The next morning, Harry sat in bed for an unknown amount of time pondering Malfoy's having bought his way onto the Slytherin team. It really was an unfair advantage. He considered, for a time, just complaining about it, but what would that really accomplish?

Well, are you forgetting about that 13 million galleon inheritance? Al pointed out to him.

“Ah,” he said very quietly aloud. “Brilliant, Al!”

Harry got up at once and started to write a letter to Quality Quidditch Supplies in London, since he didn't know if there was any kind of similar shop in Hogsmeade. Once he finished it, he got dressed in slacks and a blue top, and headed up to the owlery to find Hedwig. She blinked sleepily at him. To get on her good side, he petted her and gave her some owl treats. Appeased, she let him tie the letter to her leg, tell her where to go, and watched her fly off. That settled, he went down to breakfast.

He was halfway through a second helping of kippers and eggs when Ron showed up.

“Hey mate. Not practising today?”

“If I am, Wood hasn't told me yet.”

“Maybe Wood's still sore about Malfoy.”

Harry considered telling Ron his plan, but decided it was too early. And Ron reacted to things concerning money in strange and sometimes unpredictable ways, so he decided to leave it be for now.

“Yeah, can you believe the nerve of that berk? I don't think buying one team – and only one team – new brooms is fair.”

“Ah regum weh shud gomflaim,” Ron said, his face stuffed like a chipmunk preparing for winter. Harry gave him a disgusted look.

“Well we can try, but I doubt there's any rule against it.”

Ron swallowed before speaking, for once. “Is Zoey gonna get back at Malfoy?”

His legs uncrossing and re-crossing in his seat and his head cocked upward with a mysterious smile on his face, Harry said, “We have a plan. But we don't know how it will work, so we're not telling you what it is until we're sure we've got things set up.”

Ron chuckled. “Is it gonna be amazing?”

“Malfoy will be knocked down several pegs, maybe even a dozen pegs, if it works.”

Hermione came into the Great Hall then, and the two of them looked up at her. They gave one another a quick glance that said they weren't going to tell Hermione anything of this, because she'd just nag them about it, even without having a clue what Harry was up to.

She must have thought something was up, though, because she stopped in place and stared at Harry with an odd expression on her face. For some reason, her eyes flicked down to his legs. Completely bewildered, he turned back to his food.

When Hermione sat down, she asked, “Iliana?”

Harry blinked at her.

“No, it's Harry. Why?”

“Oh. It's just, sometimes you don't transform. And well... never mind. Ah, bacon!”

Hermione started piling food on her plate, seeming more like Ron than Hermione, at least until she started eating.

~

Try as he might, Harry had a hard time keeping from Hermione that he was planning something. This time, her suspicions had very little evidence beyond Harry being very secretive about his letters. Ron was disappointed that Harry was keeping the letters secret from him, as he figured they had something to do with the plan – given that Harry's only regular correspondence was from Hagrid. But Harry was adamant about keeping it a secret until the big reveal.

The first Quidditch practice after the incident with the Slytherins was the following Saturday. It was an experience, Wood being more ferocious than ever in training, as though he could compensate for Slytherin's unfair advantage with pure force of will. Iliana didn't tell him that they had a meeting this afternoon that would pave the way towards Wood feeling better. Though they'd meant to tell Ron and Hermione once Harry had set up this meeting, they decided their friends would be better off as surprised as everyone else.

Ron and Hermione stared in bewilderment at Harry at lunch as he wolfed down his food like he'd been starving for a week, rushing off and nearly running headlong into a pale and sickly looking Ginny in the doorway.

“Oh, sorry Ginny,” he said as she turned redder than her hair.

“W-wait!” she called back as he exited the Great Hall.

He stopped in confusion, turning around. Ginny did not speak, but she held out a sealed letter for him.

“Oh, thanks Ginny,” he said, unsealing the letter and seeing familiar thin, slanting writing.

It was a note from Dumbledore, who was calling Harry up to his office. Harry grinned, guessing what this was about, and walked as fast as he could to the headmaster's office.

“Chocolate frogs,” Harry told the gargoyle, which leapt aside at the password.

Harry got on the moving staircase, climbing the steps to make the trip even faster. He had his hand up to knock when the door opened, Dumbledore smiling and twinkling at him.

“Hello there, my dear lad. It seems you have a visitor. And given who he is, and what he's told me of the nature of his visit, I have a private room just over here, that you can use,” Dumbledore said, unhinging a bookcase so it swung out.

The man, middle aged with thinning brown hair, held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter. I understand you want to make an order?”

“Yes; yes, I would.”

“Well let's get down to business, then.”

They stepped into the private room, closing the bookcase behind them, and sat facing one another at a table with two chairs.

“So you said in your letters that you wanted to make a large purchase for donation to the school?”

“Yes. I'm sure you're aware of Mr. Malfoy's generous contribution to the Slytherin Quidditch team?”

“Ah yes, I figured he was buying seven Nimbus 2001s for something like this. It's not very often we get mass orders for brooms. The professional teams get theirs from us, of course, but all our brooms are guaranteed good for 10 years at least. So, did you want to order 7 of the same for the Griffindor team?”

“No. I want to order 30 of them. That makes seven for each of the remaining three teams, and nine spares for stuff like teaching first years to fly.”

