Harry couldn't help the flicker of surprise that passed through him. Draco made it look effortless, like spell work was second nature, like his wand was an extension of his body. And maybe it was. He had probably been training for moments like this since before he could walk.

"Serpensortia!"

A loud crack filled the air as a long, black serpent shot from Draco's wand, landing with a hiss on the cold stone floor. The snake reared back, its golden eyes gleaming. The Gryffindors shrieked as the snake coiled, tongue flicking. Then it turned, racing straight toward a terrified Gryffindor third-year. Harry reacted without thinking.

∿"Stop." ∿

The snake froze. So did the Great Hall. The silence was immediate and absolute. Every eye had turned to Harry. And in that awful stillness, Harry realized he hadn't spoken in English. The snake's body softened, no longer coiled to strike. Its tongue flicked curiously as it tilted its head toward him, as if awaiting further instruction. Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't have time to think, barely time to breathe. All he could do was try again- desperate to make it stop, desperate to make it clear he wasn't the threat here.

∿ "You don't want to bite anyone." ∿

The snake hissed in reply.

∿"No. But I was called. You speak no-leg?" ∿

Harry hesitated all too aware that every single pair of eyes was on him. Before he could say anything else, Snape flicked his wand, and the snake vanished into thin air. The spell broke, but the silence did not. Every face in the hall was turned toward him.

The air felt heavy, pressing in around him. Then came the whispers, quiet at first, then swelling like a slow ripple across still water. Words passed from mouth to mouth, too soft to catch, but Harry didn't need to hear them to know exactly what they were saying.

"Did you hear that?"
"He spoke to it!"
"That's Dark Magic!"
"I thought only Slytherin's heirs could do that?"

Harry blinked. He didn't understand. Why was everyone looking at him like that? He had seen older Slytherins with contraband pet snakes before, tucked into sleeves or coiled inside satchels. No one had ever reacted like this. Then it struck him. He had never seen anyone speak to them. The snakes were often chatty, always hissing and muttering to themselves, sometimes reacting to their owners with what seemed like understanding. But no one had ever answered. No one had ever talked back.

He hadn't thought it was strange. He knew the Dark Lord had the same ability, but in every book it was mentioned once, usually in a footnote, and then never brought up again. Harry had figured it was rare, sure, but not alarming. Something unusual, but harmless. Almost the entire hall was staring at him, wide-eyed and tense, as if he had just cast an Unforgivable right there in front of them. The fear in their eyes wasn't exaggerated. It was real and immediate, pressing in from all sides.

Clearly, he had misunderstood.

Charlie's face had gone ashen. He was staring at Harry like he had grown a second head. No, it was like he was dangerous. Like he was afraid of Harry. A twisting, sick feeling coiled in Harry's stomach. Snape's expression gave nothing away. Cold, careful, watchful. Lockhart looked as if the snake had bitten him. Wide-eyed and pale, he had lost every trace of his usual bluster. The Gryffindor student who had been threatened turned ghost-white and collapsed in a faint, as if Harry had cast a curse on him. Even Draco looked paler than usual, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something more guarded. He was staring at Harry like he was seeing him for the first time and wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at.

The whispers were no longer whispers. They were rising, swelling into something jagged and panicked.

The next morning made one thing painfully clear. No one had forgotten.

The moment Harry stepped into the Great Hall, a wave of whispers surged around him like a living thing. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Heads turned. Stares followed him from every direction, eyes tracking his every step as if he might suddenly hiss and summon another snake.

He kept his chin level and his expression blank, but his shoulders were tight with strain by the time he reached the Slytherin table. He sat down stiffly, pretending not to notice the way even some of the Slytherins leaned slightly away from him.

Then came the thump. A copy of the Daily Prophet landed in front of him with sharp finality. Harry didn't need to open it to know. The weight in his stomach was already sinking. Still, he looked. The headline was bold, inked in black and impossible to miss. His own face stared back at him. His hands shook as he flipped it open, scanning the article.

