The collective was in a panic. Only Al was calm, his fury at Ernie and being falsely accused keeping him steady while Harry and Iliana had a panic-stricken internal conversation without him. Tier was agitated too, and Zoey was crying. They were all worried they'd be kicked out of school for this, which was absurd but then, a lot about the wizarding world was absurd.

The internal chaos paused in shock as they took in the amazing sight of Dumbledore's office, with its strange whirring and puffing machines of silver and gold, the many portraits of old headmasters that were snoozing in their frames, and the Sorting Hat.

Al looked at the hat and had an idea. He put it on. It was still too large for him.

A small voice said in their ear, “Ah, the Potters. I'd heard rumors. I can see a bit more clearly now what confused me that first time. Anyway, bee in your bonnet, Potters?”

“Oh, a hat pun, how clever,” said Al sardonically. “Hats off to you for that clever wordplay.”

The hat chuckled.

“But yes, I had a question. I know this probably violates some privacy policy or something, but it's kind of important. Is there anybody in this school who might be the Heir of Slytherin.”

“You're right, Alastair Potter, I could not tell you, even if I knew.”

“So you don't know. Well that's interesting.”

“Whoever it is might not have known they were the Heir when they came in,” the hat said. “Or they might have been hiding it. I tend to find a number of students, purebloods mostly, and especially Slytherins, tend to be a lot harder to read than other students. They've been taught secrets from an early age. But don't let that color your opinions of people. Everyone has some degree of secrets. Why, I couldn't get a good read on you at first, either.”

“Well thank you,” Al said, taking the hat off and putting it back. Then a gagging noise behind him startled him, and he saw what looked like a plucked chicken, but skinnier and longer, sitting on a perch.

“Oh crap. You look unwell.”

It did indeed look unwell. It was sallow, its eyes had the exhausted look of illness, and as he spoke several more feathers fell out. Then, as he looked at it, it burst into flames, startling him so much he fell backwards. He looked around in panic for water, but too late; it shrieked one last time, then turned to ash before his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” Al shouted, horrified.

“Funny you should mention that most famous of wizards,” Dumbledore said, shocking Al again (he hadn't heard the man enter the room). “The two have a lot in common, strangely enough.”

“Professor. Your bird, I couldn't do anything, I... wait a minute,” Al said, taking in Dumbledore's words. “Let me guess, your bird is a phoenix.”

“Aha! Yes indeed, you guessed correctly. How did you know, my dear boy?”

“Well, the Muggles know a surprising amount about magical creatures; I suppose it wasn't possible to purge their whole history of stories about cerberuses, phoenixes, centaurs, and other creatures.”

“Ah yes, that. You're correct of course. Now, my dear lad, what brings you to my office?”

“There was another attack. A double attack. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Sir Nicolas.”

“Ah, and I take it you once more found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Yes. McGonagall seemed to think--”

“Not to worry, Alastair, not to--”

The door slammed open, making Al jump. It was Hagrid, still holding the dead roosters.

“It wasn' Al, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin ter him seconds before that kid was found, he never had time--”

Dumbledore tried to interject, but Hagrid kept rambling on. Al found Hagrid's passion touching but also bizarre, and made note of it in case it foreshadowed something.

“Hagrid, Hagrid!” Dumbledore finally managed to get Hagrid's attention. “I do not think either Alastair or any member of their collective attacked those people or the cat.”

“Oh,” Hagrid said, relaxing. “Right, I'll wait outside, then, Headmaster.” He stomped out looking embarrassed.

“I appreciate your confidence, Headmaster,” Al said, “but I'm a bit curious how you're so sure it wasn't me.”

“As I said before, Al, it is magic far beyond your age level.”

“Yes, but the story goes that it's a monster doing these things. I could be controlling the monster.”

“I find, generally speaking, that the guilty do not admit it could have been them. There are exceptions, of course, but the guilty usually look to place the blame anywhere but on themselves.”

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense. So we're not going to get kicked out?”

“You have done nothing worth such an extreme punishment, to my knowledge.”

Al felt Iliana give a guilty squirm thinking about the illegal polyjuice potion they were brewing in Myrtle's bathroom, but ignored it.

“Oh, hey, I just remembered something. Someone told me Slytherin was a Parselmouth. Well it turns out I am, too. And then Ron said Voldemort is one as well, so that got us thinking... well, I think it's Voldemort somehow.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, that was my conclusion as well. But I do not know how.”

“Yeah, we wondered that, too. Maybe he came in in a box?”

“The problem is, the only followers of his who believe he is still alive are all in Azkaban. That's Wizarding Britain's prison. So I do not know who could be helping him.”

“We had another theory, sir. You see, we heard a terrifying voice a couple times. A voice nobody else could hear. Once a few days before the first attack, and then just before we found Mrs. Norris. We didn't mention it before because we didn't know what to make of it, it could've been in our head.”

“Understandable. Go on.”

“Well we figured out it was Parseltongue. So we think the monster, whatever it is, is some sort of magical snake. Because if Slytherin could control it, and Moldywart could control it, then it stands to reason they used Parseltongue to control it.”

“An excellent theory, Alastair. But now I must stop you. Despite how well you did against Professor Quirrell last year, it really is very dangerous to hunt down these clues. You are only 12 years old, my boy. You barely survived against Quirrell, and I fear losing you to whatever this monster is. I must ask you, for your own safety and the safety of Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, to stop looking into this. You have done your due dilligence, and I thank you for the information. We adults will take it from here.”

Al glared at Dumbledore. “Oh, you're going with that angle, are you?”

“The angle of keeping a charge of mine safe, in a place I thought should be safe? Especially now that the protection of your mother's blood is broken? Yes, I am taking that angle with you.”

