“So what do you think?” Hermione asked as she twisted a lock of thick hair around the tip of her finger.

She had posed the question generally, but her eyes remained fixed on Harry who was sitting on the stone ledge next to the fireplace, his head propped up by his cupped hands, elbows resting heavily on his knees. The boy’s eyes were glazed over and were focused lazily without intent at the knobby material of the small sofa in the common room.

A brief pause.

“Harry?”

Receiving no answer, the girl became instantly impatient. She huffed and leaned forward.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, raising her voice and emphasizing the stern inquiry with a sharp clap so close to his face that her fingertips almost clipped the end of his nose.

Jerking spasmodically, Harry instinctively threw his head back stiffly away from the noise. His eyes were wide.

“What?” the boy responded a bit more loudly than necessary, “God, Hermione, I hate when you do that…” he continued, his demeanor suddenly shifting to annoyance. Harry combed his fingers clumsily through his hair

Hermione ignored him.

“Well?” she pressed on with habitual relentlessness.

“Well, what?” Harry asked flatly, his right hand straying to his mouth as he spoke. He nibbled on his fingernails.

Hermione sighed again, but this time, Ron spoke up:

“Focus, mate…”

Snapping his head toward the unfamiliar command, Harry gaped in disbelief at Ron as the red head proceeded with the “suck-up” routine that he often employed after a quibble with Hermione.

“You complete—“ Harry began, but was cut off.

“Harry, watch your language,” Hermione prematurely scolded.

Harry stared at the sharp-tongued girl with a mixed expression of mirth and befuddlement.

“Are you kidding me?” the boy retorted quietly, “I didn’t even say anything yet…”

She titled her head as she gave him a stern look, “But you were thinking it, weren’t you?”

“Er…no…”

Ron snorted, “Yeah, whatever, mate.”

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head with an amused huff, Harry sat on his hands to prevent any further disapproval from Hermione, as his fingers itched to throw a rude gesture in Ron’s direction.

Hermione took a deep breath and repeated herself a bit more placidly, “The plan, Harry. What do you think of it?”

Inwardly, Harry smiled at his friend’s ability to block out the potential confrontation between the two boys and bring the intent of the conversation back in focus.

“I think it’s really good,” he stated earnestly.

And really, it was a decent plan.

Late that morning, right before lunch, when Hermione had been studying in the library, she had miraculously overheard a conversation between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini who sat huddled at a table toward the back of the room. Malfoy mentioned that his parents were supposed to be sending “something extra” in his usual Friday evening parcel sent by his eagle owl. Hermione wasn’t as concerned with the additive as much as she was with the possibility of tampering with that package. It was risky and a bit dishonest; however, after almost illegally going through with the whole polyjuice potion idea, the girl was up for anything.

“What do you mean by ‘tampering’ with it, Hermione,” Ron questioned doubtfully, “and how will that get Malfoy to start talking about the Heir of Slytherin with the rest of those slimy idiots?”

Hermione glared at the gangly boy venomously, “If you’d stop interrupting me, I could tell you…”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Well, there’s usually a letter sent with Malfoy’s package on Fridays at dinner, right?” Hermione began.

“Yeah…” Harry answered, offering her a prompting nod to continue.

“And the owls all have to wait in the Owlry with all of the packages until five-fifteen, don’t they?” the girl exclaimed, the excitement becoming increasingly evident in her voice.

“Right…”

“So,” Hermione continued, shaking her bouncy hair back off of her shoulders, “if I wait in the Owlry until then, I may be able to open and read the letter—kind of bad, I know—she replied with a grimace, “but if everything works out up until then, I can alter some of the words in the letter, or add a part from Lucius, that tells Draco to discuss what he knows about the Heir of Slytherin with Zabini or Nott…secretly tomorrow night in the dormitory or something…”

Ron looked incredulous.

“Merlin’s pants, Hermione, Malfoy’s a git, but he’s not stupid. I mean, good plan and all, but you’ll be lucky if his owl doesn’t tear your hand off!” Ron all but shouted.

“Shhh! You’ll wake someone up!” Harry whispered emphatically to Ron.

The ginger-haired boy glanced around meaningfully and shrugged.

“Don’t worry about that, Ron,” Hermione chided, “I know what to do.”

Ron snorted.

“It might work, Hermione,” Harry replied thoughtfully.

