Furious Angels

Chapter 12: Shadowy Men With Shadowy Purposes

The Heir of Slytherin studied the group of students through intensely blue eyes. He was careful to keep the usual soft, blank expression on his host's face as he watched the discussion around him. He wasn't paying attention to what was being said so much as who was speaking, and what roles they played in the dynamics of the group. The Heir was correlating what his host had written about each of these children with what he was observing. Putting names to faces, identifying threats, gathering intelligence.

The Potter boy had been identified almost immediately. Charismatic, clearly a leader, it was obvious to the Heir that Harry Potter was a wizard of exceptional power. But most importantly, he had the scar on his forehead while the other boy, who could only be the Longbottom whelp, didn't. When the host had first written about the exploits of "the famous Harry Potter", they seemed just short of unbelievable! How could it be possible that this... this... second year student, all but a Muggle-born, had defeated the greatest wizard the world had ever seen? And while still an infant, no less? Nothing he had learned... no spell, no ritual, no enchantment, would grant a mere baby enough power to defeat a wizard as powerful and skilled as Lord Voldemort.

I must find out just what magic my older self attempted to use... perhaps he was caught up in some strange miscasting, he thought to himself. Such an event isn't likely, but it would certainly be more likely than a pitiful Muggle-spawn infant overpowering a Dark Lord.

"He's a violent git, and he's hurt people lots of times," the Potter boy was saying to the red-headed girl. "What about that time that he...?" The Heir studied the girl for a moment. His host had written that the girl was married to the Potter boy somehow, though some mystic gewgaw called a Soul Stone. The Heir had never heard of such a thing, which was surprising. He was, after all, quite diligent in his research regarding powerful magic.

It was likely that, rather than simply never having heard of them, he had done some preliminary research, found that they were useless to him, and moved on. Apparently, all they did was bind prepubescent children into life-bonds, something the Heir considered an immensely stupid waste of magic. The Heir studies the girl for a moment. She resembled the Heir's host enough that it was obvious this was "Ginny", the host's sister. And oh, how the host had ranted and raged and whined and mewled about how the interloping sister had broken up the true, real, perfect friendship felt between the host and the Potter boy. While still in the book, the Heir had been hard pressed not to laugh when he was told the horrors of what had happened. It was, in a word, pathetic.

Though it was odd, how he was struck by headaches every time he actually looked at the ring on the Weasley girl's hand...

The host was an extremely jealous and angry person, who constantly felt overshadowed by everyone around him (and what luck... such dark, hateful emotions, combined with the boy's laziness and lack of focus, were essential to the ease in which the Heir was assuming control more and more often), and had poured his envy into the diary, and the larger part of his envy dealt with this one person: his sister. Younger than the host, the girl was supposed to be subordinate to the host in the same way the host was subordinate to his older brothers... except she was the first female in the family in generations, and thus was special. She was treated like a family heirloom by their parents, rather than be someone the host could look down upon and condescend to. And now, not only did she garner special treatment because of her gender, she was "married" to a celebrity, with access to that celebrity's influence, wealth, and power.

The Heir almost laughed at the irony. It still came as a surprise that the host hadn't been sorted into Slytherin.

He looked for a moment at the ring on her finger. The thing's presence caused him no small amount of unpleasantness when he was in control of the host. It wasn't anything tangible... just a constant urge to fidget, lower his eyes, mumble, and escape to anywhere at all, except for anywhere close to the stone. It is almost as if the ring knows that I am here, and is staring at me, he thought.

"But I don't remember him doing that at all, Harry? When did he do that?" The Heir rolled his host's eyes, amazed that they were still arguing over such inconsequentials as just how much of an "evil git" this Draco Malfoy person was. The Heir had smirked when he heard the name... he had been, after all, a classmate of Abraxas Malfoy. Draco would be either a grandchild or a great-grandchild, obviously, but either way, he was the perfect red herring to cover the Heir's activities.

For the first time, the Heir decided to speak. "Does it truly matter whether or not Malfoy did or did not do some specific unpleasant act? It's clear that he's the perfect suspect," he said. "What we need to do is keep an eye on him to catch him in the act the next time he tries to kill someone." There, the Heir thought. That ought to keep them safely on the wrong trail.

The Potter boy returned his words with a deep stare. That, too, was uncomfortable. Finally, the Boy Who Didn't Die said, "Maybe he is the Heir of Slytherin. But I don't know... he just doesn't seem..."

"Smart enough?" the blonde girl with the bug eyes asked.