Dumbledore began to pace back and forth. “If I had known something like this would happen, I would not have let you break that protection. If it meant putting someone in the house with you to protect you from Petunia and Vernon's wrath, I would have done it. I regret that decision, now.”

“Yeah, well, given how much grief that protection gave Iliana, I'm glad to be shot of it.”

“Yes, well... Alastair, I must ask you, on behalf of the entire collective, to swear you will not go prying any further into this mystery. Swear it, please?”

Al sighed. “You're not going to let me leave until I swear it, are you?”

“You have guessed correctly. If I have to tutor you myself to keep you safe, I will.”

Zoey? Cross your fingers.

Yes indeedily! Zoey replied, sending him an image of her crossing eight of her fingers in pairs. And my toes!

Good.

“I give you my word, and the word of the entire Potter collective, that we will not go digging into the Chamber of Secrets or related mysteries, and leave sorting that out to the adults.”

Dumbledore looked into his eyes as he said that, trying to read their mind, Al was certain, and must have liked what he saw, because he twinkled at Al.

“Good. Thank you, Alastair. You may go now.”

And go he did. They were all the way out of the staircase before Zoey asked, Can I uncross my finnies and toesies now?

Yes.

Al did not tell Hermione or Ron what Dumbledore had made him promise. Hermione would dump the potion and insist they keep their word if he told her, and Ron would act weirdly around Hermione until she figured out what he was hiding, if he told Ron. He settled on telling them that Dumbledore had been very quiet, lost in thought, barely noticing anything Al said, and not responding with anything useful. This frustrated the others just as much as Al was frustrated with Dumbledore. Having successfully lied to his friends, Al felt weariness overcome him, and had Zoey pull him back In. With a glow of transformation that was much less bright than normal, Harry appeared.

~

The double attack had everyone in a right panic, especially since one of the victims had been a ghost. So it was that hardly anyone was staying behind for Christmas. Harry and company, because they had nowhere else to go (though they were surprised Dumbledore wasn't sending them off like Dobby would have liked) and Ron and Hermione of course. Also Malfoy and his two goons, for some reason, which worked in their favor.

Harry was glad of this, though; he was getting just as many terrified and sometimes defiant looks as Al would have done, and he was getting thoroughly sick of it. It would be good to have some time away from all that.

Snape was watching them just as much as he had been, if not more. They always made sure to stare blandly back at him. They'd been watching him like a hawk in turn, and learning a lot from it. Though Snape had some ability to block Al's heart-reading, he gave away clues to his mood and thoughts in his movements; everyone did, it was impossible to not. So after several days of intense observation, they could grin to themselves with the knowledge that they could tell some of what Snape was thinking and feeling. It was only broad strokes, no details, but still useful.

When the Weasley Twins, having not learned their lesson when Iliana had snapped at them before, said to Percy one day, “Harry's in a hurry, better get out of his way so he can have tea with his fanged servant,” Harry grabbed them both by the ear.

“OW! Harry, leggo! Geroff us!”

“Yeah, ow! We're sorry! We're sorry!”

“You boys,” Harry said waspishly, “think you're so funny, and usually you are, but we don't like you joking about this. We're glad you think it's absurd that we're the Heir, but please try to express this sentiment in another way.”

“Yes, we promise!”

“Cross our hearts, hope to die--”

“Stick a needle in our eye!”

“Good,” Harry said, letting them go and walking away with his nose in the air.

Fred turned to George. “Is it just my imagination, or was that Iliana using Harry's body?”

“I dunno. But yeah, does seem a bit girlish, the way he's walking right now. But not quite the way Iliana moves, I think. And Zoey kinda skips, even when she's walking. So not her, either.”

“Is there someone else in there we don't know about, maybe?”

George shrugged. “No idea. Anyway, let's go before he decides to come back and get our other ears.”

Ginny, who'd been nearby as well, watched them go. She looked back at Harry. She wished, if Iliana really had been using the body just then, that she'd come Out. Iliana was easier to talk to than Harry; Ginny had a crush on Harry, but not on Iliana. And she very much wanted to talk with Iliana. But when she'd been Out earlier, Iliana hadn't been in the mood to speak. Ginny sighed, and walked on.

~

When the term ended, the snow deep on the ground, Harry found that Fred, George, and Ginny had decided to stay at school as well. Apparently, the Weasley matriarch and her husband were going to Egypt to spend some time with Bill, their eldest son, and didn't have enough for the whole family to go.

Harry had mixed feelings about being Out. He liked it, yes, because he hated being a backseat driver in his own body, but at the same time, whenever he wasn't studying or spending time with his friends, he kept looking at his hair in the mirror, wishing it would lay flat like Al's or Iliana's. He had also found a very small hair on his chin the other day, and was still in a bit of a panic about it. He remembered reading about puberty, and he'd thought he would have more time. He couldn't pin down exactly why it made him anxious, beyond knowing his body would be completely changed; and unlike switching from one member of the collective to another, this would be a permanent change. He liked his voice, and his body, mostly. He didn't want a deeper voice, or body hair, or facial hair. He liked the thought of being taller, but that was it.

He also kept feeling uncomfortable around his chest, for some reason. He found himself staring surreptitiously at older girls. Being a boy, he was sure this was normal, but something about what he felt when he looked at them didn't feel like what he observed in other boys. It didn't feel like what Iliana had felt for Oliver Wood once, either. All in all, he was very confused. He knew being confused was normal for someone in puberty, but he had the niggling sense that this was different, somehow; he just couldn't put his finger on how. And the others had no more idea about it than he did.