The shopkeeper's eyes went wide in shock, before his face widened into an excited grin. “Thirty broomsticks? Same model as Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes. All four teams should be on equal speed footing. How much will the order cost?”

“Well, the Nimbus 2001 is 35 galleons. That would mean 1,050 galleons for the lot, except that there's a bulk discount. With the discount included, that brings your total to just 1,000 galleons.”

“Sounds good to me. Can you make sure the donor is anonymous?”

“You... don't want credit for the donation?”

“No. I don't like being famous. I'd rather not draw more attention to myself.”

“What about Dumbledore?”

“The headmaster knows how to be discreet. I'll let him know my wishes before I leave. So can you do it?”

“Yes, I can – and will – do that for you.”

“Excellent. When can I expect the delivery?”

“I can have them delivered here by next Saturday, Mr. Potter.”

Harry's face twitched a little, but he smiled and began filling out the Gringott's check for the agreed amount. He handed it to the shopkeeper, who beamed at him and shook his hand.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Potter, you've made my year, you have. If you ever need something again, don't hesitate to ask.”

“You're welcome,” Harry said, and bid the man farewell.

When they got out of the small room, Dumbledore twinkled at Harry.

“Making a charitable donation to the school to one-up young Mr. Malfoy?” Dumbledore asked jovially.

I swear to Merlin, that man can read minds, Al thought at him.

Must be quite the experience reading our minds, Harry thought back at him.

“Yes, headmaster. Only, I want to keep the origin of the broomsticks a secret.”

“Ah, then in that case I have no idea whatsoever of what you are talking about, and I shall be ever so surprised if someone were to give the school a gift.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Dumbledore smiled at him again, and Harry left the room feeling very smug.

~

The next week was an agony of waiting and trying to shake off Ron's questions. Even worse, Hermione had figured out he was up to something and was assuming the worst, nagging him frequently about it. It was no good trying to get her to stop, nothing he said short of revealing the surprise would quell her, and Ron would kill him if he told Hermione before he told Ron. So he kept trying to insist he wasn't doing anything wrong, and assure her she'd feel foolish when things finally unfolded. She was not, however, convinced by this, so he took to ignoring her instead.

On Friday afternoon, both their nagging changed from deeply annoying to extremely amusing, as he knew it would happen tomorrow. When exactly, he wasn't sure, but one way or another it would finally be over.

Wood had woken him up early Saturday morning, and excitedly he had Zoey switch them to Iliana before going down to breakfast.

Whenever they'd thought the order would come, they hadn't counted on it being at breakfast that morning. But that is exactly when Mr. Filch came into the Great Hall with four unfamiliar wizards in tow, guiding several large crates floating along with their wands. The teachers, the Griffindor Quidditch team, and the few other people already down in the Great Hall rubbernecked like mad, trying to figure out what was going on. Professor McGonagall, looking bewildered, put down her napkin and walked up to the men.

“These men have a delivery for the school, marm,” Filch said.

One of the wizards set his crate down and tipped his hat. “Greetings, Professor. I'm Simon Monroe from Quality Quidditch Supplies. We're here to deliver a charitable donation to the school of 30 Nimbus 2001s.”

McGonagall looked like a fish out of water as she gaped at this. Everyone else in hearing range, save for those who already knew about the delivery, gaped as well.

“Thirty... did you say 30 broomsticks?”

“Yes. Thirty Nimbus 2001s. Seven each for Griffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff Quidditch teams, seeing as Slytherin already bought some of their own. The remaining nine are spares, which you can use at your discretion. Though the donor suggested using them to train first years how to fly.”

“And who is this donor?”

“The donor wished to remain anonymous, Professor. But my boss knows who it is, as he negotiated the sale with the donor personally. Now, where should we put them?”

Ron and Hermione rounded on Iliana, who was finding it hard to hold back her laughter.

“Later,” Iliana told them, trying not to grin. “After practice.”

Wood was, of course, delighted by the donation, as were others on the team whose own brooms were rather old and battered. The practice that day consisted of an hour of everyone just zooming around on the Nimbus 2001s – Iliana preferring her own Nimbus 2000 – before they were settled down enough to get to actually practising.

Nobody seemed to know who the donor was, except the Weasley Twins, who had a shrewd idea Iliana was behind it. They knew, after all, that the Potter collective were rich, after all. But after practice was over and they and Iliana were the only ones still at the Quidditch pitch, they cornered her.

“Hey, thanks for the broomsticks, Iliana,” said George.

“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean,” Iliana said in faux innocence.

Fred winked at her. “Right, you don't know any more than we do who the donor was. Should've known. Oh well, I guess if I thank enough people, I might thank the donor eventually.”

The best part, of course, was catching glimpses of Malfoy's sour face as he tried to look inconspicuous spying on the Griffindor team.

~

As October came around, the weather got cold and wet and muddy. If anyone thought this would make Wood give them a weekend off from training, though, they were wrong. And so it was that Iliana found herself coming in from the muddy weather one day. Out of consideration for the grumpy old Filch, she was Vanishing the mud as best she could. She was so distracted by this that she walked through Nearly Headless Nick, which was like falling into a sudden cold spot.

