They Shook Hands: Year Two (Original Version)

They Shook Hands : Year Two

An alternate (but realistic!) universe Harry Potter fic
by Dethryl

Chapter Sixteen - Things All Fall Apart

Harry and Tim arrived at King's Cross station very early to catch the Hogwarts Express; they wouldn't depart the station for another hour yet, but already their trunks were loaded, and the two boys had claimed a prime compartment for their little gang. Harry collapsed into his seat with a sigh of relief. Every time he had to move that trunk, it got heavier and heavier.

Tim reached into his trunk and extracted a book. He curled up in his seat with the thing, and a look of contentment settled on his face. Harry wasn't sure who Leianora de la Croix was, but apparently her life story was completely absorbing to Tim.

Harry was about to retrieve his own light reading, Seeker Tactics, when a tapping at the glass startled him. It was Regal, Harry's eagle owl, holding a roll of parchment in his talons. The bird squeezed through the open window and dropped it in Harry's lap. Harry scratched his friend behind the ear tufts and held out an owl treat as reward. Regal crunched it down in two quick bites and stretched his wings to full span, then began grooming himself as Harry read his letter.

It was from Flint. "'Dear team,'" it began. "'A family situation has arisen, and I am unable to return to Hogwarts this year. In my absence, I name Miles as team captain. Be strong, win, and don't leave my name off the Quidditch Cup.'" Harry could barely believe what he was reading. "'Up Slytherin, Marcus.'"

Tim had looked up from his book. "Well, doesn't that just foul things up."

"I wonder what the family emergency is," Harry said. "It must be serious, if he's not coming back to school."

"He'll have to repeat his seventh year," Tim noted. "He couldn't pass his N.E.W.T.s at this point."

"He's our most insane Chaser. I don't know how we can replace him."

"Replace who?" Millie asked as she sprawled on the seat next to Harry. "Hullo, Tim."

"Hi, Millie."

"Flint," Harry answered her. "He's skivving off the rest of the year."

"Skivving?"

"Well, it's some sort of family crisis."

"Poor guy. So Warrington finally gets to play, huh?"

"That's 'Chahles Warrington the Third' to you," Harry said poshly. The boy was known for always using his nominary suffix.

Millie giggled. "Yes, the Third."

"He's our top reserve Chaser. I can't imagine that Miles would fill Flint's position with anyone else."

"Yes, but you're not Bletchley."

"Well of course not."

Harry and Millie began debating the finer points of Chaser tactics, a discussion that lasted several hours and gradually incorporated the rest of the gang as they arrived one by one. Only when the old witch came by with the snack trolley did they finally change the subject.

"'Ministry reports greater efficiency,'" Tim read off the headline of the Daily Prophet. "'Ministry officials today announced that the government operated with a seven percent increase in efficiency during the last quarter. Several were quick to point out the Ministry's recent realignment as a likely cause.'"

"Good old dad," Draco bragged.

"So the new budget is actually delivering on its promises?" Blaise asked.

"Shocking, isn't it?" Tim replied. "Next thing you know, the Minister will give a speech in plain English."

Millie brought out a deck of cards at that point; she appeared to have had quite enough of talking. She dealt out a hand to everyone and started the game off. Tim promptly folded and went back to his book. Harry did the same; he would need every Seeker trick he could learn in order to help his team win.

By the time the train finally lumbered into Hogsmeade station, Harry felt restless enough that he wanted to grab his broom and play a pick-up game right then. Several of the manoeuvres in the book seemed absolutely brilliant, and he wanted to test them out.

"If only Weasley played Quidditch," he said regretfully as he packed away his book.

"Got some new tricks, have you?" Jenna asked.

"Hopefully."

New tricks were exactly what Harry needed. With Miles now team captain, they drilled every day, even stealing the pitch from Gryffindor on one occasion. Warrington (the Third) caught on very quickly, which was fantastic luck. He became a very aggressive player, right up at Flint's level. Miles slowly moulded his Chasers into a unified offensive force, with Bole and Derrick providing counter-defensive support.

Their next match was a month and a half away, and against Hufflepuff, but Miles acted as though they were playing Gryffindor in only two days. He took his new responsibility very seriously and worked the team like a slave driver. Harry and the others grumbled about it, chalking it up to some sort of rare disease that only infected Quidditch captains, but they all understood the necessity of the extra work.

January passed without incident, and the mood of the castle remained positive. Everyone began to wonder if the threat from the Heir of Slytherin had finally passed. Lockhart was heard to boast that he had apprehended the culprit behind all the attacks, slain the beast, and managed not to muss his hair in the slightest.