What was most peculiar to him was that he felt most comfortable when they shifted to Iliana's form, even though he didn't like being out of control of the body. Even Zoey's form was more comfortable to him than either his or Al's. Just something about how those bodies moved felt better to him, more natural. And every moment he stood there before the mirror, trying to sort it all out, the more frustrated he became. Which gave him more excuse to spend time with others, when he could, to distract himself from the confusion.

On Christmas day, Harry woke up early and was brooding in front of the mirror, attacking his unruly hair with a comb, when Hermione came in. He barely glanced at her as she went by him and opened up Ron's curtain.

“Wake up,” she told Ron.

“You're not supposed to be here,” Ron protested. “Harry, why didn't you stop her?”

“I dunno. Didn't seem important.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Hermione said. “I've been up nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It's ready.”

Harry turned in place to look at her. “You sure?”

“Positive. If we're going to do it, it should be tonight.”

She turned to look at Harry. “Harry, what's upsetting you?”

“What? Oh nothing, just my hair. Wish it would stay flat.”

“Have you tried Sleakeazy's Hair Potion? It's said to tame even the wildest hair. I don't bother myself, it takes me hours to get it to work, but it might work better on yours.”

“Thanks, I'll try that.”

They went downstairs and started opening presents. Ron got him a book called 'The Shield Spell: Tips and Tricks.' Harry was glad; he knew it couldn't be easy buying gifts for them, they all had different interests, but this was something he, Iliana, and Al would find useful. Ron also got a gift for Zoey, a cheap magical toy teddy bear, pocket sized, that walked around and occasionally scratched its head in a bemused way. This was surprising because Ron was poor, but the bear turned out to be one of Ron's old toys, and the book was second hand but in fair condition.

Hermione had bought them a magical fountain pen that never ran out of ink and had a rounded tip for easier writing, as well as a spell on it to prevent ink spills. Al was especially pleased by this; he didn't know how to create paper out of nowhere, had no paper of his own, and ballpoint pens didn't write worth crud on parchment, so he'd been having a lot of difficulties. From Ron's parents he got a large plum cake and a hand-knitted Weasley sweater with all their initials on it – A.P., H.P., I.P., Z.P., and thankfully just T for Tier.

Harry and the others, for their part, had given as good as they got. He gave Ron a book called “Flying With The Cannons,” all about Ron's favorite team the Chudley Cannons. Hermione got a magical organizer that could be set to remind you about important events, and had a piece of bewitched parchment fused to the back cover that could store thousands of pages of notes on it – just tap the green corner when you were done writing a page, and it would move on to the next empty page, automatically storing anything you wrote on the page for later. You could move through the pages with the blue and yellow corners, or sort by subject by tapping the red corner.

“And it's password protected, too,” Harry said. “Or rather, it can be set to be password protected. It's not set that way right now, though.”

“Wow, Harry! This is amazing!” Hermione hugged him ecstatically.

As she took off to go test out her new organizer, Ron gave him an amused grin.

“Only Hermione could get that excited over an organizer.”

“Probably. But I got one for myself as well. The password makes it just as useful as a journal as it does for notes. I've already got a journal started in it.”

“Oh yeah, I hadn't thought of that. Where'd you get it? Maybe you can get me one next year.”

“Or your birthday?”

“Or then, yeah.”

“I think a new wand would be more useful, don't you?”

“Er...” Ron looked at his old and dying wand. Even now it was sparking a little, like a live wire. “Maybe there's a new wand from Mum and Dad. Let me look.”

But there was no new wand. Just a sweater, an extra large cake, and a note saying they didn't have the money to get him a new wand.

Ron pouted. “Can't get me a new wand, but they can go to Egypt to visit Bill. Granted, he's probably feeding them on his money, but still...”

“Does it cost money to go to Egypt? Like, I know it costs money to take an airplane or a boat that far. Does the Floo network operate outside of Britain?”

“Nah. Well, it works in Scotland and Wales, too, obviously. But it doesn't go anywhere internationally. Can't cross water. Anyway, Mum doesn't like broom travel, and doesn't have one of her own. Nor does Dad. Nah, they'll have taken a portkey, most like. And those aren't cheap. Their use is restricted by the Ministry; only authorized people are allowed to make them.”

~

Even with the tiny number of people staying behind, the castle still looked amazing in its Christmas decorations, and the feast was still sinfully good. Even fretting about taking Polyjuice Potion later, they all became stuffed like Christmas geese with the delicious food. They were just finishing their third helpings of pudding when Hermione started ushering them out of the Great Hall and off to Myrtle's bathroom to finish the potion.

“We still need a bit of whoever we're changing into,” Hermione said. “Hairs will do, Ron, so don't go on at me about toenails again, please, I just ate. Anyway, Crabbe and Goyle will be the obvious targets, they rarely leave Malfoy's side for long. And you'll need larger robes, as they're enormous. I've already got spare ones for you.”

“How are we going to keep the real Crabbe and Goyle from barging in? And get hairs from them?”

“I've already thought of that,” she said, pulling out two chocolate cakes. “I've put a simple but effective sleeping draught in these. They're horrible gluttons, they're bound to eat them. Just put these where they can find them, and wait. Then you can hide them in a cupboard until you're done.”

This potion was beginning to creep them out. Al pointed out that this was basically identity theft, and pointed out all the kinds of horrible things that could be done to someone's reputation with this. Harry ignored him, not wanting to think about it.

“What about you?” Ron asked.

“I've already got mine,” Hermione said. “Milicent Bulstrode. Got these off her robes at the duelling club. I can just say I changed my mind about staying.”

“Are those hairs long? They the same color as Milicent's hair?” Al asked, using Harry's body and voice.

“Yes. Why?”

“You're sure she doesn't have a cat? It's just, hair from her robes could be anyone, or anything with fur. And you said the potion was only for human transformations.”