"Yeah... I mean, if Dumbledore can't figure out how to open the Chamber, then how could thick-as-a-brick Malfoy do it?"

Everyone nodded, and a long moment of silence descended. The Heir was sure to nod also, as the others expected him to. He had to keep the cover up until his control was complete. Then his resurrection would have reached the inevitable stage. At that point, it didn't matter who knew the truth.

The bushy-haired girl... who was either the Mudblood, Granger, or the pureblood Lovegood; the host hadn't been specific about anyone's appearance, and even then he'd only mentioned Potter's scar... broke the silence with a question. "Er... not to completely change the subject, but... what is a Sept?"

So she is Hermione Granger, the Mudblood. The Heir looked over to the blonde with the protruding eyes. And that would make this one the Lovegood girl, the pureblood. Luna.

"What?" the Potter boy answered.

"This afternoon... Neville declared that I and my parents were now "Sept" to the Longbottoms... Fred told me to agree to it so I did, but no one ever explained what a Sept was. So... what did I just sign my parents up for?"

The Heir rolled his host's eyes again. Such ignorance in the ways of the Pure was only one of the myriad reasons why their filth shouldn't be allowed to pollute Wizarding society. When he regained his body and came to his true power, the Granger girl would be the first example made of the harm that the Mudbloods and their Muggle-trash forbears caused.

"Well..." The Longbottom boy's face lost the slack-jawed expression that seemed its natural position as the boy began speaking. "Basically I declared you a part of my family, even though there's no blood-relation between us. It's sort of like... well... you know when you have aunts and uncles and cousins, and sometimes your cousins don't share your surname, because they're part of different families, but they're still you're cousins and thus part of your family too?" Everyone but the Heir nodded. He was beginning to despair of how useful this information might actually be. It was so boring listening to this idiot prattle on.

"A Sept is sort of like your cousins. People in a Sept are a part of your family, even if they are in another family entirely, but the Sept doesn't have to have married into the family like your in-laws do." The Longbottom boy finished with a blush. "Though... you know... marriage between a family and its Sept isn't that uncommon..."

"So... I'm a Longbottom now?" the girl asked.

The Heir couldn't resist speaking up. "Not technically. You'd have to be a pureblood born to the Longbottom line to really be a Longbottom."

Longbottom stared at him for a long while. The Heir was amazed to see the beginnings of anger in the younger boy's eyes. But nothing was said. Instead, Longbottom turned back to the Mudblood girl. "By becoming a Sept to the House of Longbottom, you're considered by the Old Laws and by the Twelve Houses to be a Longbottom in all but name. While, as Ron points out..." The Heir smirked at the angry glance. "... You are still technically a Muggleborn, you and your parents are also members of one of the oldest of the pureblood lines. Because of this, the Slytherins will leave you alone because they don't want the political fall-out."

The Heir laughed. It was a sharp, cruel bark. "Yeah, unless they come from a family who outranks the Longbottoms or they think they can get away with it." He turned to the Mudblood girl. "His House's protection is fine, as far as it goes, but I'd still grow eyes in the back of your head."

"Ronald!" It was the sister speaking. Her eyes were wide with shock and outrage. "What a horrible thing to say!" All eyes were on the host as she yelled at him. It would be so easy to end her... to shut her screeching mouth up forever, he thought. A wave of the wand and two little words and she'd be as cold as a fish. It would be so easy to deal with these insignificant brats...

But no... now was not the time. His spirit wasn't quite free from the enchantments holding it to the diary. His time would come. Soon enough, I'll have all of their lives in the palm of my hand. And I will crush them, utterly. His eyes fell on the Potter boy as he willed himself to recede into the back of the host's mind. And I'll leave Potter for last, so he can watch the deaths of his friends...

XxxxxxX

Ron blinked for a moment, and then blushed as he realized his sister was yelling at him for something he'd said. He wasn't sure what he had said to get himself in trouble this time... he just that he was once again in trouble. It seemed to be happening more and more frequently, and he had a creeping, dark feeling about it. "What? What did I say?"

The rest of the group just stared. "Honestly, Ron... could you be more of an insensitive prat?" Hermione said, the disgust she was feeling blatant on her face.

Ron stared at each of his friends for a moment, looking each in the eyes. They were all angry at him, and he had no idea why they should be. What had he said that was so wrong? He had no idea, and they looked to not be willing to tell him. "Don't look at me like that!" he growled angrily. "I don't know what the matter with you," he retorted to Hermione, grasping for something, anything to say in return. "But it's your problem, not mine. If you're going to bite my head off, don't think you can come to me when you need help!" He stood and ran for the stairs, cursing the blank spots in his memory, and the fact that, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to mention them to anyone...

