Imagine Knowing Me :: Chapter Three (3/7)

[fannyt]

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven

CHAPTER THREE


pencer threw himself into one of the high-backed chairs in the Common Room, glaring at Malfoy. What a complete and utter prat. He was as subtle as a brick and, Spencer sometimes thought, probably as intelligent. What kind of idiot said things like You’ll be next, Mudbloods? Was he even aware of how many friends he had just insulted? Spencer looked over at Blaise Zabini, who he knew for a fact was half-and-half, and saw that Zabini had chosen to place himself with his back turned on the knot of students talking excitedly around Malfoy. So that probably meant no, then. It could also have been a deliberate jab, of course, but Malfoy usually seemed rather keen for Zabini’s approval.

Mudblood. Now there was an expression only used by the most ignorant of pure-blood freaks. If there had actually been any truly pure-blood families these days, they would have about as much chins as wits (that is to say none) and perhaps ten toes between them, if they were lucky. There wasn’t a wizarding family still alive that hadn’t married Muggles somewhere down the line. If they hadn’t, the inbreeding would have killed off the lot of them much more efficiently than the Muggles’ pathetic attempts at witch-burnings.

Brendon had been uncharacteristically silent since the incident in the corridor, but now he turned to Spencer.

“Spencer,” he said slowly, “what does Mudblood mean?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Spencer stared at Brendon, who looked back with that annoyingly innocent expression. “You must have heard the word before.”

“Yeah, I have, but no one would ever tell me what it means,” Brendon insisted. “What does it mean?”

A sudden cessation of noise made Spencer glance away from him. The rest of the Common Room, or at least the part of it closest to them and most importantly the group around Malfoy, had come to a sort of standstill. Spencer clenched his jaw. So that’s it, he thought. You want me to pick sides.

“It’s an insult. Mudblood means someone who is Muggle-born,” he said, loud enough for all the surreptitiously listening ears. “It’s a filthy thing to say. Dirty blood, see? Only idiots think there’s something to it, though.” There; side picked.

Brendon contemplated this for some time, frowning. “Yes, it doesn’t sound nice,” he determined eventually.

Spencer blinked. Well, that was interesting. He could see the wheels turning in several other students’ heads, too, and Malfoy was looking livid.

Maybe this had been Brendon’s plan all along, he thought. Play nice to Malfoy for a while, then start moving against him? It would make sense, and it would also explain why there had been more and more niggling little comments against Malfoy lately, with Brendon starting to contradict him openly.

Spencer wasn’t sure whether to feel thrilled or scared at the prospect.




ince Halloween, the school had talked of little but the attack on the caretaker’s cat, Mrs Norris. The theories about what had caused the attack had had been many and varied, but by now all agreed that it was the work of Slytherin’s Heir, who had opened something called the Chamber of Secrets and with the help of a monster was rooting out everyone of impure blood from Hogwarts. And impure blood, apparently, meant that you were Muggle-born or Squib.

Ryan hadn’t been sure how Mrs Norris fit into this-could cats be Muggle-born?-but then the rumour had spread that the attack was actually meant for Filch. Within days, every student knew what Filch had been able to hide for most his adult life: that Filch, although born into a magical family, had no magic of his own at all. Filch was a Squib. In any other circumstances, having the whole school find out like this might just have broken him, but with his cat lying Petrified (at least she wasn’t dead; Professor McGonagall had come round to inform them of that), he had other things on his mind. A small comfort.

The problem was, thought Ryan, that Filch was so very hard to feel sorry for. Ryan would have liked to-he knew that Brendon did, for example-but when Filch had that very morning threatened him with detention for wearing a too-brightly-coloured scarf, Ryan’s charitable feelings had very quickly evaporated.

Right now, Ryan was sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room, writing an essay about the use of candle wax in Banshee Banishment. He despaired of it receiving the praise it deserved, but he was hexed if he’d write a sonnet to Professor Lockhart’s Banishing skills, especially one containing-he looked in disgust at his homework instructions-’at least two of the following adjectives: dazzling, stupendous, breath-taking, heroic...’ for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Around him at least six separate conversations about the Chamber of Secrets were being held; one discussing what kind of monster was likely to be held in the chamber, another worrying about how pure of blood one needed to be to be entirely safe from the Heir’s cleansing.

Ryan had always been good at organising and compartmentalising, and he’d learnt early on to be aware of his surroundings while at the same time concentrating fully on whatever he was doing. This ability to read the world around him at the same time as the words in front of him was what enabled him to hear Hermione Granger telling her friends about something called Polyjuice Potion. He’d heard them talking for a while, discussing the Chamber like everyone else, and hadn’t paid any closer attention until his ears registered something he found very interesting.

“It transforms you into somebody else,” said Hermione to her friends. “Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins.”

Or Ravenclaws, thought Ryan, his head rushing with the sudden possibility. I could change into a Ravenclaw.




he second attack followed only a week after the first, and this time the victim was a student.

Up until then, it had all seemed like a game, almost a joke, even if it was an unpleasant one. No one had taken it very seriously, and then the long-awaited first Quidditch match of the season had finally come and driven all else from their minds. Brendon had had a wonderful time, even if he thought he’d have enjoyed it even more if he’d been able to sit with Ryan and Ginny, as originally planned. Spencer had discouraged him from that idea.

“You can’t sit with the Gryffindors,” Spencer said. “You’ll be shunned, and they with you. And you can’t bring them here. You know someone will accidentally drop Bluebell Flames on them or something.”