Hermione looked apprehensively at the hairs. “Um... I don't know. And I don't have any way of finding out; I don't know a spell to divine its source.”

“Better safe than sorry, I'm thinking.”

“Uh... yeah,” she said, throwing the hairs away into the next stall. “Only now I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“I could go up and get the invisibility cloak, you can hide under that.”

She nodded. “Good thinking.”

So Harry, careful not to be seen coming out of that loo, left and went back to his room. A few minutes later he came back with the cloak, handing it to Hermione. Then he and Ron went off with the cakes, looking for Crabbe and Goyle. They spotted them, setting the cakes down where the two would be lumbering past any moment, and hid to wait.

Sure enough, Crabbe and Goyle spotted the cakes and didn't even hesitate shoving them into their mouths. They swallowed without chewing, and immediately fell to the ground. Harry and Ron dragged their enormous bodies into a nearby wardrobe, glad that so few people meant they were unlikely to be caught at this. They grabbed the hairs, and the boys' shoes, their feet being enormous, then took off for Myrtle's bathroom again.

Hermione poured out two doses of the thick mud-like potion into tumblers, and once Hermione made sure she had everything right, each boy put the hair they'd taken into it. Goyle's bubbled and hissed and turned khaki color; Crabbe's turned a dark, murky brown.

“Ugh. Essence of Crabbe and Goyle.”

Going into separate stalls because of the size change they'd be going through, they changed into the bigger robes, then pinched their noses and swallowed the foul-smelling mixture. Immediately, Harry's insides felt like writhing snakes, he doubled up in pain, and his whole body started to feel like it was burning. Then it melted, and bubbled, and he was growing alarmingly fast, his body thickening. He was glad he'd changed out of his shoes, Goyle's feet were like elephant feet. He got out of the stall and looked at himself in the cracked mirror, taking off his glasses as they were not needed, and gaped. Suddenly, the unidentified feelings felt much worse. He had recovered from the ill feeling the potion had given him, only to feel fresh waves of illness, and Wrongness, about every aspect of this body. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep from smashing the mirror, puking, and crying. They didn't have the time for that, though.

Forcing himself to look over at Ron, who looked like a very bewildered Crabbe. Ron said a few expressions of horrified wonder at the effects of the potion. He barely noticed, as he was still fighting sickness.

“Are you okay, Harry?” Hermione asked him as she held the invisibility cloak in her hands, ready to go.

“I... I'll be okay. Just feel sick.” Hearing Goyle's voice instead of his own, an experience he should be alright with given the collective's frequent transformations, just made his feeling of being sick get worse. He leaned against a wall to steady himself.

“Ugh... Let's... let's just get this over with. Ron, you ready?”

“What?” Crabbe's voice called. “Oh wait, gotta change into Crabbe's shoes.”

Hermione got all but her head under the cloak, while Harry took some calming, bracing breaths. In less than a minute he and Ron were both ready. Hermione gave him one last unsure look.

“You sure you're okay? It could be a reaction to the potion, or an allergy.”

“I'll be okay. Let's just go.”

“Where is the Slytherin common room, anyway?” Ron asked.

“Zoey knows. And I know. Follow me.”

After checking they wouldn't be seen exiting the bathroom, they left with an invisible Hermione at Harry's right side, Harry pointing which ways to turn as they came to them, and within 10 minutes they found the Slytherin common room. The only problem was, they didn't know the password.

They quietly debated what to do; there weren't enough students for them to just wait to follow someone in, as Zoey had done. They had no idea where Malfoy was, after all. Finally, though, they decided to try some likely passwords. They went through a full dozen of them before finding the right one – 'pure-blood.'

I am both unsurprised and surprised all at once, Al thought.

Try to keep your emotions in check, everyone, Harry told the others. The last thing we need is to transform in front of Malfoy.

That probably wouldn't be a problem, though; their magic felt dulled by either the potion or the sickness or the change.

Harry checked his watch; they were making good time. Now where was Malfoy?

“There you are,” a familiar drawling voice said. “I've been looking all over the dorm for you two, I was about to head out to hunt for you. Were you two in the Great Hall all this time, pigging out?”

Not sure what to say, and not sure he could speak without feeling ill again, Harry grunted. This satisfied Malfoy, who apparently didn't expect Goyle to be very talkative. Come to think of it, neither Harry nor any of the others could remember either Crabbe or Goyle saying more than a couple words total.

“Whatever. Anyway, I'm glad you're here. Mother's sent me one last late Christmas present that she lost track of earlier, come look.”

The gift Malfoy spoke of turned out to be a book called “Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.”

“Nice, isn't it? I know you two don't like reading, but I'm sure you'd get a kick out of some of these entries.”

But the stuff he read to them was mostly very boring or confusing, or both. After a few minutes, Malfoy looked up and noticed they were bored.

“Ah, too high brow for you? No matter,” he said, putting the book back, then relaxing in his chair. “What shall we talk about instead, then?”

Harry screwed up his courage and – making sure to look thoughtful first – said in Goyle's booming voice, “The Chamber of Secrets. Who d'ya reckon the next victim will be?”

“Ah, yes, that's always good value. Obviously I don't know, but I hope it'll be that mudblood Granger.”

Crabbe's face suddenly looked furious as Ron bristled at these words. Harry surreptitiously stepped on his foot before he said something stupid.

“What's up with you, Crabbe?” Snapped Malfoy.

“Stomachache,” Ron lied quickly.

“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Malfoy, snickering. “You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t reported all these attacks yet,” he went on thoughtfully. “I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let slime like that Creevey in.”

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colin: “ ‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?’ ”

Iliana felt a flash of fury, immediately followed by Zoey grabbing her and holding her down, preventing a transformation. Alastair also took over for Harry, because Harry kept his heart on his sleeve, and Al was better at hiding his emotions. But Malfoy dropped his hands and looked at Al and Ron.