The other five children stared at the retreating back of Ronald Weasley, obviously shocked at his reactions. "What..." Neville swallowed. "What is he going on about? He just needs to think before he speaks, is all... it's not that big a deal..."

"He's been acting odd, lately. I don't know what's going on with him," Ginny said, finally.

Luna was contemplative. "He's stressed about something. No idea what, though..."

Everyone nodded. No one could think of anything normal that would put a twelve year old boy under that much stress.

Harry took a deep breath. "So... anyway... what were we talking about?"

Neville, Hermione, and Ginny all spoke simultaneously. "Septs," the boy said, while Hermione added, "The Chamber of Secrets." Ginny blurted out, "Malfoy."

Harry looked at his three friends, and then turned toward Luna, who smiled. "Nargles," the blonde girl said.

"What?" Everyone turned to look at her.

"Well, it was my turn, wasn't it? I thought we should talk about Ronald and his Nargle infestation. Something must be done about that before he starts randomly sprouting bad poetry," Luna said, the same blank smile on her face as always.

"What are Nagles?" Hermione knew that she shouldn't have asked, but she couldn't help it.

"Not Nagles... Nargles... Oh, they are fascinating creatures. Very small, and they hide in greenery. When you hang mistletoe, for example, you must be very careful to shake the Nargles out of it before the actual hanging, or else they will fly up your nose and lay eggs there. And then you'll be sneezing Nargle eggs all day. They are quite clever little thieves too."

Again, they all stared. Finally, Luna smiled at Hermione. "You are very cute when you are confused. Did you know that? Your eyes sparkle in just the best way."

The bushy-haired girl blushed, but she returned the smile. Hermione coughed into her hand, and then turned her full attention to Luna. "I wonder, Luna... would Nargles be vulnerable to depredation? Because their natural habitat sounds suspiciously close to that of a henway, and I thought that maybe Nargles were its natural prey."

For the first time, it was Luna that was confused. "I don't think I've ever heard of... what is a henway, Hermione?"

"Oh, about two and a half kilograms..." It was spoken with as flat a tone, and as blank an expression, as Hermione could manage. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Harry sputtered into weak laughter. Neville followed quickly, then Ginny. Luna continued to look from one person to the other, her eyes wide.

"I don't understand... Why are you...?" Luna's expression blanked for a moment, and then she smiled wider at Hermione. "Oh, I see. That was very clever!" She leaned toward Hermione and kissed the older girl on the cheek. "Thank you."

Hermione blushed again and brought a hand up to the cheek Luna had graced. Her eyes sought Neville, and Hermione saw the boy staring intently at her. He was also blushing... a fact that made Hermione blush all the more.

XxxxxxX

Oliver Wood was determined to win the Quidditch Cup this year, and had been drilling his team until they were ready to drop. And when they were ready to drop, they practiced even harder. He had swiftly discovered that Ron was not only a fair Keeper, he had a head for Quidditch the likes of which Wood himself had only dreamed about. As such, he had immediately recruited Ron into the planning process, coming up with plays for the team to learn during their practices.

The morning of the year's first Quidditch match, the Potters and Ron joined the rest of the Gryffindor team for breakfast. Harry barely had a chance to tuck in a piece of bacon and some toast before Oliver began exhorting the team to do their best. The Gryffindors were facing their arch-rivals, the Slytherins, and Wood was playing up the "conflict" the two teams had during their most recent encounter as a way to encourage his players aggressiveness.

"You can't let those filthy snakes win! You owe it to our House itself! You owe it to our fellow Gryffindors! You owe it to McGonagall!"

"We owe it to Her Majesty, the Queen!" Fred called in response.

"We owe it to Merlin!" George answered.

"... To Ollivander!"

"... To Mum and Dad!"

"... To Stubby Boardman!"

Wood's face grew stern. "Cut it out, you two. Could you take this seriously? We can't afford to let our guard down! Harry!" Everyone was surprised by the sudden change in Wood's attention from the entire team to Harry specifically.

"Er... yes?"

"You know what to do! Catch the snitch, or die trying!" Wood's eyes were blazing.

"Er... okay?" Harry's voice was weak. He turned to Ginny, but she was no help... she looked to be suffering from an acute case of the giggles at Wood's fervent enthusiasm. Harry did want to beat Slytherin, but he wasn't quite sure he liked the sound of 'Catch the snitch or die trying'. That just sounded reckless.