“They will?” Brendon asked.

“Right,” Spencer said with finality, as if Brendon had just agreed with him.

So Brendon had settled for cheering Draco and the team on with the rest of his House, now and again applauding a particularly nice Gryffindor swerve-Harry Potter was indeed very good on a broom-and earning himself strange looks from his House mates. He had eventually concluded that one did not applaud the opposite team at all (at least not if the team was Gryffindor) and had promptly ceased to do so. He had looked over towards the Gryffindor stands a couple of times and had been pleased to see Ginny sitting with Ryan. For a while he’d been afraid she would fail to turn up for the match, just as she had the last couple of Fridays. He’d glanced at the Ravenclaws, too, and found that Luna had appeared to be cheering both teams on simultaneously. (She later explained that she couldn’t know which team she preferred until after she’d seen them play, after all.)

The match had come to an end that was several kinds of disaster-personal for Harry Potter, who’d had his arm first broken by a Bludger and then deflated, it appeared, by Professor Lockhart; and game-wise for Slytherin, who’d lost the match when Potter grabbed the Snitch off Draco’s head. Or at least so it had looked to Brendon-he’d been shouting along with several others around him for Draco to just look up... but either their voices had combined into a mass of indiscernible noise or the sound from the stands was muted somehow, because Draco hadn’t realised. Brendon had felt bad for him. He’d probably been embarrassed.

Despite the loss, the night had ended in a Common Room party-several students had bunkered up with treats, anticipating a win, and it was a shame to let good Butterbeer go to waste, after all. The morning after, however, had been all but pleasant. Professor Snape’s voice had echoed around the dorms that Sunday at eight thirty, summoning them all to a House meeting, and as they gathered in the Common Room, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired-several older students wincing at sudden noises-he’d told them the news.

A Gryffindor boy had been found Petrified early that morning, without doubt attacked in the same manner as Mrs Norris.

No longer a game or a mystery, the Chamber of Secrets and its unknown, mythical beast was suddenly a sinister reality. People started to walk to their classes in groups, and the students weren’t the only ones made excessively jumpy by the vague threat that now seemed to lurk behind every corner. When Shamas Aslam arrived late for their Charms lesson one day and threw back the door so violently that it slammed against the wall, Professor Flitwick jumped high enough to look the same height as the shorter students. Three fifth-year Slytherins had taken to holding lessons in basic defence magic in the Common Room at night, muttering that it was idiocy to let first-years walk along corridors possibly occupied by monsters armed only with the knowledge of their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor’s favourite shampoo.

People talked about the Chamber of Secrets all the time now, but when Brendon sometimes tried to join in the conversations held in all corners of the Common Room, they would come to a complete stop. People would look at him and mumble things like “talking about nothing important” until he walked off to sit with Spencer or Draco, and almost as he turned his back he would hear whispers start up again. He knew they were probably doing it to be nice, avoiding talk of the Chamber and its victims in front of him. They probably thought it would be painful for him to listen to discussions about it. The Petrified boy was Colin Creevey, and most people knew that he and Brendon had been friends, at least at the start of term. Brendon started receiving presents, too, little tokens of goodwill from House and class mates. He wished they wouldn’t be that considerate, however. The stop in conversations made him feel outcast, even though he knew that was probably not the intention, and the concern and the cheering-up-gifts made him feel guilty. He and Colin hadn’t been that close, after all, not for several weeks.

The concern would have been better aimed had it been meant for Ginny. Colin hadn’t been her very closest friend in Gryffindor since she had started hanging out with Ryan, but they had still talked a lot and they had been regular Charms buddies. She burst into violent tears when Brendon caught her in the library one afternoon and asked her how she was doing, and ended up sobbing into his shoulder as he hugged her awkwardly (trying to ignore Madam Pince’s disapproving cough). He patted her on the back until she seemed to calm down a little and then followed her back to the Gryffindor Common Room. The Pink Lady flatly refused to let him enter with her, but Ryan came out to talk to him once Ginny had retired to her dorm, and he confided that she’d been in a brittle mood ever since the news of Colin had reached them via her brother, late Sunday afternoon.

Neither of them had any idea of how to best handle the situation. Brendon sent a message to Jonathan, hoping he was better equipped to deal with their friend’s tears and more welcome in the Gryffindor tower than himself, and went back to a Common Room that seemed increasingly alien-filled with whispers and murmured debates in which he had no part.




ince the time Jon had more or less tricked him into coming along to the library for the study group, Spencer had found himself spending every Friday there. The second time he’d gone to show Jon that he made his own choices, and was not only manipulated by his friends. The third time he had gone because he’d been completely stumped for a theoretical Charms problem that even Brendon could not help him with-Brendon was not a very good magical theorist, even if he managed the actual magic well enough-and he had to concede that Ross was quite an accomplished Charmer.

Now he found himself in the library for the fourth Friday in a row, and he was forced to realise that it had quickly become a habit to save up the more difficult problems and head towards the fourth floor as soon as Transfiguration finished. He was a bit disgruntled at how this one had panned out, however. For the first time the group was complete-Weasley had joined for the first time in weeks, and Brendon had been stuck to her side since she walked through the door. Ross had claimed Jon. They were mumbling about something Potions-related on the opposite side of the table, several large and stained tomes open in front of them.

This meant that Spencer was stuck with Lovegood, who was currently holding forth on the best way to trap Chizpurfles. Oddly enough, these were creatures that actually existed-a rarity in Lovegood’s conversation. He was trying to tune her out.