HARRY POTTER: THE DARK HEIR?
In a shocking revelation at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter, long believed to be one of the two miraculous survivors of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's attack, demonstrated an ability long associated with the Dark Arts-Parseltongue, the ability to speak to snakes.

Such an ability is rare and is believed to be a hereditary trait passed down through the bloodline of Salazar Slytherin himself. Historically, those with this gift have often been drawn toward the Dark Arts. The last recorded Parselmouth? You-Know-Who.

Charlie and Ron sat at the Gryffindor table, both staring at him like he was something unnatural. Not a person, not their classmate but something else. And they weren't the only ones. The entire table was watching him with thinly veiled suspicion, some with open fear. A few leaned in to whisper behind cupped hands, their eyes never leaving him.

Has Harry Potter inherited more than just fame from his encounter with The Dark Lord? Some whisper Charlie Potter was the one who vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that night alone. As for the other Potter? Rumors are flying that the Dark Lord himself marked Harry as his heir before his demise. See page 4 for a list of crimes committed by The Dark Lord and his followers.

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to look away. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the newspaper, crumpling the corner. He could feel Dumbledore's gaze from the staff table. It was steady, unreadable, but it burned against the side of his face all the same.

Harry let out a sharp breath through his nose and shoved the newspaper aside. The headline glared up at him like a brand, the ink still fresh. He wasn't going to sit there and be studied. Not like some rare specimen in the zoo under glass. Without a word, he pushed back his chair. The scrape of it against the stone floor echoed too loudly in the tense quiet. Then he stood, turned, and walked out of the Great Hall.

He didn't look back.

The moment Harry stepped into the Slytherin common room that evening, he knew something had shifted. Not just for the day. This was a turning point, and not a good one. The air felt charged, brittle with anticipation. The Prophet article had spread like wildfire. By now, every student at Hogwarts had read it. And Slytherins, more than anyone, knew how to weaponize a rumor.

The reaction had been swift. And silent. Which was worse. The first sign of trouble stood directly ahead of him. A lineup. A very long one. It stretched from the fireplace to the entrance, students waiting as if they were about to enter a duel or a throne room. Some looked amused. Others looked nervous. A few, calculating. But all of them were watching him.

Harry froze in the doorway, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"What… is this?" Harry asked, stopping just past the entrance.

Draco smirked, lounging in one of the green-velvet armchairs by the fireplace.

"Looks like they're waiting for you, Dark Heir," he stated dryly.

Harry blinked and took a closer look.

A handful of students were holding their pet serpents, hopeful expressions on their faces.

"You have to talk to him," said a wiry third-year, lifting up a sleek black adder coiled around his wrist. "His name's Shadow, but I want to ask if that's what he actually wanted to be called."

"Right, and I need to know if mine's happy with her enclosure," another girl piped up, holding a lazy-looking green garden snake in her hands. "She keeps trying to escape, but I swear I feed her plenty!"

One by one, the students stepped forward.

Some came with questions, some with cautious fascination, and a few with barely concealed awe. By the time Harry had spoken to the last in line, the crowd had already begun to reform. More students were filtering down from the dormitories, now carrying their own pets.

"Does he like his heat lamp?"

"Why does mine keep hissing when I enter the room?"

"Can you just ask her what she wants?"

Harry pressed his fingers to his temples, already regretting everything about this. Somehow it was worse than all of them looking at him like he was going to erupt into cursing people.

With a heavy sigh, he finally muttered, "Fine."

The first snake, the sleek black adder, flicked its tongue and lazily turned its head toward Harry as he let out a quiet hiss.

∿"What do you want?" Harry asked in Parseltongue.

The snake's forked tongue flickered again. ∿"Fatter mice. These ones are stringy." ∿

Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Your snake wants fatter mice."

The boy nodded sagely, like this was some kind of grand revelation, then turned to his snake. "I told you, Shadow, you're getting what's in stock-"

The next snake, a little green one wrapped around a girl's wrist, was far less cooperative.

∿"Why do you keep trying to escape?" ∿ Harry asked, tiredly.