At half-ten, Wood stood. "All right, troops... let's get ready." The Gryffindor team followed him down to the team's changing rooms. It wasn't quite autumn, and summer was almost over, but it was still a hot, almost muggy day. The sky seemed to be scowling at the Earth... clouds were everywhere, and the occasional roll of thunder could be heard off in the distance.

Harry, Ginny, and Ron waved to Hermione, Neville, and Luna as they entered the team's locker rooms. The players, both the first string and the reserves, put on the crimson robes of the Lions of Gryffindor team, then gathered to listen to Wood's usual pre-game pep talk.

"Those arrogant snakes aren't going to know what hit them! We've been training harder and better than they have! We've flown in the rain and the shine -"

"... and the fog," George Weasley muttered, "... and the hail..."

" -- and know this pitch better than we know our own homes!"

"... I've lost so much sleep I know it better than the inside of my eyelids..." Fred Weasley commented.

"The Quidditch cup is ours for the taking! We've got the best brooms in the world, the best players in the school, and none of our parents had to buy our way onto the team!" Wood turned to Harry. "Remember, Harry... I want us to not only win; I want us to be in a good position for the cup... so we need to run the score up some before you grab the snitch. It's up to you, Harry... I know you can fly rings around that blonde ponce! Show him that a Seeker is more than slicked back hair and a rich father! Make the bugger cry, Harry! It's a moral imperative!"

"Sounds like fun, eh, Harry?" said Fred, winking at him.

As the Gryffindors walked out onto the pitch, they were met with loud cheering. Word had gotten out about how Malfoy's father tried buying his son's way onto the team by supplying superior brooms. Such an obvious ploy was an affront to the Ravenclaw sense of dignity and the Hufflepuff ideal of fair play. Spectators from both houses were anxious to see Slytherin team thrashed. Their loud cheers and whistles drowned out the boos and hisses coming from the Slytherin bleachers.

At Madame Hooch's instruction, the two team Captains clenched each other's hands hard enough to bruise flesh and crush bone. Each team gave the other hostile stares. Harry found himself the target of such a glare from Draco Malfoy, but rather than being intimidated, Harry only laughed.

Hermione's more intimidating when she gets her teeth into a research project. This bloody arse doesn't stand a chance. Harry grinned at Malfoy and swiftly gave the other boy the two-finger salute. The look of shock on Malfoy's face made Harry's morning seem somehow brighter.

Madame Hooch signaled the two teams to mount their brooms, and as he did Harry glanced to the team bench, where the reserve players waited. He gave Ginny a small wave, and then crouched slightly to improve his kickoff when the whistle blew.

"On my mark..." the Flying Instructor called. "Three... two... one..." The roar of the crowd drowned out the sound of Hooch's whistle, and the fourteen broom-riders rocketed into the swiftly graying sky. Harry spiraled upward quickly, hoping to take a quick over-watch position above the field. His eyes scanned the entire pitch, looking for any hint of the Snitch.

Harry watched as his nemesis approached. "All right there, Scarhead?" Malfoy called as he rocketed by. The Slytherin had intentionally come closer to Harry than necessary, and much faster than Harry would have done. Just trying to intimidate me, Harry thought to himself. He turned to look for the Snitch behind him, and was suddenly glad he did... one of the Bludgers was careening in his direction.

Harry began a slow acceleration, trying to time it exactly. He maneuvered his broom to just the right angle and held in place, waiting. He watched as the Bludger came closer and closer... and at the very last moment dropped into a static roll. The black iron ball flew past him close enough for the wind of its passage to muss his hair. From the direction the Bludger went, Harry heard Draco Malfoy's abrupt "awrk" as the ball brushed past the Slytherin's broom just at Draco's eye level. Harry had timed it perfectly.

"Good job, Harry! That'll keep him awake!" called George as he streaked past the two Seekers. George skillfully knocked the Bludger toward Adrian Pucey, but it only traveled a couple of meters before arcing back toward Harry. Harry dove toward the turf to avoid it as George maneuvered to hit it toward Malfoy. Again, the Bludger changed its path to angle back toward Harry.

Harry accelerated away, heading toward the opposite end of the pitch. Behind him, he could hear the sound of the Bludger cutting through the air, following him. What in hell is going on? he asked himself. Bludgers don't chase people! Ahead of him, Harry could see Fred Weasley maneuvering into position. Harry met Fred's eyes, and without speaking the two boys formed a plan. Harry leaned forward, accelerating even more, and ducked under Fred's arm just as the Weasley boy began his swing.