He glanced furtively over at Brendon. Looking at him now, as he carefully showed Weasley the wand movement used for a Switching Spell, it was difficult to believe the rumours that had been whispered about him the last week or so. Spencer didn’t think it had spread to the other Houses yet, but at least among many of the Slytherins, the general belief was now that Brendon was the very best candidate for the Heir of Slytherin.

Spencer didn’t want to believe it, but the trouble was that it made so much sense. Brendon’s cutesy act could have been designed as a means to throw off suspicion, and the way he wormed himself into every other House-well, what better way to find out the heritage of his fellow students? If there was anyone who was likely to be walking around with a complete map of people’s blood status in their head by now, it was Brendon. And all the first-years knew about his falling-out with Colin. They hadn’t sat together in class for well over a month.

Brendon, of course, acted as if he didn’t know about the rumours. And that was at least one thing that spoke against there being any truth in it, Spencer thought with something close to relief. If Brendon actually was the Heir, wouldn’t he have done something to discourage the talk? Wouldn’t he have wanted to remain in anonymity, keeping his identity safe? Unless it was simply a clever double bluff, and Spencer had to admit that was also perfectly possible.

“...and then you just burn the comb,” Lovegood finished. “Or do you think Vanishing it is better?”

“Burning doesn’t help,” said Spencer, stirring from his thoughts. “They survive fire easily-they thrive on Muggle electricity, after all. And Vanishing them isn’t effective either. If you don’t like the ready-to-use potions, your best bet’s a charm-there’s a good description in Dratted Doxies and other Household Pests.”

“Oh, that is helpful,” Luna said vaguely. “You know a lot about Chizpurfles.”

“We have a kennel full of Crups and Spell-seeking Spaniels. Of course we have Chizpurfles. It’s a bit trickier when they nest in feathers, though. What did you have trouble with?”

“Hm? We don’t have any Chizpurfle infestations,” Lovegood said, as if the idea was a very odd one indeed.

“But-”

“It was just an exercise in pest regulation theory,” said Lovegood calmly. “I think it’s very interesting to see if you can arrive at solutions that would work, don’t you?”

Spencer looked over at Jon and tried to silently beg for rescue.




re you sure it even exists?” Jon asked, shutting another book with a sigh. Ryan nodded absent-mindedly.

“Yes, I heard Hermione Granger talking about it.”

“But we’ve looked through all the books on Potions the library has,” Jon insisted. He was getting bored, and he wanted to show Spencer a trick he’d learnt in Transfiguration the other day.

Ryan frowned, biting his lip. “Not all,” he said slowly. “I know at least one more. It’s going to be pretty hard to get hold of... I think I can do it, though.”

“Do you need my help?” Jon asked, suppressing a grin as Spencer looked at him helplessly and inclined his head slightly towards Luna. While Jon liked Luna a lot, he knew well that she came off as very odd to the unaccustomed, and he could see that Spencer was suffering, being stuck with her now.

“No,” said Ryan, still staring thoughtfully off into the distance. “No, I think I can manage on my own.”




onday meant Herbology for their last lesson, after which they were almost always sore and tired. Professor Sprout had been driving them hard for the last couple of weeks. Ginny usually retired to her dorm with a book or her diary until dinner, and Ryan had chosen this as the best day to get the Potions book he was after. The second-years had an early afternoon, and most of them spent the time with Exploding Snap or chess. Hermione Granger, however, saw it as a perfect opportunity to get an early start on the week’s work, and Ryan found her and her friends in a corner of the Common Room, debating ghouls. He placed himself a short bit from them and laid a few Potions tomes open on the table in front of him, then pretended to immerse himself in his work. When he felt that long enough time had passed, he grabbed one of the books and made his way over to them.

“Look, we have one at home,” Ginny’s brother, Ron, was saying. “I think I’d know more than this Lockhart git... Hello?” He looked up at Ryan, raising his eyebrows.

“Hi,” Ryan said awkwardly. “Sorry, I hope I’m not disturbing you...”

“No, it’s OK,” Ron said instantly. Ryan had watched the trio on previous occasions, and knew that Ron always welcomed a distraction from work. “Aren’t you Ginny’s friend? Um. Jonathan?”

“That’s the one in Ravenclaw,” said Hermione, looking close at Ryan. “Ryan, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Ryan. “I wanted to ask Ginny something. Do you know where she is?”

“Haven’t seen her since dinner,” Ron said, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Thanks anyway.” Ryan made to go, and then made a rather good show, he thought, out of catching the name of the book shoved carelessly under Gadding with Ghouls. “Sorry, is that Moste Potente Potions?”

Ron started visibly, Harry looked up suddenly from his parchment and Hermione’s expression turned guarded. Ryan realised he’d have to proceed quickly with his next line of attack.

“The thing is,” he continued, pretending not to see that Ron, very unsubtly, shifted his parchment to cover the book’s title, “I’ve been trying to get hold of that, but Professor Snape won’t give me a signature. I’m doing a comparative analysis of the Strengthening Solution and Empowering Elixir, and I heard the best set of instructions for the latter is in Moste Potente Potions. The recipe in here,” he gestured to the book he was holding, How To Find Courage in a Bottle and Other Practical Uses of Potion-making, which he had borrowed in the library for the very purpose of this little charade, “is not at all as extensive as I would wish for. Who did you get your signature from?”

He knew at once that he had hit the bullseye-he’d seen Hermione soften already at the words “comparative analysis”.