The snake let out a lazy hiss. ∿ "Boring. Same walls. Same food. I wish for something to hunt."

"She's bored," Harry translated. "She wants something new to hunt."

"Ohhh," the girl cooed. "Maybe I can take her outside more."

For the next hour it continued nonstop. At first, Harry had assumed their requests would be interesting. Maybe they'd whisper secrets, maybe they'd reveal something useful. Instead, they all just wanted better food, bigger enclosures, or to be left alone because they were trying to sleep. One particularly venomous snake-belonging to a seventh-year-hissed a string of insults at its owner that Harry very pointedly did not translate.

Harry blinked as another student approached, this one younger and clearly hopeful, holding out a ferret wrapped in a too-long Slytherin scarf.

"I think it only works on snakes," Harry said quietly, voice more apologetic than he meant it to be.

The student's face fell, and he stepped back clearly dejected. Around the room, those with frogs, rats, and various other non-reptilian creatures looked equally crushed. The pit in Harry's stomach grew heavier. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the room. The looks being thrown his way were painfully manipulative- wide eyes, hesitant smiles, the quiet sort of pleading that came from students who had never had anyone listen to them, let alone speak for them.

He sighed.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll… try. But no promises."

Eventually, the lineup died down. But the murmurs did not. The second Harry sat down, he could hear the whispers just behind him.

"Do you think he's really Slytherin's heir?"
"Maybe he's the next Dark Lord."
"You think he'll be trying to gain followers soon?"
"He's definitely got the charisma for it." "I'd join him."

Harry clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to turn around and snap at them. He wasn't some heir to a dark legacy. He wasn't planning to become the next Dark Lord. He wasn't-

A heavy thump next to him cut off his train of thought. Crabbe. Sitting at his right. A second later, another weight settled on his left. Goyle. The realization hit Harry like a curse. He was being flanked.

Everywhere he went now, at least one Slytherin seemed to be nearby. Crabbe and Goyle practically shadowed his every move, and it wasn't just them either. Millicent and Daphne often sat near him in the common room, and even Blaise, despite his usual apathy, seemed to be loitering nearby more often.

At first, he thought they were waiting for him to do something dark. But then he realized. It wasn't that it was suspicion. It was a united front. The other houses noticed. No one dared to approach him alone anymore. At first, it was almost amusing. Then it became suffocating. No more quiet evenings in the library. No more moments of solitude. Even when he tried to slip away, at least two others followed, lingering just far enough to not seem suspicious.

He needed a break and something for his headache. He tried to break away from the group but was unsuccessful, he argued but he was only left once he entered the doors of the Hospital Wing. Gemma barely looked up when Harry headed straight for one of the empty beds. She was restocking a cabinet of potions, her movements stiff and impatient.

"You again?" she called over her shoulder.

"Headache," Harry muttered, dropping onto the mattress with a sigh.

Gemma snorted.

"Right. And I'm Minister for Magic," she finished stacking the last of the vials before turning to face him, arms crossed, "You're hiding."

Harry didn't bother denying it.

Gemma rolled her eyes, grabbing a small vial from the shelf and tossing it onto the bed beside him, "Here. Headache potion. Or whatever excuse you're going with today."

Harry picked it up, but didn't drink it right away. Instead, he closed his eyes, willing away the tension in his temples.

Gemma sighed, rubbing her forehead. "You think you're suffering? I barely have time to breathe. Between NEWT classes and dealing with the utter disaster that is this school year, I should be in one of these beds."

Harry cracked an eye open, "That bad?"

Gemma shot him a sharp look.

"You have no idea. People keep running to me over the dumbest injuries, half my prefect duties involve shoving girls back into their dorms when they try to sneak to Lockhart's office at all hours, and then there's you."

Harry raised an eyebrow, "Me?"

"Yes, you," Gemma deadpanned. "Because someone has decided to turn the school upside down by speaking to snakes, and now I have to listen to first-years argue about whether you're the next Dark Lord or the second coming of Merlin. You are my biggest problem of them all."