She glanced over at Harry with a vaguely worried look, “I would need to borrow your invisibility cloak before dinner tomorrow night, if that’s all right…”

Harry hesitated for a second, “Yeah, it’s fine,” he said. Harry had never loaned his cloak to anyone before, but he trusted Hermione to keep it safe.

“You could go with me, but you’ve got detention, right?” Hermione asked tentatively as if she already knew that answer.

“Unfortunately…” Harry mumbled.

The common room was very dark now. It had been empty for the past half hour, and despite Hermione’s and Ron’s small outbursts, the three continued to speak in hushed voices. The light from the fireplace flickered erratically causing dark orange shadows to dance around their cheeks as they huddled together.

“We’ll need the cloak again when we sneak into the common room,” Hermione continued, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, “we’ll meet up again after your detention. I probably won’t see you until then, Harry, but I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow night.”

Harry stretched his legs out in front of him and balanced his stiff limbs on his heels as he pressed his palms down flat on the stone ledge as if he were preparing to rise any moment. He looked up suddenly.

“I’ll do it,” Harry replied quickly.

“You’ll do what?” Ron asked, squinting slightly.

Harry stared at his right foot that he’d been rocking back and forth on his heel.

“I’ll be the one to go under the cloak. We can’t all do it,” Harry explained without making eye contact.

“Why not?” Ron retorted. His face began to scrunch up into its usual mask of defensiveness mixed with confusion.

Harry tried to keep his expression neutral. After all, he honestly wasn’t intending to play the hero in this situation. Pragmatically, Harry was the smallest of the three. Even Hermione was an inch taller than he was, embarrassingly enough. And with only one person under the cloak, the plan would run much more smoothly. Besides, Harry still felt that it was his fault that they had to develop a new plan; he didn’t want his friends to be the ones to get in trouble if someone were to catch them.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

Spending time plotting strategies would also help take his mind off of what was currently clogging his thoughts: Harry had heard it again—the voice-like hiss that was so chilling it caused the top of his head to prickle. Even thinking about it now caused shivers to pulse through the boy’s shoulder blades.

Plodding back from detention a couple of hours ago, the icy whisper had caught Harry off guard. It had been days since he had heard it. And although Harry would never admit it, he’d been frightened.

“Well, then what am I supposed to do?” Ron asked after listening to Harry explain his reasoning—most of it anyway.

Thinking quickly as to spare his friend’s feelings, Harry’s brain latched onto an idea:

“You can be the lookout.”

“Huh?” Ron questioned, his voice remaining a bit tense around the edges.

“The lookout, you prat,” Harry repeated jokingly, “to make sure the whole plan isn’t shot to hell…”

Hermione nailed him in the arm with two protruding knuckles.

“Ow!” Harry complained with a laugh, rubbing his upper arm.

Ron smiled amusedly and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“All right,” the redhead said finally, “where’s my post?”

*****************

On Friday afternoon, Harry entered the Potions classroom more uneasily than usual. As always, there was a mingled sensation of dread and dull anxiety settled in the base of his stomach, as Potions was his least favorite class to sit through. However, another unidentified feeling lingered among the usual trepidation. Every preparatory item was positioned in its standard location, and the regular damp gloom that permeated throughout the room was as pronounced as ever.

But the general atmosphere just seemed a bit…different.

Perhaps it was because Harry’d spent more consecutive nights in the dungeons with Snape than he ever had before. Or maybe it was because Harry now knew exactly what type of potions lay within the small cabinet above the sink. Only Harry knew that the legs of the stool in which Millicent Bulstrode was currently banging her heels against was once splattered with the blue-black ink that the boy had used to compose his punishment lines. Maybe that was it.

Or maybe not. However, as the rest of the Slytherins and a few Gryffindor stragglers sauntered into the classroom, Harry forced himself to shrug off the slight aura of unfamiliarity.

He slid into his usual seat between Ron and Hermione and began unpacking his satchel. As Harry dumped a flattened chocolate frog wrapper out of his cauldron and set it on the table, the back door of the classroom banged open as Snape entered in his customary, billowing way, strolling briskly to the front of the room.

“No talking,” the man commanded immediately. However, the imperious tone was quite unnecessary, considering the students had fallen silent at the sharp crash of wood on stone. They always did.

Harry got in a quick roll of his eyes before the professor turned to face the class. A few students continued to wordlessly unpack their school bags, but of course Snape only chided the Gryffindors to hurry up on penalty of deducted points, even though Crabbe and Goyle were the most sluggish ones in the room.