“What’s the matter with you two?”

Far too late, Al and Ron forced themselves to laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.

“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy slowly. “Bunch of freaks with no proper wizard feeling, or they wouldn’t go around with that jumped-up Granger Mudblood. And people think they're Slytherin’s heir!”

My, my, but someone's got a ton of sour grapes, Al thought with an unexpressed grin.

Ron and Al waited with bated breath. Malfoy seemed on the edge of admitting his guilt, which would've been news to Al.

“I wish I knew who it is,” said Malfoy petulantly. “I could help them.”

Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more clueless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice, and Al, thinking fast, said, “Any ideas on who it might be?”

“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?” snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing — last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time. … I hope it’s Granger,” he said with relish. Al thought this a little repetitive.

Ron was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ron punched Malfoy, Al glared at Ron and said, “D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?”

“Oh, yeah … whoever it was was expelled,” said Malfoy. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.”

“Ah,” Al said, forcing himself to chuckle. “Sucks to be them.”

Barely noticing Al's comment, Malfoy shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?”

Harry tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of concern.

“Yeah …” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much. Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing-room floor —”

“Ho!” said Ron.

Malfoy looked at him. So did Al. Ron blushed.

“Just thought of something funny,” Ron said, recovering. “D—Mr. Weasley, uh, sacked.”

Malfoy laughed, almost a cackle.

“Good one, Crabbe.”

Al looked at his watch while Malfoy was looking away. They had twenty minutes left.

“So nothing?” Al asked. “Not even some half-baked ideas about who it is?”

Malfoy sighed. “If only I did. If it's anyone in Slytherin, which it must be, I haven't seen anyone looking suspicious. Well, no more so than usual, I mean. You know how well Slytherins are at keeping secrets.” He looked up at Al as though reconsidering his words. “Well, most Slytherins, anyway. Honestly, a part of me is glad I don't know who it is; the only reason you two can keep secrets is you hardly ever talk. But that doesn't mean you might not still let something slip.”

Okay guys, Al asked the other members of the collective, is there any point continuing? I don't think he knows anything worth knowing.

Ask him if he knows anything about who died last time. Worth a shot.

“Do you know anything at all about the mudblood who died last time?” Al asked in Goyle's voice.

“No, Goyle, I don't. I don't see what it matters, anyway; it's not bloody likely to be anyone we know, obviously.”

His last word, 'obviously,' was so reminiscent of Snape's mannerisms whenever he made a word drip with derision that Al nearly grinned at the similarity.

“Honestly, Goyle, I've already told you everything I know. All you're doing now is making me annoyed. Whether I'm more annoyed with you for asking or at Father for not telling me anything, I don't know. Can we maybe talk about something less aggravating?”

Al checked the time again. Then made a decision, and clutched his stomach and moaned.

“What's wrong now, Goyle?”

“I think I ate one too many puddings. Gonna go to the hospital wing.”

Catching on, Ron too moaned and clutched his stomach. “Me too. Sorry.”

Malfoy, who was staring at the ceiling with one leg over the arm of his chair, waved vaguely at them. “Good. Spit on Creevy for me while you're there, won't you?”

As they walked back to the exit, Al hoped very much that Hermione was still following them. He worried about it until they were far enough away from Slytherin's common room that she whispered at him that she was there.

Once they were back in Myrtle's bathroom, they began to change back to themselves. Al slid away, leaving Harry in control again. The first thing he did was find a working toilet and vomit into it. He felt sweaty and feverish, but changing back to himself made him feel a lot better. Getting up, he flushed and staggered out of the stall.

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said. “You look more flushed than that toilet does.”

“Har har,” Harry said weakly.

With a muted glow, Harry disappeared and Iliana took his place.

“Poor lamb,” she said of her headmate.

“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron panted. “I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.”

“And we know somebody died last time,” Hermione added. “That's something, too.”

“Later. We need to tie up loose ends,” Iliana said.

So they did; Hermione flushed the rest of the potion down the toilet, Iliana changed into Harry's robes – which didn't fit her well, Ron changed back into his own robes, and they returned Crabbe's and Goyle's shoes to them in the wardrobe where they still dozed, stirring faintly like they'd wake soon. When they went back, Iliana and Ron took separate showers to wash the stink of Crabbe and Goyle off them.

As she showered, she found herself being very glad that the boys respected her enough to let her shower alone. Still, boys were often pigs, especially as they got older, so she didn't know how long this chivalry would last. She began to wonder if she should ask Dumbledore for access to the Prefects' bathrooms. She still didn't think switching to the girl's dorms, with two boys in the collective, was a good idea.

Freshly cleaned, Iliana went down to the common room and made to sit next to Hermione, but then noticed Ginny by the fire, looking anxious and ill. So she bypassed Hermione and sat next to Ginny instead.

“Hey Ginny. What's wrong? You look ill. And worried.”

“What? Oh... it's... I think it's...” she trailed off, shrugging, and looking over at Hermione.

“Do you want to talk somewhere private?” Iliana asked.

Ginny looked thoughtful, but then Percy came down into the room, looking very pompous. Though apparently just passing through, Ginny gave a frightened squeal and took off back to her dorm.

Well that was odd. Wonder what she's worried about.

I was inclined to think she knew something about this Chamber business until Percy scared her off.

Why would that change your mind? She could know something.

I suppose. Though I can't think what it is. Unless she saw the Heir? Or a glimpse of the monster. I guess either/both of those things would make her worried. It would for me, too.

Well maybe you can wheedle something out of her later.

Iliana nodded vaguely, then got up and went back over to Hermione. The two girls were soon joined by Ron, and they spent hours talking about Malfoy's words and how they related to the Chamber.