Harry groaned, shoving the pillow over his face.

"Frankly, I'd take another troll incident over this nonsense," Gemma muttered.

Harry peeked out from under the pillow.

"Want me to summon one? I am supposed to be a Dark Lord in training."

Gemma smirked, "Go ahead. I'll just conveniently be somewhere else when it happens."

For the first time all day, Harry huffed out a quiet laugh.

"Bloody Parseltongue… this year's going to be a nightmare," Gemma shook her head, muttering under her breath as she returned to her work.

Draco loved mysteries. And Harry Potter was the greatest one of the century. The shock had worn off quickly. In its place came curiosity, sharp and insistent. Since then, Draco had made a point of staying close to him, as if proximity might reveal the answers he was starting to want more than he liked to admit.

"Alright," Draco muttered, slamming a massive tome onto the library table. "If you're secretly a long-lost Heir of Slytherin, we need to find proof."

Harry gave him a dry look.

"Or, we could just work on our potions essay," he suggested.

Draco didn't look up, his voice calm as he flipped another page.

"The Gaunts isolated themselves sometime in the 1800s. They were obsessed with blood purity, to the point of intermarrying brothers and sisters, mostly. Reckless and dangerous. Honestly, it probably explains why every last one of them went mad," he read off dryly.

Harry scanned the page. The Gaunts had been an old, powerful line… but their recorded history was scattered at best.

"Maybe your mum was a squib descendant," Draco suggested. "Or maybe a Gaunt married into the Potter family ages ago, and no one remembers."

They searched.

And searched.

And searched some more.

But every time, they came up empty. Nothing connected the Potter line to the Gaunts. Nothing explained Harry's ability. Nothing fit.

"This is pointless," Harry leaned back, frustrated.

Draco scowled, flipping through another book, "Well, I refuse to believe you just woke up one day and decided to speak snake."

Harry sighed, unable to argue because that was exactly what it felt like and that made it all the more unsettling.

The corridor near the seventh floor was quiet, the air unusually still. Harry and Draco turned the corner at a lazy pace, their conversation trailing off as they stepped into the long stretch of stone hallway. They weren't in a rush. Just walking. Just talking. The kind of aimless movement students adopted when they didn't feel like returning to the noise of the common room or the weight of other people's attention.

Then they stopped short.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the far end of the corridor, his silver cane resting lightly against the floor. He wasn't facing them at first. His gaze was fixed on a blank section of wall between two windows. When he finally turned, his expression was unreadable, but the stillness in his posture sent a cold prickle down Harry's spine.

"Draco," Lucius said, his voice smooth and quiet. "Out wandering again, are you?"

Draco straightened immediately. "We were just-"

Lucius cut him off, his gaze narrowing. "I wonder why you find it so difficult to spend time in the library, when last year's exam results suggest you need it."

Draco's mouth opened, then closed again. He shifted his weight, shoulders drawing inward. He didn't say anything. Not with his father looking at him like that.

Harry felt something cold twist in his chest. Draco wasn't lazy and his exam results were hardly subpar. He had been near the top of their class, always neck and neck with Harry in most subjects. Granger had outpaced them both, of course, but that was hardly a surprise. No one could compete with the Gryffindor who treated textbooks like bedtime stories and seemed to remember every word she ever read.

"We were on our way to the library, actually," he said, voice flat and steady. It wasn't true, but he didn't care.

Lucius turned his eyes on Harry. As if he were weighing something and still hadn't decided which way it would tip. Harry didn't flinch under his scrutiny.

"And where exactly are you going?" Harry asked, his gaze flicking to the stretch of stone wall behind Lucius. "I don't think there's anything here of interest."

For a moment, the air grew heavier. Lucius's expression did not change, but something in his eyes cooled further.

"Curiosity can be dangerous, Mr. Potter," he said softly.

"So can secrets," Harry replied.

Lucius gave a faint smile, the kind that never touched his eyes.

"I'll leave you to your studies," he said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve with elegant precision. "Do be sure Draco remembers where the library is."