Harry personally didn't believe a word of it. His doubt was to prove well-founded on Sunday the 31st. Harry was writing a Potions assignment when he and his mates heard a commotion in the hall. As they investigated, the milling crowd drew them to the common room.

"There's been another attack," Abraham Montague told them. "Emily Coxfield, a sixth year Hufflepuff, is now a stone statue.

"We prefects," he continued over the sudden hubbub, "are instituting the following rules: no Slytherin is to even so much as visit the loo by him or herself. Travel in groups of at least three people. There will also be a curfew imposed: nobody leaves the dorm after dinner without the knowledge and permission of a prefect."

That last rule evoked angry protests from the highly independent Slytherins. Abraham shouted them all down. "This is for our own protection!" he glared at them. "If we're not smart and careful, one of us could be used as a scapegoat. No one wants to spend the rest of his natural life in Azkaban prison."

Mollified, though still not pleased, the students drifted back to their rooms. Harry sat back down to finish his Potions homework. He didn't feel like talking; it would just be the same points raised yet again. Nobody had anything new to add. The knowledge that he, Harry, was suspected by much of the school was frustrating. Even on a night such as this night, when he had a rock-solid alibi, there were those like Weasley who would say that his friends were just covering up for him. A shame that the Heir wouldn't attack a pureblood: Weasley would make a fantastic statue.

"What are you grinning about?" Goyle asked.

"Just picturing Weasley being turned to stone."

"Is that your next plan?" Crabbe asked brightly.

"Not my plan," Harry clarified.

"It is rather a lovely mental picture," Draco agreed.

* * *

Emily Coxfield's Petrification had further-reaching consequences than Harry could have imagined. The second year Slytherins were in Potions lecture when the door slammed open with a bang! All eyes snapped to the back of the room where Jamie Zabini slumped against the door frame. Her hair was mussed, her face was red, and her breath heaved in her chest.

"Professor!" she gasped. "Maddy needs help! Lockhart says she's the Heir of Slytherin!"

Snape's eyes became very dangerous indeed. "Where is she?"

"Herbology."

"Take over here."

Snape strode purposefully from the classroom, his black robes flowing like the wings of some avenging bird of prey. The gleam in his eyes and the set of his jaw said that he had finally had enough of Lockhart and his foolishness. The man had slipped his wand out of his sleeve; Lockhart appeared to be owed a hexing.

At the back, Jamie was hunched over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. When she straightened up and walked down the aisle to Snape's desk, her face was still flushed; evidently she'd gone from Herbology to the dungeons at a dead run.

"What was Professor Snape lecturing about?" she asked half-aloud as she scanned the chalkboard. She glanced down at Snape's notes.

"He was about to let us leave early," Blaise wagged.

"Not likely," Jamie retorted. "And raise your hand if you want to speak."

"He'd just got done with lobridoon," Weasley informed Jamie. "He was just mentioning the next topic when you came charging in."

"Five points from Gryffindor for not raising your hand, Weasley, as I just instructed," Jamie glowered at him. "What is it with Gryffindors not being able to follow simple instructions? Lines, Weasley, two hundred of them: 'I will obey the Hogwarts prefects,' to be turned in to me by the end of the week."

Even with Snape not present, Weasley still managed to get in trouble. His face flushed an ugly red, and he ducked his head. Jamie's eyes were hard as stone as she made sure he was done.

"Very well, the professor's notes indicate that he planned to discuss doxwood. Doxwood is a plant commonly found in Ireland. It looks like this." The prefect waved her wand and created an illusion. "Note the funny-looking leaves. Now then, the raw doxwood is good for aiding the digestion. The juice, extracted in the common fashion, is of great use in the brewing of potions because it causes a more rapid absorption effect. This can be important for certain potions that take time to have an effect, such as the Impervious Potion."

Jamie conducted the lecture with an efficiency that Snape would have found admirable. She was a smart girl, Harry acknowledged. She hadn't been named a prefect for just her charming smile. The class was very nearly ordinary. Snape's cool influence was obvious in the manner in which Jamie delivered the material. She even asked several questions to test them, and she awarded points for correct answers, docking them for mistakes.

Snape returned shortly before the end of the class. He slipped silently through the door and stood at the back, watching Jamie teach. Harry noticed the man only because he was reaching for his quill sharpener at the time. Jamie noticed him, of course, but, to her credit, she didn't let it distract her. She lectured right up to the bell.

"One and a half feet on the properties of doxwood. Include three examples of potions where you believe doxwood juice to of use and defend your reasoning," Snape called out over the noise as students hurried to put away quills, ink, and texts. Harry loitered outside the classroom.