Sitting in his usually slumped stance, head rested against his fist, Harry cracked his knuckles against his temple, and lightly flicked a fingernail repeatedly against the pewter cauldron, consciously focusing on the barely audible ping in order to distract himself from thinking about the injustice of it all.

Okay, maybe nothing’s changed. He is so bloody unfair, Harry couldn’t stop himself from thinking. He cracked another knuckle.

“Today, you will be brewing a potion that produces the opposite results of what most of you clumsily threw together on Tuesday,” Snape sneered as he retrieved his wand from his robes. And with a wave of his wand, the instructions for the day’s assignment gradually appeared on the blackboard next to Snape’s desk.

“Deflating solution,” Hermione whispered, a stray curl tickling the back of Harry’s neck as she leaned in close.

Harry didn’t respond. He knew exactly what Snape was doing.

Can’t the tosspot just give it a rest, Harry thought disgustedly, I get it. I screwed up. The boy continued to produce a steady clang on the cauldron.

But Snape didn’t look at Harry. He simply stalked slowly between the rows of desks as he methodically explained the instructions.

“You have until the end of the class period to finish the solution, bottle it, label it, and place it on my desk. Perhaps I will be able to salvage one or two vials for my storeroom, though I highly doubt many of you even possess the competence to select the correct ingredients from the cupboard,” Snape smirked condescendingly.

As he moved toward Harry, Snape reached out and grasped the boy’s fingers very firmly, without glancing his way, to prevent them from producing any more of a racket against the cauldron.

Harry was so startled by his professor’s sudden movement, that he jerked upright and almost upset his cauldron. Lucky for Harry, it was still empty. That could have been utterly disastrous.

Toward the front of the room, Malfoy let a small snort of laughter escape. Snape snapped his attention toward the blonde immediately, and Malfoy rid his face of amusement. Harry tried to yank his fingers from Snape’s grasp while the man’s focus was elsewhere, but Snape only tightened his grip, almost painfully.

“Begin now,” Snape ordered, as he turned around, his piercing eyes scanning the young students for the smallest remaining trace of jollity.

There was a simultaneous scraping of stools as the students stood to collect the ingredients.

Snape glared sternly at Harry for a few seconds before releasing his fingers roughly, almost tossing them off to the side. But among the bustle, and only fleetingly, Harry caught a glimpse of disapproval in the man’s eyes that made his stomach clench.

However, before Harry could even register the emotion, Snape had turned and stalked off to the front of the classroom. The boy tucked his freed fingers into a fist, rubbing a thumb over his faintly tingling knuckles. Sighing, Harry slipped off of his stool and plodded over to the supply cabinet to see what was left.

******************

Twenty-five minutes later, Harry was stirring his potion continuously clockwise. At this point, the liquid was supposed to be a translucent sea-green and emitting a light eddy of fumes around the rim. Harry’s potion was a denser mint-green; however, it was more accurate than any other potion he’d concocted in the past year and half, and Harry had decided that today he wouldn’t give Snape the satisfaction of watching him royally botch this one up.

But Snape had only slinked by Harry twice during the class period, and both times, he hadn’t said a word. The man hadn’t even patronized him with a disgusted sneer.

Maybe he could tell that Harry had taken the potion like he was supposed to and was rewarding him by taking a break from antagonizing the boy. Harry had barely sniffled all day, but he drank the disgusting crap anyway to avoid an unnecessary confrontation. It wasn’t worth it.

As Harry meticulously stirred, he allowed his mind to drift just a bit. Hermione was concentrating so hard that she’d clamped her tongue between her lips, her face four inches from the cauldron, and Ron was rifling through the text. They hadn’t spoken for several minutes now.

Harry thought about tonight’s plan and whether or not Hermione would be able to pull it off. Truthfully, the more he thought about it, the stupider it sounded, and he began to get nervous.

And on top of all of that, Harry’s thoughts kept straying to the memory of the chilling voices. He hated thinking about it, but every few minutes, Harry’s mind was smothered in bleak fear. He had a feeling deep down that the unnerving echo that reverberated through the stone walls had something to do with the Chamber of Secrets.

But Harry couldn’t piece it together. And he desperately wanted someone else besides Ron and Hermione to know about the voices. Harry was sick to death of the tension that radiated throughout his stomach.