“Well,” she said slowly, and then raised her voice to drown out Ron’s and Harry’s vague noises of protest, “I guess you could borrow our book for a while, since we’re not using it at the moment anyway. I need it back afterwards, though.”

“Really? I can borrow yours?” Ryan allowed himself to look gratefully surprised. “Thank you so much. I’ll only need it for a little while.”

“Are you doing comparative analyses for Potions?” Harry asked suddenly. Ryan cursed inwardly-he’d been hoping none of them would ask that question. He had an answer ready, of course, but there was no telling if they’d buy it.

“Not for Potions,” he said. “This is just for extra-curricular studies.”

There was a pause, and then;

“Have the book,” said Hermione, putting Moste Potente Potions in his hands with a bright smile. “I hope your analysis goes well. And if you like, I’d be very interested to discuss what you find.”

Ryan suppressed a sigh. He’d have to do the analysis now, it seemed. Oh well, it was a small price to pay.

“Sure,” he said, trying to look as pleased as he did not feel. “That would be great. Thanks for the book.”

As he started copying out the most important instructions for Polyjuice Potion from the book, he reflected that at least the book actually did have some pretty good instructions for making Empowering Elixir. Now all he had to do was find the recipe for Strengthening Solution.




pencer sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He’d been naming stars for the best part of a half hour.

“Why do we always leave the star charts till last?” he asked. Brendon laughed, sitting back from his own chart and rolling his shoulders.

“I know, it’s so boring,” he said. “I wish there was some way not to have to do it manually.”

“Figure it out and you’ll be the most popular person in our year,” Spencer said wryly, then reflected that in some ways, that scenario wasn’t very far from the truth already. He sighed again, stretched out his quill to dip it in his ink pot and missed by half an inch, causing the ink pot to tip over the edge of the table and smash against the floor.

“Circe’s-” he swore, leaping to his feet, but before he had time to do anything Brendon waved a hand at the mess. Tiny splinters of glass rose like a swarm of glittering insects and came together, forming back into the pot. While Spencer stared in shock, ink spattered into it, leaving the pot half full.

“I’m really bad at cleaning things up, sorry,” Brendon said apologetically, flicking his quill to indicate the pool of ink still staining the floor, “but I tried to get as much ink back in the pot as I could.”

Spencer stared at him. “What did you just do?

“I mended the pot,” said Brendon. His expression went from pleased to uncertain as Spencer continued to stare. “Did I-do something wrong?”

“You used-” Spencer began far too loudly, then stopped. He looked around himself quickly and then sat down again, leaning over the table to bring his head closer to Brendon’s. “You used Dark Magic,” he hissed.

“Yeah, but-”

Spencer hushed him angrily, and Brendon lowered his voice before continuing. “Dark Magic is just magic without wands. Natural magic. It’s wild, but it’s not bad magic. My mum told me so.”

“I know that!” Spencer made a face, annoyed. Sometimes it was like Brendon thought he’d had no home education at all. “But it’s still dangerous. And difficult to control-you can’t just-it’s-people train for years to be able to use Dark Magic properly!”

“Apparently I conduct magic really well,” said Brendon, absurdly calm.

Spencer gaped at him.

“We discovered it when I was about six,” Brendon went on, still acting as if this was nothing of great importance. “It wasn’t so obvious when I was little-all my siblings used to do stuff when they were little, too-didn’t you? Things like making things break when you were angry and stuff?”

“Of course I did,” Spencer said. “Everyone does that. It’s just natural magic finding its way out. It stops eventually, and it doesn’t mean you should start training the kids in Dark Magic!”

“Yeah...” Brendon looked embarrassed. “It was a little more than just breaking stuff, for me. Once I got a little older, things used to go,” he hesitated, “sort of really wrong.”

“Wrong how?” Spencer asked, horrified.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Brendon said earnestly. “Once they realised that my magic was the way it was, I started spending the summer holidays with my aunt Gwen near Falmouth, and she taught me how to control it. And I really made progress-the last flood they had was two years ago. Well,” he added thoughtfully, “there was one last summer in August, but I’m pretty sure that didn’t have anything to with me.”

“You start floods when you’re upset?”

“Used to,” Brendon said, with a hint of reproach in his tone. “I trained. I can control it now.”

“You don’t just control Dark Magic,” Spencer tried. “It’s kind of uncontrollable-it’s-that’s why we have wands! To remove us from that magic, to hem it in and make it-”

“Aunt Gwen doesn’t have a wand,” said Brendon. “She’s never had one. Almost a third of the kids in her village didn’t even go to Hogwarts when she was young-they learned magic at home. Wandless and wordless. Aunt Gwen says she can’t understand why anyone would willingly tether their magic they way everyone does these days. I sort of understand her,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s a lot more difficult to get wild magic to work for you. For most people it’s probably easier to work with wands. You sort of get part of the job done for you. I don’t know, though. Sometimes it just feels so weird to use a wand. Sort of like-like picking something up with tongs when you could just as easily use your fingers. You know it works, but you feel as if you’re further away from what you’re doing.”

Spencer couldn’t really believe what he was hearing. The Uries had just earned another score of oddness points in his books (considering the amount they already had, this was almost impressive). “Don’t you care how dangerous it is?” he tried.

Brendon shrugged. “For me, not as dangerous as not learning it, Mum said. It’s like magic people trying to live completely Muggle. You can’t do it. The magic will always find its way out somehow, so it’s better to use it with some purpose. That way you still have control over it.”