"Ms. Zabini, I was most pleased with your lecture," the professor said warmly.

"Thank you, sir." Jamie's bright smile was a welcome sight after all her moping this year. "There was one mouthy Gryffindor, but they were pretty well-behaved overall. The Slytherins were angels, of course."

"Of course. Twenty points to Slytherin for outstanding performance under unexpected circumstances."

"Thank you, sir," she repeated. "How's Maddy? Is everything well?"

Snape's self-satisfied smile spoke volumes. "Ms. Fitzjean has gone to an early lunch. I expect she's waiting for you."

"And Lockhart?" Jamie asked distastefully. "Please tell me you killed him."

The teacher chuckled briefly. "Not that I didn't consider it," he admitted. "There can be no excuse for his behaviour."

"What did you do?"

"I'm afraid that's a matter left between teachers," he gently admonished her. "And Madeline can tell you all about it."

Jamie grinned at him. "Yes, sir," she said, rising up on her toes and clicking her heels together. She left the dungeon classroom with a spring in her step.

"Mister Potter, eavesdropping is a bad habit," Snape called out reprovingly.

Harry jumped. How the deuce did Snape know? He rolled around the corner and back into the room.

"Sorry, sir."

"Is there any particular reason you are loitering outside my classroom?"

"I just wanted to hear what you did to Lockhart," Harry said candidly. "I really don't like that git."

Snape's lips twitched. "I believe you. I'm sure the story will be all over the school even before the day is out, though highly exaggerated, no doubt."

* * *

It was time for Slytherin to face Hufflepuff on a cold, wintery pitch.

Harry felt no butterflies at all as he took a warm-up lap. The team had worked so hard since coming back from holiday, there was no doubt that they would win. They had prepared as much as humanly possible, and they were the best team at Hogwarts. Cedric Diggory, his opposite, waved cheekily at him as they crossed paths. Harry found such mirth disconcerting and highly inappropriate. Hufflepuff was destined to be flattened today, and this fool could only grin like an idiot.

Slytherin took first possession, naturally, and Pucey, Montague, and Warrington (the third) went screaming down the pitch in a Hawkshead Attack formation. They passed the Quaffle back and forth with a quickness, never giving the Hufflepuff Chasers a chance to intercept. Pucey faked hard twice, and Warrington sent the Quaffle through the lowest hoop for the points.

"Slytherin scores the first goal," announcer Lee Jordan dispassionately told the crowd. "Ten points."

Harry cheered with the sea of green and silver as he whipped a quick spiral. "Go, Warrington!"

"The third!" came the faint reply.

Hufflepuff passed the Quaffle back out to the Chasers and promptly lost it again, as the Slytherin Beaters bashed the Bludgers in their direction. Harry was relieved to see that both iron balls were acting normally again.

Harry tore his gaze from the game; he knew perfectly well how outstanding his team was. It was his responsibility to find and catch that Snitch. He scanned the pitch from end to end.

"Slytherin scores again," Jordan announced. "The score is now twenty to zero. Come on, Hufflepuff, show some life out there!"

It was nice to see that Jordan's personal feelings would not colour his commentary. Where was that Snitch?

Harry absently dodged a Bludger and watched Pucey and Montague soar by, tossing the Quaffle between them. One of the Hufflepuff Chasers took a dive at Pucey, hoping to knock him out of the way and intercept the ball.

"Harry!" Montague shouted -- and he lobbed the Quaffle to the Seeker!

This was a trick Harry had discovered in Seeker Tactics. While there was a rule that only the Chasers and Keepers could handle the Quaffle, there was nothing against what Harry now did.

Harry lined up his manoeuvre carefully and then spun in the air, using the tail of his broom just like a bat! The Quaffle gave a resounding smack and flew directly into Warrington (the third)'s waiting hands. He was down the pitch and had sent the ball through the middle hoop before Hufflepuff's Keeper could react.

"Warrington scores for Slytherin on the assist from Potter," Jordan said. "I'm sure that's illegal, but there's no call from Madam Hooch. There should be, but there isn't. Thirty-nothing, Slytherin."

"Good man, Harry!" Bletchley shouted downfield. "Find the bloody Snitch!"

"Aye, aye, Captain!" Harry wagged back. Once the golden ball came out of hiding, it would be in his hand.

"And Diggory takes off like a shot!" Jordan crowed. "He must have seen the Snitch!"

"Potter!" Bletchley screamed.