For what it was worth, he appeared to be as distracted as she was. She caught a few words he was muttering to himself before he realized what was going on, something about 'don't fulfill their requirements' and 'half an inch if that,' comments that made Al snicker internally.

“Oh! Sorry my dear, didn't mean to walk into you.”

“It's fine, I wasn't paying attention.”

“You look troubled, young Potter.”

“No, I'm just exhausted from practice. But you seem troubled, too”

“Oh, a matter of no importance. It's not like I really wanted to join them, the puffed up... but I don't fulfill their requirements. I'd show them fulfilled requirements if I weren't a man of peace.”

Somebody's got sour grapes, Al thought at Iliana.

“But you would think, would you not, that getting hit in the neck 45 times with a blunt axe would qualify you for the Headless Hunt.”

TMI, dude, Al thought. Iliana ignored him.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Yes. Quite.”

He went on about the Headless Hunt, which was fascinating if a little gross. Headless ghosts from all corners gathering for fun and games like Head Polo. But Nick was mostly complaining about the head headless ghost, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore. Or, as he called the ghost to Al's delight, “Sir Properly-Decapitated Podmore.”

Suddenly, a familiar pair of amber eyes appeared. Mrs. Norris, Mr. Filch's cat, had spotted the mud she was tracking in and running off to fetch Filch.

“You'd better flee, Iliana, before Filch catches you. He's got a terrible head cold.”

“I--”

But whatever she'd been about to say got cut off as Filch was there, wheezing and furious.

“Filth! Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”

“I've been Vanishing the mud!” she protested.

“Bah,” Filch snorted. “Like you miserable students ever get it all. No, I'll have to clean up the rest. I can see great spots you've missed even from this distance. Well I'm not doing it, not this time! To my office with you, girlie. Going to make an example of you!”

Gloomy now, Iliana followed the caretaker to his office with a glum backward glance at Nick.

The office, which none of the collective had been in before, matched Filch to a T. The place dingy and lightless and gave off an air of neglectful malice, like a very small and dingy dungeon. It was even equipped like a dungeon, with instruments of bondage and torture.

Filch is into some kinky shit, Al thought. Not that I'm judging.

Oh thank you SO MUCH, Al, for that horrible image that is now burned into my brain. As if we didn't have enough nightmares.

He and Mrs. Pince probably--

DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE, AL!

It was a good thing, though, that Al was making her feel gross, because if she'd been laughing with him, she doubted Filch would appreciate it. But as it was, her expression befitted the situation to his pleasure.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies! Frog brains! Rat intestines... I’ve had enough of it! Make an example of you. Where’s the form? Yes.”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“Name, Iliana Potter. Crime... befouling the castle.”

“Listen, I was Vanishing the mud specifically out of consideration for you. I know your job is hard, so I was---”

“Ha! Like you little monsters ever care about anything but getting caught. Hang you by your thumbs in the dungeon if I could, put the proper fear of trouble into you, I would.”

Forget it, he's determined to be difficult, Al thought at her.

“Punishment,” Filch said, thinking.

As Filch lowered his quill, there was a massive BANG above them, making his oil lamp rattle.

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, completely forgetting Iliana as he and Mrs. Norris stormed toward the door. “I'll have you out this time, Peeves!”

Well that was close. Let's scram while we can.

No, he'll just track us down and be even angrier.

I'm sure he'll forget all about our tiny bit of mud with whatever Peeves has done.

We still have mud on us. We'll spread more if we go, and we don't have the time to Vanish it this time.

Good point. Fine, whatever.

Iliana sat down on the moth-eaten chair by the desk. As she did, she noticed something on his desk, a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on his way back, Iliana picked up the envelope and read:

KWIKSPELL

A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic

Well that's that confirmed. He's a wizard-born Muggle, then. Poor man. Like I've said, working here must be Hell for him.

One line of the letter especially caught Al's attention: 'My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak!'

Sounds more like an ad for a potion to grow your dick longer than a magic correspondence course.

AL! Put that back!

But Al had grabbed control of the right arm and continued reading through the Kwikspell letter.

I wonder if this stuff actually works?

I doubt it, Harry replied. From what I've seen, either you're magic or you're not. I suppose a Muggle could learn Potions, as it's the ingredients that are magical, and maybe there are other classes a Muggle could do well at, but anything requiring a wand would be pointless. Does Filch even have a wand? If not, what's the point of trying this Kwikspell thing?

Maybe he bought one anyway?

They didn't get to discuss it any more than that, though, because they heard Filch returning. Hurriedly, they returned the Kwikspell letter to its envelope, though they noticed too late they'd done it poorly.

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” Filch said triumphantly. “We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet!”

Filch froze as he spotted the disturbed letter, eying Iliana with a face that was rapidly changing from maggot-belly white to brick red.

“Have you... did you read...?”

“Sorrry, Mr. Filch. Al read your letter. I tried to stop him, but--”

Liar, Al thought with a chuckle.

“That's my private... not that it's mine... for a friend... be that as it may...”

“We already knew you're a wizard-born Muggle. We've mentioned it to you before, and like we said before, we only care insofar as you're clearly miserable at this job, and take it out on the students rather than trying to find something more suited to you. But if it's a secret, don't worry. We won't tell.”