He gave Spencer a tentative smile, and Spencer realised that although he was still in shock over the way the Uries had treated the apparently natural disaster waiting to happen that was Brendon, he was actually impressed, too. This was the most eloquent he’d ever heard Brendon be, and he guessed that it had to with the four years of thoroughly exploring and discussing the matter of his magic with his aunt and, presumably, the rest of his family. He had to admit, too, that from what he’d seen of Brendon’s powers so far, he did seem to know what he was doing with them. A lot of little oddities that had puzzled him over the course of the year were now starting to make a lot more sense.

There was one other thing that made sense, too, however, and one that worried Spencer, since it fitted neatly in with a theory he was actually quite desperate to have proven wrong. He smiled back at Brendon, not having the energy to continue the discussion right now, but as Brendon flashed him a grin and bent over his star chart again, his own smile faltered.

If the stories were true, the way to open the Chamber of Secrets was to use Dark Magic. With the way the Daily Prophet and other newspapers were now using the expression-to describe what they perceived as bad or evil magic-Spencer hadn’t attached much importance to this part of the legend. Now, however, he thought that maybe the Heir had to be someone who could tap into the natural magic enough to open the Chamber.

Someone like Brendon, in short.




yan put away his broom in the school locker and hurried up towards the castle before Brendon could grab him. He felt a bit guilty about it, but thought that he and Brendon would go flying that Saturday as usual, anyway. At this time, Ryan had a more important place to be.

He hurried up the flights of stairs towards the Ravenclaw Tower, but turned aside before the final stair up to the Ravenclaw Common Room and arrived instead at a large class room, partitioned into smaller booths by screens and curtains. Many of them were occupied by students making potions or practising spells, and one booth had a huge plant covered in purple flowers growing in it, spilling over into the booths on either side (both unoccupied, for natural reasons).

Ryan had debated for a long while where to make the Polyjuice Potion, since it had to be brewed over a month and he thought that neither Professor McGonagall nor his dorm mates would appreciate him brewing slightly illegal potions in his bedroom. Finally he had asked Jonathan if he had any ideas.

“Why don’t we just use the student laboratory?” Jonathan had asked.

“The what?” Ryan had said, after a pause.

“The laboratory-there’s this old class room just before you start on the stairs to our Common Room, where we’re allowed to do experiments and things on our own time. It’s divided into booths, so you don’t share your area with anyone. Luna’s trying to grow something called Dirigible Plums in hers. Don’t you have a laboratory in Gryffindor?”

“No,” Ryan had said bitterly, wishing more than ever that the Sorting Hat had done its job properly and put him where he belonged.

“Then how do you do experiments out of class?”

“We don’t.”

Jonathan had realised then that he was touching on a sensitive matter, and had quickly gone on to explain that all Ravenclaw students were allowed to use the laboratory as they wished, but it was considered polite to inform the others if you planned to use one booth more than a couple of days. He had then arranged to claim one booth for himself until the Christmas holidays. If all went well, they should be finished with the potion by then. They had decided to work on the potion together on Tuesdays after Ryan’s Flying lesson, agreeing that if anyone asked what they were doing, they could blame their shared Astronomy lesson that midnight. Apart from Tuesdays they divided up the important days in the potion’s conception between them.

Ryan now made his way over to the very back of the room and found Jonathan already in their booth, stirring the cauldron carefully. He looked up and smiled when Ryan entered.

“It’s still on schedule,” he said. “I checked in on it yesterday afternoon, and it turned yellow as I watched. Did you manage to get hold of Bicorn horn?”

Ryan drew a small bag out of his pocket triumphantly. Jonathan punched the air.

“Awesome! How did you get it?”

“My mother had some at home, and she sent to me this morning.”

“She didn’t ask why you wanted it?” asked Jonathan, sounding amazed. Ryan shrugged.

“I told her it was research. OK, so if you start stirring counter-clockwise instead, I’ll add the powder.”

Jonathan acquiesced, and together they watched as the potion slowly turned greener and greener, ending up a vibrant emerald colour when all the Bicorn horn had been added.

“It looks so pretty like this,” said Jonathan. “It’s almost a shame we have to keep adding stuff to it, isn’t it?”

“But it doesn’t work now.”

“I know, but it looks nice. So what’s left? We still have to get the Boomslang, right?”

Ryan hesitated. “Yes,” he said eventually, “and that’s a problem. I can’t get it from my mum, and I can’t buy it by Owl Order-you have to be of age for that. I was hoping I’d be able to get hold of it somehow, but I really don’t know how. And we’ll need it within a week.”

“Why don’t you get it from Professor Snape?” asked Jonathan, as if this was not an insane, not to say suicidal, suggestion. Ryan stared at him.

“Professor Snape?” he asked. “You’re suggesting I ask Professor Snape for the ingredients to complete my illegal potion?”

“Oh, not you,” Jonathan said, adding a bit more knotgrass to the cauldron. “But Brendon could probably get it for you. Professor Snape seems to like him. And Brendon likes you; I’m sure he’d do it if you asked him to.”

There was no inflection at all in Jonathan’s voice, but Ryan still stared hard at him, trying to discern if there was any mockery in Jonathan’s gaze. Jonathan only looked innocently back, however, and Ryan grudgingly conceded the point.