"Gotcha!" Fred cried as his beater-bat impacted the iron ball. As if connected to Harry by a cable, the Bludger was knocked off course only a few meters before once again turning to the chase. Harry sped away as quickly as he could, the Bludger remaining in his wake no matter how he zigged or zagged. Harry had no chance to watch for the Snitch... he was too busy flying around the pitch at top speed, trying fruitlessly to shake the rogue Bludger from his tail.

The first hint of how the game was going came when he flew low past the faculty box. It had just begun to rain when he heard Lee Jordan, the school's Quidditch commentator, call out "... And Johnson brings the Gryffindor score to eighty points to Slytherins thirty..." Oliver Wood's training regimen was clearly doing its job.

The mad Bludger stayed on Harry as if glued to him. The situation had become so bad that Fred and George began to fly in close formation with Harry. Their positions gave Harry protection against the malfunctioning ball, but unfortunately kept him from hunting for the Golden Snitch. "This Bludger's been tampered with, I'd wager," Fred grunted as he used his bat to drive off yet another of the ball's attacks on Harry.

"It's got to be one of the Slytherins... probably Malfoy," George said through gritted teeth. He knocked the Bludger away for the fifth time in three minutes. "He's getting back at you for ruining his surprise."

Harry ducked as the Bludger made it past Fred. It nearly had him that time; if it had been an inch lower, he'd have been hit in the head rather than just have the Bludger muss his hair. "What are you talking about?"

Fred's eyes narrowed as he took aim. "Ron told us you bought the new brooms for Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, Harry... brilliant move by the way." The boy knocked the Bludger clear again.

George signaled to Wood, "We need a time out! Oh shit!" He twisted around barely in time to knock the ball away from Harry's head. Had George missed, it would have knocked Harry off his broom. Wood nodded and called for Madame Hooch. At the teacher's whistle, the three dove quickly for the ground, still trying to bat the Bludger away.

"Why did I just call a time out?" Wood asked. "Fred, George, what are you doing? Angelina almost got her arm broke by a Bludger, just now! Where were you?"

"Keeping Harry alive, Oliver... the other Bludger's been hexed! It's following Harry everywhere and we can't knock it away. It just keeps coming. I think Malfoy or one of the other Slytherins did it," Fred said. All three of the boys were taking heavy gulps of air, trying to catch their breath.

"That's impossible. The balls have all been locked in Hooch's office since our last practice." Oliver looked upward, noting the heavy iron ball that seemed to be circling, almost hungrily, like a shark circling a swimmer in the ocean. He looked over George's shoulder and saw Madame Hooch approaching.

"We've got to ask for an inquiry or something..." Angelina Johnson began, but Oliver just shook his head.

"If we stop now, we've forfeited the match, and there's no way in Merlin's bloody hell that I'll forfeit to them." He jerked his head toward the Slytherin bleachers.

Harry looked over to Ginny, and when their eyes met he could feel the fear and concern that was dominating her mind right now. She understood perfectly what was going on, and she was terrified he was going to get hurt. He blew a kiss at her and smiled, trying to make himself feel calmer so she would too. Harry turned back to his team and decided to bite the bullet.

"Guys... when we start play again, let me deal with the Bludger. You two watch over the girls. I'll be fine." Harry glanced up at the circling Bludger and swallowed, hoping he knew what he was doing.

"Harry, don't be an idiot... that thing will kill you in a second!" Fred huffed.

"Look, the only way I'll be able to catch the Snitch is if I can get some clearance, and I can't do that with you two shadowing my every move. Trust me... I'll work it out." Harry looked to Oliver. "I'll get the Snitch!"

Oliver looked to Harry, then to the twins. "You heard him."

Fred and George shook their heads in disgust. "Get the Snitch or die trying... if he gets killed, his blood will be on your hands... don't expect us to protect you from Ginny!" Fred said.

Oliver Wood swallowed heavily and looked to his reserve bench, where Ginny Potter sat, fear obvious in her eyes. He turned back to the twins and nodded. "Protect the Chasers... Harry says he can take care of himself, let him try."

The rain had increased during their time out, and when the team launched themselves back into the air visibility was cut to almost zero. Harry leapt into the air and sped away as quickly as he could. He felt more than heard or saw the Bludger tailing him, and in response he leaned over the broom's handle, swiftly reaching its top speed. He flew like a madman, twisting, turning, diving, rolling, and zigzagging so much that were he a less talented flyer he'd no doubt be dizzy. But Harry felt just fine. The Bludger was heavier than he was, and that affected how quickly it could change direction.