Filch clearly had a lot of conflicting emotions crossing his face. But finally he said, “Very well... but if I find you've told anyone... not that... just go, I have to write Peeves' report.”

As Iliana got up and left, Al thought, That was almost like blackmail, that. Maybe we should've been in Slytherin after all.

We had this discussion back when the hat went on our head.

Yes, but that was before we figured out the whole multiplicity thing.

“Iliana! Iliana, did it work?” Sir Nicolas said, floating toward them.

“Was that you? Yeah, we didn't get into any trouble thanks to it.”

“I convinced Peeves to drop that cabinet over Filch's office, since it was me who was holding you up in the corridor.”

“Well you really oughtn't have done it, but we're thankful all the same.”

She walked alongside the gloomy ghost in the corridors, and noticed he still had his rejection letter from the Headless Hunt in his hand.

“I wish I could do something for you about the Headless Hunt,” she said.

Oh no you did not! To Hell with that shit.

“Well, maybe there is something you can do...”

Damn and blast, bother and busticate!

“What is it?” Iliana asked, rubbing her temple to try to ignore Alastair.

“This Halloween is my 500th Death Day, and I'm holding a Death Day party down in the dungeons...”

Al groaned internally, but Iliana didn't, and in the end they ended up agreeing to go to this Death Day party, and agreed also to mention to Sir Podmore how impressive they find Sir Nicolas.

Hermione found it fascinating, of course, and though Ron wasn't, they still managed to rope the two friends into coming with.

By Halloween, though, the idea was wearing on them. Al wouldn't shut up about it for long, and Hermione's reminder that Iliana had promised Nick became the only thing stopping Iliana from changing her mind.

Can we at least ask Fred and George how to get into the kitchens, and get some food before we go? You know they're not going to serve food there. Why would they? Ghosts don't eat.

Fine, okay.

So shortly after noon on Halloween, Iliana went up to the twins and explained the situation. The twins happily dragged her down to the dungeons and showed her how to tickle the pear on a still life of a bowl of fruit. Once inside, they were practically stampeded by helpful house elves offering them food. Before long, they had plenty of food to take up to Ron and Hermione to eat before the party.

“Good thinking, mate. Al is right, ghosts won't eat food, they're dead.”

So with full stomachs, Iliana and her two friends went down into the dungeons to where Nick had said the party was, Iliana only pausing to leave Aqua behind on a magically-warmed rock, since the snake didn't like the dungeons.

Upon arriving, their senses were immediately assaulted by something that was clearly intended to be music, but sounded like fingernails on chalkboards. The room was also cold and lit with black candles that released a blue light, the only other light being the pearly ghosts themselves, of which there were scores. The few windows in the room covered with black velvet drapes.

“This is like a bad stereotype,” Al broke through Iliana's control to say with her voice. “I feel like they should sue themselves for defamation of character or something. If this scene showed up in a book, I'd think the author was having me on.”

“Hey Al,” Ron said casually.

“Is my tone really that obvious, even with Iliana's voice?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I wish I'd thought to bring a cloak,” Hermione complained, shivering a little in the cold.

“Yeah, good point. Ghosts feel cold when you walk through them, it makes sense that a place with this many ghosts would be like an icebox. Especially since we're underground.”

They were welcomed warmly by Sir Nicolas, who led them around, giving them a tour. The horrible music was being produced by 30 musical saws.

“Ever so cheerful, this lot,” Al continued, still via Iliana. “But I guess a deathday would be a bit like attending your own funeral.”

“Oh no, turn back! I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle,” Hermione said.

“Who?” Ron asked.

“She haunts one of the toilets in a girl's bathroom on the first floor,” Hermione explained before Iliana could.

“She haunts a toilet?”

“Yeah, it is a bit odd. Ghosts can go wherever they like, I don't know why she hangs around there,” Iliana said. “But she's absolutely miserable all the time, so she must get some kind of comfort from being in there.”

But to their chagrin, Peeves had heard them. He came over, and after offering them moldy peanuts, said, “Heard you talking about poor Myrtle, I did. Rude you was about poor Myrtle. OY, MYRTLE!”

“What is it?” Myrtle asked sulkily.

“Miss Granger was just talking about you,” Peeves said.

“Just saying how nice you look tonight.”

“You're making fun of me,” she replied, her eyes beginning to well up with tears.

“No, honestly, didn't I just say how nice she's looking?” Hermione said, nudging Ron and Iliana to help her out. Ron complied, but Iliana decided to remain quiet.

“Don't lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, crying in great rivulets now. “Do you think I don't know that people make fun of me behind my back? That they call me Fat Myrtle, Ugly Myrtle, Miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle.”

“To be honest, Myrtle, I don't think most people think about you that much, and even if they did, why should you care what they think? And you, Peeves, should be nicer to people. You're not funny when you poke fun of people.”

“Oooh, ickle second year thinks she's so high and mighty, does you? Shift the blame to old Peevesey, then, don't admit you were talking about Myrtle. But I heard you saying she could haunt any place, so why a toilet?”

Myrtle burst into tears at this and flew away, Peeves chasing after her, pelting her with peanuts.

“I appreciate you're a kind person, Iliana, but it's wasted on Myrtle. She's determined to be miserable.”