Harry pointed his broom towards Diggory and leaned forward with a zoom. His eyes scanned vigilantly all around, but he couldn't see the Snitch! Diggory looked back over his shoulder, no doubt checking to see how close Harry was. Then he grinned and turned front again as Harry closed in.

Diggory dove! Harry swore and dove after him. They were fairly high up, the two Seekers, but that ground was coming up awful quick. All of a sudden Diggory broke off, yanking the shaft of his broom up sharply and climbing away.

It was a fake! Harry was only metres from eating a dirt sandwich! He hauled back on his broom, but he wasn't going to level out in time! He had only seconds! Harry braced his heels on the tail of his Nimbus 2000, pulling himself nearly vertical. He felt a bone-jarring thud as the butt of the broom connected with the ground. Hundreds of thin, delicate twigs snapped with a sound like a thousand eggs cracking. His entire body shook with the shock, and he barely stayed on the broom. Wobbly as gelatin, he climbed back into the sky.

"Potter falls victim to the Wronski Feint!" Jordan exulted. "How's that dirt taste, Potter?"

Before he left Hogwarts, Harry decided, Jordan needed to be strung up.

Harry's prized broom was severely damaged. More than half the tail twigs were broken right off, and the rest were all bent. The broom listed to the left now, and it had suffered in the area of speed. He couldn't accelerate as rapidly, and the top speed was slower than specification.

"You miserable sod!" he shouted angrily at Diggory. "My broom's gone wonky!"

"All's fair, Potter!" Diggory hollered back. "And that was for Emily!"

Diggory's accusation struck Harry like a smack across the face. He snarled something unintelligible and flew away from the tricky bastard.

"All right, Harry?" Bole asked.

"Hit that wanker with a Bludger!" Harry requested vehemently.

"Done!"

Bole flew up a few metres and caught the zooming Bludger as it approached. He soared down close to Diggory, tossed the iron ball up, and swung his bat ferociously. Diggory, unaware that a Bludger was in such close proximity, caught the blow in the back of his head and took a tumble. He slipped from his broom and landed in a heap on the grass and didn't move.

"And Diggory is down!" Jordan announced. "We need a medic on the field! Penalty shot to Hufflepuff."

"Ye bastard!" Bole called as he flew over Diggory's crumpled form.

"And Hufflepuff misses the penalty shot. With their Seeker down, is there any way that Hufflepuff can eck out a victory today?"

Not if Harry had anything to say about it. He peered down the pitch, eyes straining. The Snitch had better come out to play soon, or Harry was likely to grow irritated.

"Pucey takes a hit from a Bludger and drops the Quaffle," Jordan prattled on. "Hufflepuff recovers- goal! Hufflepuff scores!"

Harry scowled. He glared at Jordan and -- stared. Fluttering along the railing at the top of the stands -- was the Snitch!

"Potter is speeding directly towards the announcement booth," Jordan said, a touch of emotion finally entering his voice.

The Snitch, finally aware that it had been sighted, zoomed away with Harry hot on its tail. The rest of the world fell away from him; there was nothing else except the winged, golden ball. Even on a damaged broom, Harry felt almost casual as he reached out to pluck the prize from the air. Then he stopped, hard, whistling in the air as he pulled to a halt inches from Jordan's nose.

"That's the match," Harry said casually into the microphone, dropping the golden ball in the startled announcer's lap.

"Potter catches the Snitch," Jordan said with disgust. "Slytherin wins."

The stands erupted with Slytherin cheers.

"Good show, Harry!" Bletchley congratulated him. "Did you know you're bleeding?"

"What?" Harry touched his face. Sure enough, his fingers came away red.

"Better get yourself up to the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey check you out."

"My broom," Harry sighed, able to take note of the damage for the first time.

"I think it might be thrashed," Bole said sympathetically.

"It might be fixable," Derrick argued.

The team fell into a discussion of whether Harry's broom was fixable, and if so, how much it would cost. Harry himself took Bletchley's advice and headed for the hospital wing.

"Madam Pomfrey?" he said as he opened the door.

"She's not here." A girl's voice replied. Weasley's baby sister Ginny was putting sheets on the beds.

"Where'd she go?"

"To place an order for some tea, I think. She doesn't exactly talk to me other than to give orders."

"That's right, you've still got detention," Harry remembered.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Only until Valentine's Day, thank God."

"Don't expect any sympathy from me," Harry directed her. "After what you lot did, you should have been expelled."

"I told you before, it wasn't my idea," she said peevishly. "I just got dragged along."

"I'm just glad there was one Weasley who knew the difference between right and wrong," he needled her.