Harry ducked under the iron ball and stood his broom on its tail. His feet slid backwards until they rested on the collar that held the twigs to the handle, and with a suddenly upward burst, he climbed suddenly. The Bludger tried to match courses, but couldn't. Instead, it rocketed straight into Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Captain. Harry spun in place and hopped his broom to the side as the ball ricocheted past him on the rebound.

Oliver Wood instantly felt better about leaving Harry on his own.

The rain almost drowned out Malfoy's taunt. "What are you doing, Scarhead? Training for the ballet?" Harry glared at Malfoy over his shoulder and suddenly saw it. The Golden Snitch was hovering just above and behind Malfoy, matching the Slytherin's movements. Harry again stood his broom on end, but this time instead of rocketing upward, he allowed it to fall completely over, effectively turning 180 ⁰ in the space of a few centimeters. Hanging on to the bottom of his broom, Harry knew he likely looked very silly, but in this case, it was the fastest way to perform the maneuver he wanted.

Harry rolled as he swiftly approached his rival. He waited as long as he could before extending his arm to catch the Snitch... the last thing he wanted was for Malfoy to realize what was going on, because the Slytherin boy needed only to reach out... But instead Malfoy's eyes widened in fear as Harry darted toward him. In desperation, the Slytherin dove toward the dirt.

Harry was so focused on the Snitch that he had forgotten about the Bludger. He was rudely reminded when it suddenly impacted his elbow, snapping the bones in his arm. Harry screamed in pain. The shock of seeing his own bones sticking through the sleeve of his Quidditch robes almost made him pass out, but he kept one thought in his head: the Snitch! He could see the Bludger curving back toward him, this time head-on, and he gritted his teeth. Harry allowed himself to fall forward on his broom, and just as the Bludger passes bare centimeters over his back, he shot his uninjured arm out. His fingers closed around the golden ball.

The pain from his broken arm caused Harry to slump even further forward on his broom, and it nosed over into a shallow dive. He bounced off the muddy turf twice before falling off the broom. Harry skidded to a stop, rolling the entire way. Each bounce caused him to scream out in anguish as his injured arm broke again, and again...

Very slowly, Harry brought his uninjured arm up to his eyes; the Snitch was nothing more than a small golden blur. He'd lost his glasses in the impact, and the rain was making his vision worse. He could hear a loud noise... cheering? It sounded as if he was hearing the sound through a very long hose.

A pale round blur topped with a fiery red patch appeared in his field of vision, blocking out the rainy sky. He smiled up at it dimly, not sure what he was seeing. As the blur got closer and closer, he finally could tell that it was Ginny. His Ginny. His smile grew wider.

"... Harry!" Like the cheering, Ginny's voice was coming to him from far away. "... Help is coming, Harry!" He felt her gently caress his face as she kissed him. It was the last thing he felt before passing out.

XxxxxxX

It was the rain that brought him around, despite the pain. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and abruptly realized that what he was looking at was a mass of brightly shining teeth. "No..." he moaned. "Not you... anyone but you..."

"Clearly he's out of his head from the pain. Doesn't know what he is saying." Gilderoy Lockhart bellowed, "Don't worry, Harry... your arm will be fixed in a jiff!"

"No... don't do anything!" Harry cried. Frantically, he glanced around... Ginny had been pushed away by the obnoxious teacher. Fred and George... he couldn't see where the twins were. Oliver Wood and Alicia Spinnet were standing nearby, their worry plain in their eyes.

"Professor, I think you should wait for Madame Pomfrey," Ginny said, tugging on Lockhart's arm.

"Nonsense... it's a simple charm, I assure you... use it all the time!" Lockhart twirled his wand in an overly-flashy manner, and then poked Harry with the tip. A jolt of bluish light shot out of it into Harry's broken arm. Harry clamped his jaws together in anticipation of some horrible new pain... but he was shocked when most of the pain abruptly disappeared. Harry stared down at his arm... which felt strange and rubbery all of a sudden. He had no idea what had happened, but was sure it was bad. He looked at the faces of those around him, and that only confirmed it... something bad had just happened.