After that, the Headless Hunt showed up, interrupting Nick's speech. Iliana tried helping out with Podmore, but the headless ghost wasn't impressed. The Hunt left Nick in a bad mood after that. Between Nick's bad mood, the cold, and the stench from the rotting food, the three of them decided to leave early, and head to the feast, even though they'd eaten already, in case there were puddings left.

It was on their way there that it happened. That chilling voice again, like ice down Iliana's spine.

'Rip, tear, KILL!'

Their terror pushed Tier to the fore, and Iliana glowed but did not outwardly change, though Ron and Hermione knew it was Tier by his behavior, for he'd gone still as stone, head cocked to listen, then sniffed the air.

“Tier?” Ron asked tentatively. But of course, Tier didn't answer; couldn't answer.

Instead, Tier's head jerked as he heard the dangerous voice again. 'So hungry... for so long... kill... time to kill...'

The voice was growing fainter, moving away. Tier huffed air out of his nose, not daring to growl, and chased the voice so fast that the boy and the girl struggled to follow him.

“Tier, where are we--”

Tier hissed at Ron like an angry cat, then turned back to hunt for the voice again. He sniffed the air, and smelled that dry, musty scent again. It bugged him, like the scent was familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Tier growled. He considered the boy and the girl, wondering if it was safe to leave them behind, but thought better of it. But the looks on their faces begged some kind of explanation.

Tier screwed up his face in concentration. It took a Herculean effort to figure out how to do it, but after almost a minute of trying, he managed to croak out words.

“Danger,” he said in a rough voice. “Scary voice. Dangerous.”

Hermione blinked.

“You can talk?” she said in awe.

“Whadda ya mean, 'dangerous'?”

Tier chuffed in an irritated fashion and ignored them both, returning to investigating the voice and sniffing for the dry, musty scent. Words were too much work for him to try to explain. The others could do that later.

There was... another scent there, too. It was human, but it was not the boy or the girl, and it was too fresh to be any of the students in the Great Hall. He did not recognize the scent, though something about it was familiar.

'I smell blood... I smell BLOOD!'

The hair on Iliana's neck prickled up as Tier growled threateningly at this latest from the voice. He ran around the corner, the boy and girl behind him, hearing himself shouting “It kill! Voice wants kill!”

But the passage was deserted. Both the unidentified scents vanished, and he heard no more trace of the voice. But now there was a new scent, the smell of blood. But it wasn't human. Some sort of bird? And it was arranged in writing. Tier knew he was out of his depth now. They glowed again, and for some reason transformed into Harry.

“Harry, what was that all about?” asked Ron. “Tier said he heard some kind of voice, but we didn't hear anything.”

Hermione gasped and pointed.

“Look!”

They, too, had spotted the writing in blood on the wall. In huge letters, it said, “THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE.”

“Blood!” Hermione gasped.

“Don't worry, it's not human blood,” Harry said.

“How do you--”

“Tier could smell it. It's from some kind of bird.”

“What's that hanging underneath it?” Ron asked shakily.

It was Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat. She hung from a torch bracket by her tail, and she was petrified, still as stone but otherwise looking like she could start moving again at any moment. And there was water all over the floor.

“Let's get out of here,” Ron said. “We don't want to be found here.”

But that ship had sailed already. A rumble of something like distant thunder was all the warning they got before every other student in the castle came up from the Great Hall. Everyone stared at it in silence for many heartbeats, before the silence was broken by a familiar sneering voice.

“Enemies of the heir beware? You'll be next, mudbloods!”

Malfoy, Al thought, resisting the urge to take a page out of Tier's book and attack him like an animal.

But he wouldn't have had a chance to anyway, because just then Filch came through and saw his cat petrified. He immediately rounded on Harry.

“You! You little freaks murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll--”

“Argus!”

It was Dumbledore. He and several other teachers had come to see what the commotion was. He quickly took in the sight, then wordlessly took Mrs. Norris down off the bracket. He then adjourned the teachers, Filch, Harry, Ron, and Hermione to Lockhart's office, because the fool had offered the space.

Lockhart, of course, ran off his mouth about what he thought killed her and how he could have saved her, which served nothing but to make Filch bawl like a small child, and make the Potter collective feel even sorrier for the man than they did already.

“Mrs. Norris is not dead, Argus,” Dumbledore finally announced to the grieving caretaker.

“Not dead? But why's she all stiff and frozen?”

“She has been petrified. But how, I cannot say.”

“Ask THEM!” he shouted, pointing at Harry. “Those little freaks--”

“You will refrain using that offensive word, Argus. No second year could have done this, not even one with innate talents such as the Potters have. This is dark magic of the most advanced--”

“They did it! They did it! They know I'm a... a Squib!”

Al felt a stab of irritation so strong they transformed into his taller form. “I don't know what that word means.”

“Liar! You saw my Kwikspell letter!”

Al growled. “How many damn times do I have to tell you I don't give a rat's arse if you can do magic or not, my only issue with you is that you're clearly miserable here at Hogwarts. I don't hate you, I feel sorry for you. And I don't know what this has to do with that writing anyway.”

“The writing,” Dumbledore explained, “Refers to a secret chamber that Salazar Slytherin supposedly made in the school. The heir it references is Slytherin's heir.”

“Oh. Well that explains some things.”