When Iliana got back to her dorm, Aqua poked her head out.

'Where were you, human? I missed your warmth. The warm stone is adequate, but not the same as your soft, warm flesh.'

Silently thankful that Ron was the only one in their dorm over the holidays, she answered, 'Sorry. I was hunting for information about the monster in the school and the one controlling it.'

The snake shuddered before starting her slide up Iliana's arm. 'Yes, I can sense it sometimes. It is a great and terrible beast.'

'Do you know anything about it?'

'No more than what I just said. Sorry,' that last word said in a distinctly drowsy tone. Soon, Aqua was asleep, curled up around Iliana's arm.

Iliana changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed, thinking for over an hour before sleep took her.

~

Several weeks later, after all the students returned to Hogwarts, Harry was back, walking with Ron and Hermione and talking about nothing much when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.

“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said Ron tensely.

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch’s voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

“— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore —”

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had returned to his post by Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and immediately saw the flood of water on the floor of the bathroom and half the corridor, which had to be what Filch was on about; and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom walls.

“Now what’s up with her?” said Ron.

“Let’s go and see,” said Harry, and holding their robes over their ankles they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign, ignored it as always, and entered. Harry knew he could have Vanished the water, but that would be pointless if the source wasn't turned off, first, so off they went to find the source.

The bathroom echoed painfully with Myrtle's horrible wailing; she was clearly very upset about something.

“What's wrong?” asked Harry.

“Don’t ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me.”

Harry paused. He didn't think it could hurt her physically, but it might set her off wailing more if he pointed this out. He glared at Ron, too, in case the tactless boy had the same thought. Ron looked back at Harry in confusion.

“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know. … I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them. “It’s over there, it got washed out. …”

Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. He was about to pick it up when Alastair nearly had a fit in his head so loud that he covered his ears to try to block it out.

YEAH OKAY LET'S JUST TOUCH SOME UNKNOWN THING SOMEONE THREW AWAY WHEN THERE'S MONSTERS AND HEIRS OF SLYTHERIN LURKING ABOUT HURTING PEOPLE, BECAUSE THAT IS BOTH WISE AND CAUTIOUS, I THINK NOT!

SHUT UP, AL! I get the point!

No I don't think you do get it. Remember the horrible books in the Restricted Section, like the screaming book? Magic can do all kinds of things, we have no idea how dangerous a book could be made to be. Besides, it gives me the creeps.

Okay okay.

“Good thinking, mate,” Ron said when Harry drew back suddenly, not noticing Harry covering his ears in a fruitless attempt to drown out Al's voice. “That book could be cursed. Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated — Dad’s told me — there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed. And —”

“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harry, dropping his hands. “Honestly, you and Al both...”

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” Harry said with a swish and a flick of his wand. The little book floated up, and he concentrated on making it float toward them.

Very carefully, Hermione performed several spells, checking for things she wasn't explaining. Once she declared it a normal book as far as she could tell, she handed the soggy thing to Harry, who opened it. Neither of them died or got hurt touching it.

“It's a diary. T. M. Riddle.”

“Hang on, I know that name,” said Ron.

“How on Earth do you know that?”

“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention,” said Ron resentfully. “That was the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.”

Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn’t the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s birthday, or dentist, half-past three.

“He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed.

“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said Ron curiously.

Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.

“He must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harry thoughtfully. “To have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road. …”

Or Muggle raised, like us, Al pointed out.

“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ron. He dropped his voice. “You should toss it.”

Harry, however, pocketed it.

~

The three of them continued talking about Riddle's diary when they got back to the common room. There, Hermione made the logical leap that if Riddle won a special award for services to the school 50 years ago, and the Chamber opened 50 years ago, it might be that Riddle knew something about the Chamber opening; that he may have even caught the Heir of Slytherin the first time. Though, as they pointed out to her, the one flaw in this hypothesis was that the diary appeared to be blank. Of course, Harry and company knew from their Christmas gift giving that there were ways to turn parchments into magical computers for storing text, so maybe the book was password protected. There weren't any colored tabs, and it was a Vauxhall Road purchase, but maybe Riddle was very clever and made his own magical diary.

Harry kept finding himself carrying the thing with him wherever he went, and took it out sometimes to look at it. He wanted to try to unlock the diary, but Al pointed out their going theory – substantiated by Dumbledore – that Voldemort was the Heir, and Draco had been told that the Heir had been caught and that he or she was in Azkaban. That suggested that Draco had been lied to, or his father mistaken, because Voldemort clearly had never been caught. Unless he'd broken out of Azkaban?

It also seems to me that people he'd gone to school with would recognize him when he came back. If they didn't recognize him, then that suggests he changed his appearance drastically.

I wonder if, when he's alive, he has that snakelike face we saw in Quirrell's skull? Harry asked.

Possibly. Which would explain why nobody recognized him. Anyway, my point is, for all we know, this Riddle could be Voldemort.

What?

Well think about it. Isn't it a bit too much of a coincidence that this 50 year old diary happens to appear the same year that the Chamber opens again? I mean, I know it seems like an ordinary diary to Hermione, but as clever as she is, she's only a 2nd year student. It could be hiding powers that we can't detect.

Hmm... you have a point.

Also... and this is kind of a stretch, I know, but there haven't been any attacks while this thing was with us. I think we should hold onto it, in the trunk, and see if the attacks stop.

But if it is somehow responsible, would us holding onto it even help? Would it find a way to do its business anyway?

Well, added Iliana, maybe we should test it anyway? If we're cautious, maybe we can get some information without activating it, if it is dangerous.

Hmm... maybe. I don't like it, but we don't actually know that it isn't just a blank diary, or a just a password protected magic diary.