"Ah..." Lockhart said, the confidence leaching from his voice. "Yes... well... that... does... sometimes happen." There was a silent moment and the professor was back in form. "Well... what's important, of course, is that the bones of your arm are no longer broken! Now... if you lot would escort Harry here to the Hospital Wing..." Lockhart gestured to the entire Quidditch team plus Hermione, Neville, and Luna, who had just arrived. "I'm sure Madame Pomfrey will have you back in form in no time. No need to worry, Harry! Easily fixed."

The Weasley twins carefully helped Harry regain his footing. He stared down at his arm where it was poking through the sleeve of his robes. It looked, for all the world, like an overstuffed sausage. Gingerly, Harry pulled his arm up and cradled it with the other.

"Blimey, Harry..." Ron asked, incredulous. "What did that bugger do to you?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know, Ron... it doesn't hurt... it just feels very odd." Vaguely, he waggled his arm at the wrist and watched it flop back and forth. "I think he made the bones in my arm disappear!"

XxxxxxX

"What was he thinking? You should have come to me right off!" Madame Pomfrey was in a fine fettle. She'd started yelling mere seconds after Harry and the team arrived, and hadn't let up yet. "Healing broken bones is nothing... I can do that in seconds... but this... well, let me tell you, regrowing entire bones is something else entirely!" She wrenched the door to a metal wardrobe open and began searching through it. "It takes a long time, Potter, and I assure you it will not be pleasant. It's easier for me to give you a Sleeping Potion and have you sleep through the pain. Put those on, Potter." She through a bundle of cotton cloth at Harry, and he only barely managed to catch it one-handed. She turned to the rest of the team. "You lot clear out... there's nothing more to see here. Mister Potter will be fine in the morning. Now shoo!"

Harry's friends filed out, each calling a goodbye or a bland reassurance that he'd be okay. The last out were Ginny, Neville, and Luna. Harry examined the cloth for a moment before realizing that they were a set of striped pajamas. In minutes, the girls were waiting outside of the bed's curtain while Neville helped Harry get dressed. It was especially difficult stuffing the boneless arm into a pajama sleeve. When they were done, they called the girls back, knowing that at any moment, Madame Pomfrey would return and drive the stragglers away from her patient.

"That was harder than I thought... It was a bit like stuffing a sausage casing, I suppose," Neville joked. Harry couldn't help but laugh... he just wished the joke hadn't been on him.

Ginny was fuming. "What was Professor Lockhart thinking? I'm sure Harry didn't want to have his arm deboned. Why didn't he leave well enough alone?" Everyone else just nodded.

Luna broke the silence. "Harry, I wanted to congratulate you on your catch despite the grievous bodily harm you suffered from the Bludger and subsequently plowing into the ground. I'm sure lying down in the mud puddles wasn't a very pleasant experience."

Harry laughed. "No, not pleasant at all... I don't recommend lying down in the mud..."

"At least we won, despite the Poggles getting into the Bludger and upsetting its delicate machinery," Luna observed. "And you flew like a bird..."

"Yeah, that Bludger... it was bewitched or something, wasn't it?" Neville asked.

"I think so... Fred and George think Malfoy jinxed it in revenge for the other day. I wonder how he managed it," Harry responded.

A moment later, Madame Pomfrey rounded the curtain, carrying a white bottle marked "Skele-Gro" and a blue, unmarked bottle that Harry assumed was the sleeping potion. "All right, you three... OUT! This young man has several bones to regrow. It's going to be a rough night for him, and he needs his rest." She poured some of the Skele-Gro into a glass. "Drink this..."

It was, perhaps, the foulest tasting liquid ever to pass his lips. It tasted of moldy socks and fetid swamps and the insole of sweaty shoes, and burned his mouth and throat. He coughed and choked, barely keeping the foul elixir down. Madame Pomfrey watched Harry for a moment... perhaps to make sure the boy didn't vomit the foul potion back up... then handed him the other bottle. "This is a Sleeping Draught, Mister Potter. Drink it down."

Harry up-ended the bottle down his throat and almost choked. It wasn't as outright evil as the Skele-Gro, but still managed to be right horrible... something along the lines of moldy bread mixed with horse's sweat and whatever you could scrape from the bottom of a cage that had been holding an Owl suffering from dysentery. He felt the effects of the Sleeping Draught as almost immediately his eyelids got heavy and his body began to numb. He gave the blue bottle back to Madame Pomfrey carefully... he wasn't sure about controlling his good hand just then.