“If I might speak, headmaster?” Snape said. Al glowered at Snape, whose face briefly became a rictus of loathing before relaxing again. The man turned his gaze away from Al, saying in a voice of forced calm, “Potter may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the circumstances are suspicious. Why were these three here, and not in the Great Hall and the feast?”

“I got roped into going to Sir Nicolas's deathday party, so that's where we were. Hundreds of ghosts saw us, including Nick.”

“But why not join the feast afterward? I doubt ghosts serve food humans can eat.”

“Oh gee,” Al said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why didn't I think of that? Oh wait, I did. We ate before going, of course. Hermione and Ron can confirm, as can all the house elves and the Weasley Twins.”

Snape looked even angrier at this, like he was trying to trap them and was irritated that he was failing.

“Then why were you up in that corridor? There are myriad other paths to the Griffindor tower,” Snape snapped at them.

“We were actually going back to the feast at first, then I heard something weird. I don't remember it very well, because Tier took over the moment we heard it and went looking for it, sniffing around. His nose is what led us to that corridor. He smelled the blood. Which is from some sort of bird, by the way, though Tier didn't know what kind.”

Dumbledore gave him a searching look. Al felt like he was being x-rayed. Almost as soon as it started, the man was twinkling at them again.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus.”

Snape looked furious; his hands twitched like he wanted to strangle Al. Filch looked equally furious, and began demanding punishment for his cat being petrified.

“I have already said this is far beyond the capability of a second year student, even one as remarkable as the Potters. Furthermore, we will be able to cure her. Professor Sprout is growing a healthy crop of mandrakes, which will be used to make a potion to restore her to full health.”

Lockhart said some more stupid things, which Snape countered, but then Dumbledore was letting them go. They took off quickly as they dared, and ducked into an unused classroom to talk.

“Tier heard a voice. It was a terrifying voice, like ice down the spine. We've heard it before, it was the same one we heard in Lockhart's office during that detention. It was talking about killing, and blood, and being hungry, this time. It was mostly that voice Tier was following, not the scent of the blood; that came after. Should I have told Dumbledore about that?”

Ron looked grave. “Not in front of Snape and the others, no. Even in the wizarding world, it's not a good sign to hear voices nobody else can. Well, except for you lot communicating with one another, but that's not the same.”

“You do believe us, though?”

“Yes. It's weird, but yes.”

Al nodded.

“What's a Squib? They didn't explain that. But given the context, the Kwikspell letter, I'm guessing it means a wizard-born Muggle?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, that's a good way of putting it, cuz they are like the opposite of a Muggle-born witch or wizard.”

“Yeah. I guess my theory was right. I've been saying that for a long time.”

“It explains a lot about Filch. He's bitter.”

A clock chimed somewhere, and they took that as their cue to head to bed.

~

The next few days, nobody could talk about anything but the message about the Chamber of Secrets. Filch was more horrible than usual, finding all kinds of flimsy excuses to lash out at students, whenever he wasn't trying fruitlessly to clean the bloody message off the wall or standing guard over the area. Then Ron, ever the master of tact, tried to comfort an upset Ginny and ended up making things worse. Al didn't even bother to comment at this, it wasn't worth trying to grab control again over. (He had retreated within before going to bed that fateful night, leaving Harry in his place.)

Another effect was Hermione going to the library at all hours, trying to get ahold of “Hogwarts, A History,” because she wanted to research the Chamber of Secrets, but she'd left her own copy at home due to all of Lockhart's paperweights. (That was his books' only real use, seeing as parchment sucked as toilet paper, and Hermione would have dropped dead from shock if Al even suggested desecrating any book for any reason.) Too bad for her, all copies of the book were checked out.

In fact, Al was seething in frustrated rage at the essay he was trying to write, on one of the few days he was fully Out, as he kept getting splotches of ink all over it. He tossed the essay across the room in a fury.

“Haven't wizards heard about PAPER, yet?” he roared. “It's the NINETEEN-NINETIES, for Chrissake, why the bloody Hell are we still writing on dead animal skins and using shitty quill pens when dead trees and ballpoint pens are so much more efficient? Fuck this, I'm using paper and ballpoint pen! If the teachers don't like it, then bully for them.”

“But Al, our essays are measured in inches,” Hermione reminded him.

“Fine, then I'll tape the pages together. But I'm not using this old-fashioned bullshit again, I'm just not.”

“Iliana has no problem with parchment and quill.”

“Yeah, and she can also fly like a dream and catch tiny winged balls out of the air, and I can't. So pardon me if I don't care what she can do that I can't.”

“Al? What's really bothering you.”

Al was digging around through his bag for a pen, and was about to go up to his trunk, when Hermione's question got through to him.

“Gee I don't know,” Al said sarcastically, “it certainly couldn't be because some bloody berk is going around daubing threatening messages on the walls of a school in bird's blood, because that would just be silly!”

“Just drop it, Hermione,” Ron said. “Al is... it's just how he is.”

“No it's not. He's usually content to hang back and watch the--”

“I mean when he's Out.”

Al snorted loud enough to be heard around the room, but said nothing. Instead, he went up to check his trunk. Only when he came back with a black BIC pen and a college-ruled notebook did he speak.