“All right, I’ll ask him,” he said.




rendon couldn’t wait for Christmas. All the family would gather at their house, and relatives would start pouring in around the twenty-second. There would be Christmas cookies baking in the oven all day long and all kinds of different candy being shaped and decorated-Aunt Muriel would barricade herself in a corner of the kitchen and make enough Chocolate Tadpoles to fill a pond. Matt and Kayla would bring home a tree, and all the kids would help decorate it with fairies and crackers. The house would be filled with light and noise and people.

By contrast, the Slytherin Common Room was turning more and more into a very gloomy place indeed. People talked more and more within their own groups, and the mood was heavy. Even the Christmas decorations looked drab. Brendon felt sorry for the students that were spending Christmas break at the school-one of them Draco. Brendon had already asked if Draco wanted to come with him back to Dartmoor, but Draco had declined. He was going to have a great time at Hogwarts, he said. And if he was looking glum it was only because bloody Potter was staying as well.

Ginny was staying, too, but she at least had most of her family with her. It was hard to tell how she felt about it-she was still pale and withdrawn, even though she had been coming to study group meetings again lately. Something felt off, but Brendon didn’t know what.

And then there were all the people wishing him Merry Christmas all the time. It was nice, he supposed, but it made him feel sort of guilty. He had received Christmas presents from several people in his class and in a class or two above, and he didn’t have anything to give in return. When he’d told them this, they’d all said something on the lines of “happy just to have you know we support you”. He had no idea what they meant and was getting increasingly anxious and frustrated about the whole thing.

He just wanted to go home.




ockhart should die a slow and painful death, Spencer thought, bent over double and wheezing hard with a hand pressed to his solar plexus. Starting a Duelling Club was all fine and a good idea, but before letting students duel each other, Spencer would have thought detailed instructions for Shield Charms ought to be the first on the order of business. Surely even the most moronic of teachers should be able to see that demonstrating the Disarming Charm once was not enough to allow students to practise it on each other. A few feet away from them, Harper-who always struggled with the Latin pronunciation-appeared to have turned his practise partner Snicket into some kind of slug.

In a way, Spencer thought, he should probably consider himself lucky. After all, he’d at least been allowed to practise with a friend-unlike Malfoy and Potter, who were both on their knees and glaring daggers at each other. Whatever spells they had cast on each other, Spencer felt sure that the aim had not been to merely disarm. Then again, he thought sourly, still attempting to suck more than a mouthful of air at a time into his lungs, he might have preferred even that over practising against someone who’d been trained in Dark Magic since the age of seven.

“I’m so sorry!” Brendon was saying, patting him awkwardly but rather hard on the back and inadvertently adding greatly to Spencer’s discomfort. “I don’t really know what happened... I was startled by your Disarming Charm, I guess, and I suppose I sort of...”

Brendon’s Shield Charm, unspoken and unheralded by any kind of wand movement, had hit Spencer so hard it had felt like a head-on collision with the Hogwarts Express. If this was what it was like duelling against Brendon when he was your friend, Spencer was extremely sorry for whatever enemies Brendon might make.

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” Lockhart was calling from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

Not the issue here, Spencer thought bitterly. Teach Brendon to stop unconsciously Shielding everything I throw at him though, that might help.

With the apparently well-meaning but not particularly helpful assistance of Brendon, he eventually managed to straighten up, only to find that Malfoy and Potter had been chosen to demonstrate the next technique-another fine example of disastrous teaching. Letting two students demonstrate the Charm they themselves were there to learn was bad enough. Picking two students who hated each other for this was worse. And if Lockhart was blind enough to have missed this fact, his “assistant” for the day, Professor Snape, knew full well of the enmity between Malfoy and Potter.

Then again, from what Spencer could tell, Professor Snape mostly seemed to be there because he enjoyed watching Lockhart make a complete mess of the lesson.

“Three-two-one-” Lockhart shouted.

“Don’t Draco and Potter really dislike each other?” Brendon said beside Spencer. “Do you think it’s a good idea to-”

And then the screams started.

Malfoy had just conjured a snake, large and black and extremely menacing-looking. It was raised up as though to strike, head swaying from side to side. It seemed to be fixing its gaze on Potter, who was standing transfixed in the middle of a steadily widening space, but that didn’t stop the rest of the students from backing away madly. Spencer was pressed in tight next to Brendon as the crowd pushed further and further away from the angry snake, and soon he couldn’t hear or see much of what was going on at all. Someone stepped on his foot, and he swore.

“What in Merlin’s-” he began angrily, then heard Lockhart’s unmistakable voice crying,

“Allow me!”

“Allow him what?” Spencer asked, alarmed. The little he’d seen of Lockhart’s magic had not given him a favourable impression of the professor’s skills. “Allow him what?”

“He’s going to-” said Brendon, who had a better view through a gap in the press of bodies. His words were cut off by a bang. “Oh, no, I think he just made it angrier...”

The screams redoubled and the press around them became almost unbearable-there was a terrible hissing somewhere in the direction of where the snake was-and then silence spread slowly through the ranks of students. People stopped moving.

“What happened?” Spencer whispered to Brendon, who was frowning, trying to peer ahead.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” someone shouted ahead of them, and then a Hufflepuff boy who Spencer thought was called Finch or Flinch something came barrelling through the crowd. He pushed his way past them roughly, elbowing Brendon in the ribs in his hurry to get past. Potter and his friends followed a little while later in his wake, having an easier time of it since people all but jumped out of their way when they passed.

“What happened?” Spencer asked again.

“Didn’t you see?” said Zabini, who’d been standing a little in front of them.