XxxxxxX

The Heir of Slytherin crept from one shadow to the other. His intended destination was the girl's bathroom on the second floor. The increased diligence of the teachers and prefects, caused no doubt by his murder of the filthy Squib caretaker, was making it difficult to simply walk about at night. Casually, the Heir remembered the same sort of thing happening the first time he opened the Chamber, when he had directed Slytherin's pet to kill the Muggleborn girl, Myrtle.

He'd quietly left the Gryffindor common room, glad at last to be shed of that mouthy punk with the camera. The idiot didn't know how lucky he was... his endless chattering to the Heir's host had almost reached the final nerve, and the Heir had been mere seconds away from cursing the boy. Luckily patience had won out, and the filthy Muggle had revealed his plans to sneak into the Hospital Wing to visit the injured Harry Potter.

Potter had been the subject of much thought, recently. The Heir still could scarcely believe an infant had defeated the greatest wizard the world had ever seen. It was unfathomable... and yet it was apparently true. But the more the Heir studied the Potter boy, the more it became clear that Potter was extraordinarily powerful; at least as powerful as a young Tom Riddle... the Heir shuddered at the thought of the name... was at age twelve. And while Potter was ignorant of much of the Wizarding world, it had become apparent after several classes that spell knowledge wasn't an area of ignorance.

The Heir still didn't know how an infant had defeated Lord Voldemort, but he did know this: having an adult, fully-trained Harry Potter as an enemy could potentially be as spectacularly dangerous as having Dumbledore as one. It thus behooved the Heir to make sure Potter never reached the "adult, fully-trained" stage. And he knew just what to do to lure the Potter boy into a trap.

He stopped for a moment, half-hidden by a suit of armor, and watched as the idiot Defense teacher sashayed down the corridor away from him. To think that he's a pureblood... the arrogant prat is actually checking his hair in the reflection from a suit of armor. The thought came unbidden to him that perhaps it might be a good idea to expand some of his target list... not all purebloods would be useful in Voldemort's perfect world...

The useless git of a teacher disappeared, and the Heir was about to step out of the shadow when he heard a voice behind him. "Well, well, well... what do we find here, fellows... looks like the Weasel is out for a midnight stroll..."

The Heir turned and sneered at Draco Malfoy and his ever-present henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle. "If you know what's good for you, boy, you'll turn that yellow tail of yours and run back to your beds." His voice was low and gravelly, much deeper than Ron Weasley's own voice. It should have served as a warning, but of course it was lost on Malfoy.

"Oh yeah? And what will you do if we don't? There's three of us, Weasel, and only one of you... where's Potter? Off shagging your sister? Oh, wait... your sister doesn't do boys, does she? She's more into that blonde lunatic who always tags along after Potter..." Malfoy smirked. "Are you that way, too, Weasel? Are you looking for some bloke to have a bit of fun with? A bit of slap and tickle? What do you know, fellows? Weasel's a poof just like his sister's a..." That was all Malfoy got to say. The accusations of deviant behavior against the Host's sister... or even against the Host himself... didn't bother the Heir at all. No, it was simply the need to not be discovered.

Ever since he had discovered his wizardly nature, the young Tom Riddle had purposefully avoided living like a Muggle as much as possible. But that didn't mean he didn't remember his hardscrabble life in the orphanage, when he had to fight for every right, privilege, and dignity he could. In a flash, the Heir had leapt forward, smashing his fist into the blond arse's nose. As the Malfoy boy collapsed to the floor in pain, the Heir had spun and kicked the Goyle boy right in the stomach. Goyle collapsed, the air driven out of his lungs from the force of the kick. Seeing two of his friends go down so easily, Crabbe froze. It was clear he had no idea what to do without Malfoy's direction, or Goyle's support. It gave the Heir a chance to draw the Host's wand.

Doing magic was a chore with the wand... it had been clear the first time the Heir had tried that Ron's wand was a hand-me-down. It took a bit of struggle to get the thing to answer, but eventually answer it did. The Heir Stupefied Crabbe, then summoned ropes to tie the three together. With a smile, he vanished their clothing and used a sticking charm to make them even closer than the ropes allowed.

"And to think you're supposed to be the best Slytherin's produced this year, Malfoy. My, have the standards fallen," the Heir whispered. He silently Obliviated the three boys, leaving them in the middle of the hall for the next teacher to find... though there was a small, childish part of the Heir that hoped they weren't discovered before the normal student traffic filled the hall.

With a cruel snort, the Heir began his trek to the girls' bathroom again. He would enter the chamber and retrieve Slytherin's pet... and after that, he had a rendezvous with Mister Colin "Won't Shut His God-Damned Muggle Mouth" Creevey...