“Also, you know, there's Snape, who hates all of us, but seems to have an extra special place in the black hole in his chest for me in particular. Specifically, the order of his hatred seems to be me at the top of his hit list, followed by Harry, then Iliana. No idea what he thinks of Zoey or Tier, though. So of course he insinuates that we must have been up to no good when we found the message.”

“At least he doesn't seem to think you did it.”

Al started copying what he could see of his essay onto the paper.

“Yeah, but did you see his rictus of hatred when he saw Harry change to me? As though he were a Jew and I turned into Hitler right in front of him.”

“Who's Hitler?”

“He was a sort of Muggle Voldemort,” Al said without thinking. Ron shouted about using the name, but Al ignored him and continued. “He gained control of Germany in the, what? The 40's, I think? Spread his empire across Europe and he ordered millions of people killed; mostly Jews, but also homosexuals, gypsies, and political prisoners, among others.”

“Millions?”

Al sighed. “Wizard education must be shit. Yes, millions of people.”

Ron gaped at him like a fish for several minutes.

“Millions of people... it's too much to really think about, mate. There might be millions of wizards and witches worldwide. If someone in our world killed millions of wizards and witches, there'd be almost nobody left. And yet there's so many Muggles that they just... recovered from that?”

“Pretty much. Though it was a lot bigger number at the time, in terms of scale. There's billions more Muggles in the world these days than there were in the 40's.”

Ron was stunned speechless by this. Which was just as well for Al, he had an essay to finish.

~

Later that week, in History of Magic, Hermione actually got the ghost teacher's attention and managed to also get him to tell them all the tale of the Chamber of Secrets. Harry listened raptly, as did the others in his collective.

“I always knew Slytherin must've been a twisted old loony,” Ron later said.

Al grabbed control of Harry's body and sighed.

“Is that the most you could get from that story? Honestly...”

“What are you on about?”

“This school was founded at a time when witches and wizards were being hunted and killed because of Muggle fear of magic. Slytherin had the right idea back then to be wary of Muggle-borns. But now modern racists cling to his outdated point of view, when everything has changed. Muggles don't believe in magic anymore, and when they do run across it, there's usually wizards right behind them to modify their memories. Wizards are in control, but they act like Muggles are going to gang up on wizardkind at any moment.”

“Well, he had a horrible monster in a secret chamber! A monster only he could control.”

“A terrible monster under his control, in a room only he and his heirs could get to. Sounds like a panic room to me.”

“A panic room?”

“A place to go when there's a threat, to be safe. He was afraid of Muggles attacking the castle, because that's what they were doing at the time. So he builds a secret chamber to hide people in if that happens, and a secret weapon, a terrible monster, to fight the invading armies and make the school safe again. But of course people forget historical context. I blame Binns for killing people's interest in history.”

“How do you know so much about history?”

“Well aside from remembering things I've heard, I read. I've read our History of Magic book cover to cover, it's fascinating. That class could be amazing if Binns wasn't teaching it. You know, I might even get some more history books the next time I go to Flourish and Blotts.”

“I never knew you were a bookworm, Al.”

“We don't read as much as Hermione, but yeah, we like reading. I... we used to go to the library to read. We didn't dare get a library card or check anything out, in case our uncle destroyed them, but anything we could read before they closed we'd suck up like a sponge. It was our only escape. Hey, what's this?”

They'd wandered to the scene of the crime, in their discussion. Luckily, Filch wasn't there to snipe at them.

“Heck, let's poke around,” Al said.

And poke around they did. It was Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and had an Out of Order sign. The water was all cleaned up, but there were scorch marks in places, which was odd. And there were spiders moving so fast they looked like they were running away from something, all going in the same direction. Al looked at Ron, who was terrified of the spiders, and filed that information away, barely listening to Ron and Hermione talking about it.

Once they ran out of stuff outside to look at, they went in, over Ron's objections. Al took in the place with his eyes; it certainly matched Myrtle's usual mood, being just as gloomy as she was, and old looking.

Then, naturally, Myrtle showed up.

“This is a girl's bathroom,” Myrtle said, eyeing Ron and Al. “They're not girls.”

“Not at the moment, anyway,” Al said. “But for me, that could change at any moment.”

“What are you lot doing here, anyway?”

“Snooping,” Al said before Hermione could speak. “A cat was attacked just outside, and a message written in blood, back on Halloween. Did you see anything that night?”

“No,” Myrtle pouted. “I was too busy crying because of Peeves being mean to me, to see anything. I came in here to kill myself, only then I remembered I'm... I'm...”

“Already dead?” Ron asked.

“Way to go, jackass!” Al shouted as Myrtle began wailing again. She jumped into a toilet and only by dodging quickly did Al avoid getting splashed with toilet water. He stormed out, muttering under his breath, and the other two followed.

“RON!”

It was Percy Weasley. He was staring in shock at the three of them coming out of a girl's loo.

“That's a girl's bathoom! What were you--”

“He had to pee, and it was an emergency. Anyway, we were with him and nobody else was in there, so what's it to you?”

“You're not supposed to be in there either, Al,” Percy commented.

“Okay fine, we were snooping. Looking for clues.”

This did not go over well.

“Don't you care what this looks like?”