"Now listen, you-"

At just that moment, Madam Pomfrey returned to the hospital wing. "Ah, Mister Potter. That's a splendid cut on your cheek, and quite a remarkable bruising on your forehead as well. Been playing at Quidditch, have you? Well, from the smile on your face, I'd say you deem the victory worth it, no?"

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned. Was their victory that obvious on his face?

"Miss Weasley, why are the beds not all made yet? Well, perhaps when you finally finish with that you can bring up the bucket and scrub the floors again."

Ginny gave Harry a look of death, but wordlessly set back to making up the beds. Harry tried not to flinch as Madam Pomfrey efficiently cleaned up his cuts and bruises. When she finally sent him on his way, he was blinking back tears from all the stinging.

Harry took the shortest routes he knew as he left the hospital wing. There was celebrating to be done in the Slytherin common room. At the second floor, he turned down the main corridor and took his third right. There was a shortcut at the end of this hall that would take him to a tapestry just outside the entrance hall.

He couldn't help but glance down the dark corridor. That was where the writing on the wall had appeared, announcing that the Chamber of Secrets was open. The message was still there; Filch had proven powerless against the might of this epic graffiti. He hadn't even gotten around to cleaning up the puddle of water that Harry and Tim had fallen into the night Mrs. Norris had been attacked.

Harry frowned in thought. No, that puddle had been cleaned up; he had used this corridor just a few days ago. Somehow the puddle had returned. Excitement clenched Harry's breath in his chest. Maybe this meant that the Chamber of Secrets was open now!

His wand came out immediately. If the Heir of Slytherin was around, Harry intended to stop him, if only to clear his own name. The Heir's misdeeds were staining Harry's reputation.

The water splashed only slightly as Harry cautiously advanced. The puddle was coming out into the hall from under the door just yonder. Harry pushed it open slowly and peeked inside.

It was a loo. It was a girl's loo. The water could clearly be heard now, flowing from one of the toilets. Piteous wails and cries came from the stall, and Harry realized that it must be Moaning Myrtle. He'd heard some of the older students mention her once as the punchline of a joke. She haunted a bathroom, he remembered, and never stopped sobbing.

Harry definitely didn't want to disturb Myrtle, so he turned to leave. She was obviously upset enough to break toilets. No clues to the Chamber of Secrets here.

His foot kicked something solid. A book? Harry picked it up gingerly. How odd. The book was as dry as a bone. "The diary of T. M. Riddle," he read off the cover. Now why did that name ring a bell?

This diary was definitely a tremendous clue, Harry decided. It was so blatantly out of place in a flooded bathroom that it was nearly vulgar. He tucked it into his pocket and quickly walked away. He certainly didn't want to have to answer questions about why he was hanging around a girls' bathroom right at the site of the first attacks.

Trying to act casual, Harry walked as quickly as he dared to the dungeons. He brushed past his friends and teammates, citing the need to visit the loo. In his room, on his bed, he sat down with the diary. The first thing he noticed was that it was completely blank. Not one single thing had been written -- nothing visible anyway.

Harry tapped the diary with his wand. "Reveal your secret."

Nothing happened.

"Aparecium!"

Nothing happened. Harry wasted the next twenty minutes trying to figure out the diary's importance. It refused to tell him anything.

"Wotcher, Harry?"

"Draco, Tim, good. Come here; I've found a clue."

"A clue, you say? To what?"

"To the Heir of Slytherin." Harry briefly explained how he'd found the diary.

"Very out of place," Draco agreed. "But it's telling you nothing?"

"Right. Frankly, it's starting to irritate me."

Draco examined the little book. "Look here," he said.

Harry looked. Stamped on the back was the name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London. "Riddle was Muggleborn. He had to have been."

"He couldn't have been," Tim objected. "Riddle was a Slytherin prefect fifty years ago. He won numerous awards, became Head Boy, and was generally a smashing chap."

"Fifty years ago?" Harry echoed. "Draco, didn't your dad say that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before?"

"Yes, fifty years ago." Draco seemed curious. "You think they're somehow connected?"

"Why else would I have found his diary?" Harry wanted to know. "Especially right there at the wall with the writing on it."

"But it won't tell you anything," Tim concluded.

"Right. I've tried every spell I can think of. Riddle was a Slytherin prefect, right? If we can get this diary to talk, it could spill all the beans. Riddle could know everything, and he'll tell us because we're Slytherins."

Tim dug into his trunk and pulled out what appeared to be a big red eraser. "My Revealer should do the trick," he said, rubbing hard on the date of the first page.

But it did not. And neither did any other trick that they tried. Finally they gave it up and went back to the celebration of Slytherin's win over Hufflepuff.

to be continued...