He turned and walked past them, cane tapping rhythmically against the stone floor until his footsteps faded down the hall. Neither of them spoke until he was gone.

Draco exhaled slowly. "There's nothing up here that the Board would be interested in. Not on a Saturday."

Harry kept his eyes on the place Lucius had been standing.

"No," he said quietly. "There's not."

That night, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The wall behind Lucius had looked ordinary, plain stone like any other part of the corridor, but the man's presence there had not been casual. Harry was certain Lucius Malfoy wasn't at Hogwarts just for Board inspections.

He kept thinking about the way Lucius had been standing and as if looking for something that wasn't there

Harry lay in bed long after the dormitory had gone quiet, eyes fixed on the dark canopy above him. The green glow of the enchanted lake filtered faintly through the windows, casting ripples across the ceiling, but it didn't soothe him.

His mind replayed the encounter in loops. The cold edge in Lucius's voice. The way Draco had shrunk under it. The way Lucius had looked at Harry like he was a piece on a board that had started moving without permission. He knew that look. It meant danger.

The hours stretched. Sleep didn't come easily. When it finally did, it came without peace.

A cold chamber. Green torchlight flickered against the walls, casting warped shadows that danced like specters. Lucius Malfoy knelt at the center of the room, his head bowed low before a figure cloaked in darkness. The hem of his robes brushed the wet floor, soaking through at the edges.

"My lord," Lucius murmured, voice carefully composed, shaped into reverence. "I have been thorough in my investigations. I cannot find the room you speak of. I searched every wall on the seventh floor. I even checked the fifth and sixth, just to be certain."

A long, drawn-out exhale echoed through the chamber, low and displeased.

"You waste time, Lucius," the figure whispered. The voice curled through the air like smoke, soft and coiling. "You scour Hogwarts for nothing while my treasure remains hidden."

Lucius's hands clenched against the fabric of his robes.

"My lord, I-"

The shadow shifted forward. It did not touch him, yet the pressure in the air changed, thick and suffocating.

"You will retrieve it," the voice said, quieter now, but razor-sharp. "You will find my treasure. I will accept no failure."

Lucius's breath caught. "Of course, my lord."

From the darkness, a pale, clawed hand emerged. It hovered above Lucius's bowed head, trembling with restrained malice.

"I have been patient," the voice murmured. There was no warmth in it. Only warning. "Do not test that patience further."

Lucius bowed lower, almost to the floor. "I understand, my lord."

The hand flexed once. Then it shot forward, fingers tangling in Lucius's hair with a sudden, brutal yank.

Lucius flinched, a choked sound escaping before he could swallow it down.

"I doubt that," the voice said. It was cold and absolute leaving no room for argument.

Harry jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his chest heaving. The room was dark, the only sound was the slow, steady dripping of water from the cavernous ceiling above.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Draco hissed from across the dormitory, sitting up sharply in bed. "What in Merlin's name was that? You screamed like a banshee."

Harry's head was spinning. His scar burned. He sucked in a sharp breath, willing the nausea away.

Draco was already throwing back the covers. "I'm getting Farley-"

"No," Harry croaked, forcing himself upright. "I'm fine."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You don't look fine."

Harry exhaled shakily, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "It was just a dream."

Draco scoffed, "Yeah, and I suppose your dreams always involve screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night? I think not, this is new."

Harry ignored that, "You can't tell Gemma."

Draco folded his arms.

"Give me one good reason."

Harry hesitated. Because what was he supposed to say? That Voldemort had returned and was ordering Lucius Malfoy to retrieve something hidden at Hogwarts?

Draco would demand answers. Answers Harry didn't have.

So instead, he just forced a smirk on to his face and said, "Because if you tell her, she'll make me write a log about my sleep habits."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. Yeah, alright, that's fair."

Harry exhaled in relief but as Draco flopped back onto his pillows with a grumble, Harry stared at the ceiling. His heart was still pounding. Voldemort was looking for something and Harry had no way of knowing what it was.