“Not particularly, no. Dumbledore knows it wasn't any of us, and there isn't a measurement small enough to measure how much I care about the opinions of any of the students.”

“Yeah, we didn't lay a finger on that cat,” Ron snapped.

“That's what I told Ginny, but she's still very upset over it. All the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business.”

Al rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it's just an unknown horrifying monster with the ability to petrify people running loose in a school, can't see what there is to get excited about there.”

“You don't care about Ginny! You're just worried she'll ruin your chance of being Head Boy,” Ron accused.

Percy took offense at this, said “Ten points from Griffindor. Let that be a lesson not to play detective. Don't do it again or I'll write mum!”

As he stormed off, Al snorted, then chuckled.

“What's so funny?”

“He forgot only teachers can dock points, the prat.”

~

Despite knowing Percy couldn't dock points, Ron was still in a foul mood as they worked on schoolwork later. His increasingly glitchy wand set the parchment on fire, though that may have been his anger. It was enough of a gray area that Al didn't comment.

They didn't get far in their work when Hermione closed her book.

“Who could it be, though? Who'd want to scare the Muggle-borns and Squibs?”

“You mean aside from Moldywart?” Al asked.

“Gee, who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?” Ron said, ignoring Al.

“Are you talking about Malfoy?” Hermione asked.

Al snorted.

“Malfoy doesn't have the brains. He and his two pet gorillas are only in Slytherin because they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

“Well maybe he's got help. Maybe his father told him how to get into the Chamber.”

“You're basing your argument entirely on circumstantial evidence. And even that's being generous.”

“What about what he said when we all found the message. 'You'll be next, Mudbloods.'”

“Malfoy is the human equivalent of a vulture, all apologies to vultures for the insult; he's an opportunistic scavenger, couldn't think of a clever scheme if God Itself came up and stuck one in his spoiled blond head. He's got just enough wit to take advantage of situations he finds, and occasionally tries to goad people into getting themselves in trouble, but otherwise he's not much brighter than Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Crabbe and Goyle, I mean,” he said, at Ron's confused look.

“Look, I'm telling you it's Malfoy. He's got the hatred, he's from an old family who have been in Slytherin for loads of generations, they've probably been handing the key down all these centuries...”

Al rubbed his head, tuning out the rest of Ron's anti-Malfoy rant. How could he explain that he'd looked Malfoy in the eye and seen the little puffed up popinjay wasn't capable of this? That Malfoy was just a coward who liked to boast and looked up to his father and all the man stood for, but ultimately didn't believe those things enough to actually act on them, and that his only evidence for this was one of those varied abilities like Parseltongue that he didn't know how it would be received in the wizarding world? Seeing that Lockhart was a lying fraud was one thing, but this was very complex, and Al didn't have the energy to explain it.

“Okay, fine, it might be Malfoy. But unless you have some way of proving it, all you have is a suspicion.”

“I might have a way,” Hermione said. “Of course, it's difficult and dangerous, illegal, and breaks a whole mess of school rules, I expect--”

“Care filling us in sometime in the next month?” Ron snapped.

“Well, we'll need to get into the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy questions without him realizing it's us.”

Al gave her an annoyed look.

“Okay, we don't have enough control of our powers to just take any form at all, and we can't pass it on to anyone else, so if that's what you were thinking--”

“No, I mean we'll need to brew some Polyjuice Potion.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“It's a potion to transform us into other people. We become three Slytherins, someone Malfoy trusts, and talk the secret out of him.”

“I don't know, Hermione. I don't know how this potion would react with our transformation magic. It could be harmless, but it might interact--”

“You're human, and the potion is for human transformations. Unless you're radically different from other humans on a genetic level, like so different you couldn't have kids, I doubt you'll react with it. You've use other potions before without problems, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well it should be fine, then.”

“Okay, but I reserve the right to hex you if you're wrong.”

For another hour, they discussed the particulars of the potion. Among other things, they would have to fetch the book from the Restricted Section.

“We'll need a teacher's signature to get in there,” Hermione noted.

“Who is thick enough to sign it without asking us what we want it for?”

Al was idly picking at a spot on his chair when he felt both their eyes on him. He looked up, and saw they were giving him a significant look.

“Oh fucking Hell no,” he said, when he got it. “I'm not going near Lockhart willingly. Neither is Iliana or Harry.”

“So have Zoey do it. She handled him like a dream.”

“Al,” Hermione said, her hand on his. “Please? We need to find out who it is.”

Al glared and gritted his teeth. His eyes went unfocused as the collective had a quick but heated argument internally. When his eyes focused again, he was glaring in a manner similar to Snape.

“We'll do it,” he said. “Or rather, Harry will. I'll be hiding as deeply inside as I can.”

“Oh, thank you, Alastair!”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. I'll get you back for this somehow, though.”

When they went to bed later, Al grumbled, “How the hell do I always get roped into shit I detest?”

End note 1: Google gave me 32 galleons ($150 USD) for the price of Harry's Nimbus 2000, but I have no idea how they came up with that number. Though with something as high quality, long lasting, and important as a wand being only the equivalent of $35, I guess that makes sense. So I made the 2001 be 35 galleons.

End note 2: Yes I know the gypsies are properly called the Roma, but since that's not exactly common knowledge even now, let alone then, I'm assuming Al doesn't know that yet.