How do we test it?

They looked around. Too many people here. They could test it later.

~

They kept carrying it with them. Of all of them, only Al seemed to be able to resist picking it up on occasion and rifling through it, even though they all knew it was apparently blank. No spell, no magical Revealer, had yet given any indication that it was anything more than a blank diary. The only remarkable thing, so far, was the fact that it had dried without warping or growing mold on it. But that could be explained easily enough; Riddle could've cast Impervious on it. It had been wet before, but not the way paper normally was wet; like the water was stuck to the pages, but didn't get absorbed into them.

Determined to find out more about the mysterious Riddle, they went to the trophy room to look at the trophy Ron had mentioned. It wasn't very big, and just had his name on it, and the words “Special award for services to the school.” But they also found Riddle's name on an old medal for Magical Merit, and a list of old Head Boys.

“Sounds like Percy,” Ron said. “Prefect, Head Boy … probably top of every class —”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione in a slightly hurt voice.

“He's just jealous, Hermione. His brothers cast a long shadow.”

If the collective thought the continued lack of attacks would get other people to stop treating them like a bomb about to go off, it didn't. It just made most of them more sure that he was the Heir, that he'd given himself away at the Dueling Club.

One of these days, when Al was the one fully Out, he glared at some passing people who were looking weirdly at him.

'NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!' Al hissed at them in Parseltongue, making the shriek and skitter away.

“Al,” Hermione said with a sigh.

“It's bloody insulting, it is,” Al said, not bothering to keep his voice down, “the fact they think that, were I evil, I'd be so terrible at it as to reveal my secret to the whole school, and be found at the scene of the crime twice now. And we were in the bloody hospital having our damn bones regrown when Colin was attacked! I expect they think I dragged my agonized carcass past Madam Pomfrey, through the school past curfew without running into anyone, all the way to the Chamber – wherever the bloody hell that is – and around to find Colin to attack him in the midst of the agony of regrowing bones?

“Though the fact they think I somehow managed to attack Nick and Justin in the 30 seconds between leaving the library and running into Hagrid is interesting, I suppose. Glad to see they think I'm able to stretch time so 30 seconds becomes 30 minutes. I almost wish that were true; it would make getting schoolwork done in time a hell of a lot easier.”

~

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop. Al overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were lining up for Transfiguration.

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,” he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him.

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing. …”

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

“Gee, I can't wait to see what that monumental ass has planned. I'm sure I'm going to utterly loathe and detest it,” Al said sarcastically.

~

Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. Iliana hadn’t had much sleep because of a late-running Quidditch practice the night before, and she hurried down to the Great Hall, slightly late. She thought, for a moment, that she’d walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Iliana went over to the Gryffindor table, a disgusted look on her face, where Ron was sitting looking equally sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been overcome with giggles.

“I don't know which of us is more disgusted; me, Al, or Harry. Zoey thinks it's great, of course. But she sometimes starts singing horrible annoying 80's songs when we're trying to get to sleep.”

“What? I never hear her singing,” Ron said.

“You wouldn't. She does it internally, so only we have to put up with it. Al has tried strangling her several times. Anyway, what's going on?” Iliana asked, wiping confetti off her bacon.

Ron pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From where she sat, Iliana could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek. Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the forty-six,” said Ron as they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very interested in searching her bag for her schedule and didn’t answer.

“I've read about love potions,” Iliana said. “I think they should be illegal. They're magically assisted rape, is what they are.”

Hermione looked shocked, then thoughtful, then ill. She nodded silently.

“I can't take this. See you guys later,” Iliana said. A short glow later, Harry appeared.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs caught up with Harry.

“Oy, you! ’Arry Potter!” shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry.

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of first years, which happened to include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by kicking people’s shins, and reached him before he’d gone two paces.

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter in person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.

“Not here,” Harry hissed in English, trying to escape.

“Stay still!” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Harry’s bag and pulling him back.

“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging.

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything.

Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf started singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor.

“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy. Harry started stuffing everything feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine.

“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar voice as Percy Weasley arrived.

Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought him crashing to the floor.

“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is your singing valentine:
 
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
 
Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.

Harry was very glad Percy had helped, and used the opportunity to get away as quick as possible. He repaired his bag clumsily with Reparo and shoved everything in. He could clean it all later.

“Off you go, off you go,” Percy said. “The bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,” he said, shooing some of the younger students away. “And you, Malfoy —”

Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry realized that he’d got Riddle’s diary.

“Give that back,” said Harry quietly.

“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy, who obviously hadn’t noticed the year on the cover and thought he had Harry’s own diary. A hush fell over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary to Harry, looking terrified.

“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly.

“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary tauntingly at Harry.

Harry shot a curse at Malfoy that made the blonde's face erupt in painful hives, dropping the diary. Harry snatched it up and finished taking off.

“Harry!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors. I’ll have to report this, you know!”

But Harry didn’t care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day. Malfoy was in pain, running through the corridor toward the hospital wing, Harry and Al looking forward to calling him Spot.

Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into class, for some reason, though Harry barely noticed.

He grumbled and growled in a good imitation of Alastair all the way to Charms, when he was stopped cold by noticing that Riddle's diary was completely clean. This was different from how it reacted to water, so the collective made note of this. He tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles were blossoming out of the end, and he wasn’t much interested in anything else.

~

They went to bed before anyone else did, mostly to avoid people singing the “Pickled Toad” song at them, but also to experiment with the diary. They dropped some droplets of ink on the page at first, and watched the ink get sucked away without leaving any mark on the page.

Then he tried writing in it, writing, “My name is Harry Potter.”

The ink went away, and a different handwriting style appeared, with words saying “Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?”