“If I saw, I wouldn’t be asking,” Spencer pointed out testily. His breath was still coming short, and it wasn’t entirely without pleasure he saw that Brendon, too, was now wincing, a hand pressed to his side.

“Potter is a Parselmouth,” Zabini said, his expression a mix of glee and astonishment.

“He was talking to the snake, chasing it towards that Hufflepuff,” Aslam elaborated. He was taller than most in their year and appeared to have had a good view. “He was trying to make it attack, but Professor Snape stopped it.”

“A Parselmouth,” Zabini repeated. “That’s actually pretty amazing.”

“I know, it seems so cool,” Brendon said, grinning. “My aunt Blodwen made an agreement with the grass snakes in her garden to keep the garden gnomes away. Not by biting them or anything, of course,” he added quickly, “but just by scaring them a little. Hissing and being menacing and stuff. Besides, their venom can’t get through the skin of gnomes anyway. She gave them milk for it, and she said it worked really well. Ow, that actually really hurt.” He winced again, prodding his ribs carefully.

There was a bit of a pause, during which Spencer could almost hear the other discussions around them grinding to a halt. Then Zabini asked carefully, “You have Parselmouths in your family, too?”

Brendon nodded. “Aunt Blodwen is the only one who can really talk to snakes, though,” he said. “Aunt Mairwen can speak the language, but she doesn’t get along with them as well as Aunt Blodwen. She’s more of a Kneazle person.”

Their conversation came to a stop, then, with Lockhart declaring the Duelling Club meeting over for this time and telling them all to return to their common room. As Spencer followed Brendon out of the Great Hall, he heard snippets of phrases and muttered sentences from the Slytherin students around them.

...Parselmouth...

...pushed him...

...not much for Finch-Fletchley’s chances...

...Muggle-born, too...

It was true, he thought uncomfortably. If he had been certain that Brendon was indeed the Heir of Slytherin, he wouldn’t bet on Finch-Fletchley, if that was actually the name, being safe for very much longer.

***

When Justin Finch-Fletchley was found the day after, Petrified, Spencer didn’t know what to think.




livia Chung caught Ryan just before he was about to leave the Gryffindor Common Room. She was a shrewd girl-nice enough, but with a tendency to trick people into doing chores for her. Since she was cute, she mostly got away with it.

“Ryan, you know Brendon, right?” she said.

Brendon, Ryan noticed. Not even Brendon Urie. Brendon. He made a non-committed noise.

“That’s great.” Olivia smiled winningly at him. “Because I have this Christmas present, and I was wondering if you’d give it to him from me?”

“Why don’t you give it yourself?” Ryan asked, not feeling at all charitable.

“Ooh, no, I wouldn’t dare,” she answered promptly, looking awed at the thought.

Part of Ryan wanted to ask her why-if she was awed at the very thought of talking to Brendon directly-she thought she was intimate enough with him to give him Christmas presents. He was in a hurry, though, and simply agreed to bring the present instead of starting a discussion about it.

He didn’t understand why Brendon still encouraged them. No one in their right mind could possibly believe he was actually the Heir of Slytherin, and Brendon knew that he wasn’t, but he still allowed the rumours to spread. Outright denial wouldn’t have worked, of course, but surely there had to be some way to quench the stories.

Maybe he just liked getting gifts.

When he finally made it to the library, he found Brendon at their table, staring at a Christmas card in apparent bemusement.

“Here,” Ryan said shortly and tossed Olivia’s Christmas present onto the table, aware that he was probably unjustly irritated. “From Olivia Chung in my class. Another one to add to the list of admirers.”

“Chung?” Brendon stared at him. “But I’ve never even spoken to her! Why would she give me a Christmas present?”

Ryan opened his mouth to snap that he knew full well why, didn’t he, and then saw that Brendon’s expression was indeed one of honest bewilderment only. “You mean you actually don’t know?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Know about what?”

“Look, you-” Ryan began, hesitated and sat down opposite Brendon before continuing, “When did people start being extra nice to you?” And seeing Brendon’s forehead wrinkle in puzzlement, he added, “When did you start getting presents and things?”

Brendon’s face cleared. “After Colin was Petrified,” he said.

“Didn’t you wonder why?”

“Because we were friends,” Brendon said, but he was beginning to sound a bit uncertain. “Although it’s strange, because people were even more kind to me after the Gryffindor ghost and Finch-Fletchley were attacked, and I hardly knew either of them at all.”

“Finch-Fletchley was the one who elbowed you at the Duelling Club,” Ryan said. Brendon frowned.

“But then why would people think... that...” His voice trailed off.

“People don’t think the ones that have been attacked are your friends,” said Ryan, as gently as he knew how. “They think they’re your enemies.” And then, because Brendon was frowning darkly and did not seem to want to follow the thought to its end, “Some people believe you are the Heir of Slytherin. They think you’re cleaning out the Muggle-borns, starting with the ones who annoy you.”

Brendon’s expression changed from mutinous to aghast. “But-why?” he said, bewildered. “Why would-what have I done to-why?”

Ryan frowned. He wasn’t entirely certain how those rumours had got started, himself. To him, there was probably no less likely candidate for the Heir. “You’re very good at magic,” he suggested. “Maybe it has something to do with that. And everyone knew that you and Colin stopped talking halfway through the term.”

“But that wasn’t me!” Brendon exclaimed, looking desperate. “That was him. He stopped talking to me.”

Ryan shrugged. “I know,” he said. “But maybe other people didn’t?”