Harry felt a surge of distrust and alarm from Al, but ignored it.

“Someone tried flushing it down a toilet,” he wrote back.

“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read.”

“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled.

“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“That’s where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I’m at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff’s been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

His heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew.

“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.”

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write back.

“It’s happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind them. Who was it last time?”

“I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him.”

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside somebody else’s memory? Feeling even more alarm from Al, he glanced nervously at the door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.

“Let me show you.”

NO. I don't trust this thing! This is not like anything I've read or heard about, this is like it's... alive. It's creepy.

Come now, Al; it's probably just programmed to respond this way. Besides, we talk with portraits, they act alive. There are mirrors people use that talk back to their users. This is probably just like that.

I can't explain it beyond “Bad vibes,” but this thing is dangerous.

Fine, fine.

“No thank you,” Harry wrote back. “You can just tell me.”

“Harry, I perfectly understand your reluctance in these dark times,” Riddle wrote back, “but seeing is believing, and the things I have to show you are hard to believe even when you see them. I promise you won't be hurt. It will take only minutes, and then you will be safely back to your chair. May I please show you?”

Harry hesitated. Al's alarm was diminishing a little into wariness. Riddle's politeness was what had clinched it for them; Voldemort had never been patient or polite in the one time they'd faced him. It seemed unlikely that this polite young man could be Voldemort.

“Well, since you asked nicely,” Harry wrote back. “Okay.”

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a minuscule television screen. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow.

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus. Al's renewed alarm flooding him, he jumped up, pointing his wand around warily, expecting an attack.

He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s office — but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man before. The portraits of former headmasters were largely the same, but everything else about the room was different; no Fawkes, no whirring silver instruments. This was not Dumbledore's office, even though it was the same room.

A quick succession of thoughts occurred within the collective, and in several seconds they realized that Riddle had somehow pulled them into his memory. Either that, or time travel. But since the unknown wizard hadn't noticed their sudden appearance, and didn't respond to them speaking, time travel seemed unlikely, if that were even possible.

There was a knock on the office door.

“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice.

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. The collective analyzed him. A silver prefect’s badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet-black hair. Iliana also noticed that he was extremely handsome. But Al noticed that his heart-reading ability wasn't working on Riddle. Though that could be explained if Riddle were nothing more than a magical memory with no soul. Al focused on his body language instead, the little subconscious tells people always give away.

“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle.

Riddle was nervous; Al saw that right away. That, too, was to be expected given what he'd said before, about the Chamber being open back then.

“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle. He looked nervous.

“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the letter you sent me.”

“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.

“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?”

“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that — to that —”

“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?” said Dippet curiously.

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.

“You are Muggle-born?”

“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.”

“And are both your parents — ?”

“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather.”

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically. Al and Harry were sympathetic, too. Given his body language, this orphanage must've been at least as bad as the Dursleys. If that were true, no wonder he didn't want to go back. They themselves would rather stay behind, even with the Chamber still being open, than go back to the Dursleys, if that were still on the table.

“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances. …”

“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and Harry’s heart leapt, and he moved closer, scared of missing anything.

“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy … the death of that poor little girl. … You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the — er — source of all this unpleasantness. …”

Riddle’s eyes had widened.

“Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped —”

“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?”

“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly.

Liar. He knows something. The fact that he isn't saying so means he either isn't sure of what he knows, or... well...

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.

“You may go, Tom. …”

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him.

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.

There's more than one possible explanation for that. He could be looking for a fall guy.

What makes you so sure he's guilty, Al? Anything beyond vibes?

There was no answer.

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, Riddle hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn’t see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase.

“What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?”

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-year-younger Dumbledore.

“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle.

“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since …”

He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.

But there'd been more to that scene, that Al had noticed. Dumbledore was hard to read, even looking for tells, but it seemed to Al that Dumbledore didn't trust Riddle, like he was suspicious of the boy's motives, which seemed out of character for Dumbledore.

Then there was Riddle himself; though he tried to hide it, the small changes in his facial expression upon seeing Dumbledore said that the feeling was mutual. In fact, Riddle had a hard time disguising the fact that he hated Dumbledore. Al's wariness grew.

Riddle did not go down any secret passages, or anywhere particularly interesting. In fact, for what felt like the next hour, Riddle stood still as a stone pressed to the wall of the dungeon that led to Potions, waiting for something. The boy seemed almost to blend into the wall. Given what was supposed to be going on in the school, Al found it interesting that Riddle could hide for so long in the corridors without running into any of the teachers. Prefect or no, that was... interesting.

Finally, someone else appeared, skulking around the halls with equal caution but less skill. He followed Riddle as the prefect followed the other person, into a room with a creaking door.

“C’mon … gotta get yeh outta here. … C’mon now … in the box …”

There was something familiar about that voice. …

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry stepped out behind him. He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it.

“ ’Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up. It was a much younger Hagrid. It was hard to tell without the beard, but it was Hagrid's same eyes, and nobody could mistake that hulking form; Hagrid was just as tall here as he was in Harry's time. Al had to resist laughing at the absurdity of this. Either Riddle was a total idiot, or he was spinning a tall tale for them. Al knew Hagrid was fond of monsters, but the thought he could be the Heir was just ludicrous.

“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?”

Riddle stepped closer.

“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They’re talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don’t stop.”

“What d’yeh —”

“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don’t make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and —”

“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking.

“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. “The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered. …”

“It wasn’t him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark passage. “He wouldn’! He never!”

“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of it came something that made Harry let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone —

A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, “NOOOOOOO!”

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach.

Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door opened and Ron came in.

“There you are,” he said.

Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.

“What’s up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern.

“That's... that's complicated,” Harry answered. “Let me tell you all about it.”