“What should I do?”

Ryan was forced to shrug again. “I don’t know. Either there’ll be no more attacks, or there’ll be attacks that hopefully don’t have anything to do with you. In either case it’ll probably blow over.”

Hopefully, he added to himself. But it was difficult to say. Rumours, once they got started, had a momentum of their own. And even if he couldn’t understand how this one began, Ryan realised that maybe, it would be very hard to stop it now. Harry Potter was currently doing a great job of looking very guilty indeed, but in the long run no one would believe he was actually the Heir; he was altogether too defensive. By neither denying nor confirming the rumours about him, Brendon on the other hand looked much more likely, Ryan realised.

And denying everything now would of course only rather confirm the suspicions. Blast. The only thing he could think of was to hope for the whole thing to settle down by itself, but with the way Brendon was staring unhappily down into the table, Ryan really wished there was something more proactive he could do to help.

Well, maybe there was something.

“When we’re done with the assignment,” he said, “do you want to go for an end-of-term flight?”




he flight with Ryan did something to lighten Brendon’s mood, but he was still feeling pretty gloomy when he returned to the Common Room. He still had everything to pack for the train ride home the next day, too.

“Urie!” Draco called as he walked through the door. “Come here!”

Brendon waved back and walked over slowly, his mind still filled with what he had learned that day. “Hi, Draco,” he said. “I put the brooms in the broom cupboard as usual. Thanks again for letting us borrow them.”

“You’re always welcome to them,” said Draco magnanimously, then waved a hand at his two friends Crabbe and Goyle. “Crabbe, Goyle, you can go,” he said.

Crabbe and Goyle obediently rose from their seats and wandered off towards another corner of the Common Room. Draco gestured to one of their chairs, and Brendon sank gratefully into it. The fire was bright and warm, and felt very nice after an hour of flying in the rather bitter wind.

“Suppose you’re looking forward to going home,” said Draco after a while. Brendon nodded fervently.

“I can’t wait,” he said, then blushed. “I mean, it’s nice here and stuff, but I miss my-” mum and dad was on the tip of his tongue, but when Draco was staying at school all by himself he felt a bit odd saying it and instead he settled for, “dog.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “And things have been sort of strange here for a while, right?” he said. “What with the Chamber of Secrets and everything. It’s weird knowing you’re probably in class with the Heir of Slytherin or something, and not knowing who it is.”

Brendon blushed again. “I’m sure it isn’t anyone in my class,” he said nervously. “I mean, I would know, right? I’d probably be able to tell somehow. I don’t think the Heir of Slytherin is someone who could pass for being your friend, and all the while opening the Chamber of Secrets without you knowing.”

“But whoever is the Heir of Slytherin is probably really skilled in Dark Magic,” said Draco thoughtfully. “They could probably trick a lot of people.”

“I think their friends would know, though,” Brendon insisted, hoping that this was true. His real friends had to know he wasn’t the Heir. “I mean, they’d have told their friends, right? The people close to them, they would know. They’d be in on it. I don’t think you could keep it to yourself.”

Draco was looking at him thoughtfully, but now his face opened in a smile and he leaned closer to Brendon’s chair. “I’m glad we had this talk,” he said.

“Oh.” Brendon blinked, confused. “Yeah. Um. Me, too.”




yan woke early on the twenty-first of December. He had already packed most of his belongings, and he lay for a while still in his bed, listening to the breathing of his fellow dorm mates and the occasional soft snore. Finally he got up, thinking that he could look over once more which books he could leave at school and which needed to be brought home with him.

He lit the candle on his night stand, and then he noticed the parcel. It was wrapped in simple brown paper, and there was a roll of parchment attached with string. Ryan unrolled the parchment, grinning with glee when he recognised Jonathan’s round handwriting. The end of term had been hectic, and since Jonathan was closer to the laboratory, he’d offered to oversee the finalisation of the Polyjuice Potion.

Done yesterday evening, just in time, the note said. I got these flasks from a House mate. If kept in the dark, they should keep the Potion fresh and potent for over a year. I already put my hair in one of the flasks-put your hair in the other and get it back to me when you can. The House Elves are really helpful with things like that, did you know?

See you on the Express!

His fingers shaking slightly, Ryan quickly unwrapped the package. Two glass flasks tumbled into his lap, one filled with a sunny yellow liquid and the other apparently containing mud. He recognised the latter as the Potion just before the last ingredient-something of whoever you wanted to turn into-was added, and he opened this flask, carefully pulled out a couple of hairs from his scalp and dropped them in. The Potion hissed and frothed, and then turned a sky blue colour.

Ryan scrabbled in his night stand for some parchment, glad he had decided to leave some at school, and wrote a quick note for Jonathan, as an afterthought adding a Merry Christmas at the end. He stoppered the bottle again and attached the note, then turned his back and said, softly but clearly, “I would like this to reach Jonathan Walker, Ravenclaw first-year.”

He sat still until he was certain that he had given them enough time-his mother had taught him never to try and catch glimpses of the House Elves, since they would have to punish themselves if they were ever seen-then turned and nodded in satisfaction. The flask was gone.

With reverence he wrapped his own flask of Polyjuice Potion in his spare robes and laid it gently in his trunk, making sure it lay secure and with no risk of getting broken during the train ride home. They’d have to wait until after Christmas break to test the Potion’s effects, but Ryan was one step closer to getting into his rightful House.

No matter what Christmas gifts he received now, he thought, he had at least one he would treasure for a long time to come.

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