I wonder what Dumbledore would say if I told him, Harry contemplated, Merlin knows he’d probably just tell me to ignore it or something else pointless like that…

Besides, Ron had specifically told him that hearing voices in the wizarding world wasn’t a good thing.

Yeah, well neither is feeling like I’m gonna sick up every half-hour, thought Harry glumly.

The boy’s eyes had locked tiredly on the corner of Snape’s desk, but Harry was too settled in his thoughts to even attempt to shift his gaze.

What if I told Snape? Harry pondered briefly, but shook his head to rid himself of that possibility, He probably wouldn’t believe me.

Only a couple months prior, Professor Snape had almost accused Harry of petrifying Mrs. Norris. Knowing that Harry was hearing something moving and speaking within the walls of the castle would not only cause more suspicion in relation to the boy being the Heir of Slytherin, but it would also more than likely cause Snape to think Harry was a complete nutter.

But things are sort of…different now…aren’t they?

Were they?

Breathing deeply through his nose, Harry wrenched his eyes away from their comfortable, stationary focus. He sat up and peeled his sweaty hand away from the desktop, watching the perfect, damp imprint slowly evaporate.

Suddenly, Hermione’s harsh whisper startled Harry out of the pensive swamp:

“Harry! Your potion!” she breathed, panicked, as she nudged him hard with her elbow to get his attention.

Inhaling sharply, Harry swore under his breath as he surveyed the dark-green, congealed mess bubbling in his cauldron. Hermione slapped his hand away from the stirrer and attempted to salvage the disaster, but Harry could already tell that her efforts would be fruitless.

He’d buggered this up after all.

Harry could sense without looking the looming presence behind him.

“Congratulations, Potter,” whispered Snape in a dangerously quiet tone, “I believe you’ve now digressed below even Longbottom’s level of incompetency.”

Harry didn’t even have to turn around to face Snape to ignite the white-hot anger that threatened to sear his chest. Gritting his teeth so forcefully that his jaw hurt, the boy simply closed his eyes and dug his nails into his palms, wishing emphatically that the potion would somehow combust and deflate him into nothingness…

*********************

The pounding of the soles of his shoes against the stone floor resonated heavily in Harry’s ears. He was so angry when by the end of class that he had run off without even waiting for Ron and Hermione. Harry supposed his parchment was immensely crumpled from the furious way he had crammed it into his shoulder bag, but he didn’t care.

A zero, thought Harry wildly as he stormed down the corridor, an effing zero.

Snape had banished the deplorable solution without a second thought and had stalked away, leaving Harry to stare at the empty cauldron, his cheeks prickling hotly and his pride smarting painfully from the ridicule.

For the last forty-five minutes of the double period, Harry sat stiffly in his stool, chewing on the same fingernail barely responding to Hermione’s sympathetic reassurances.

Harry walked over to the nearest exit, preparing to slam his palms as forcefully as possible onto the face of the closed door to get the hell out of that wing of the castle when a voice from behind made him cringe.

“Harry!” Professor Lockhart exclaimed as he hurried to catch up with the boy.

Oh no no no no no… Harry thought begrudgingly as he turned slowly around to face the man who Ron often referred to as “the biggest wanker on the planet”, inevitably earning quite a pinch from Hermione.

“Have you got a moment?” the professor pressed on, motioning for Harry to follow him “I’d like to show you something.”

As Lockhart turned with a dramatic sweep of his lavender robes, Harry threw his head back and groaned.

“And I thought this day couldn’t get any worse,” Harry muttered to himself as dragged his feet to follow the swaggering, blonde man.

*********************

It was five twenty-seven, and Harry had missed dinner. As furious as he was before he was summoned into the sod’s office, Harry felt like that malice had doubled after he was finally released from a room full of teethy, grinning portraits. A pile of the professor’s personal notes that had been stuffed into novels-in-progress weighed down the boy’s shoulder bag. Harry fought the urge to cram the whole bag into the rubbish bin.

“And with a wave of my wand—like this—I charmed the python and reduced it to nothing but its skin!” Professor Lockhart had mused while demonstrating and finishing off with a flying leap across the blue rug, “…described more in detail in my notes, of course,” he had explained, gesturing toward Harry’s overstuffed bag.

The trip to Lockhart’s office was, as always, a complete and utter waste of time.

And now, as Harry sped quickly to detention, he let fly every bitter, vulgar thought that bubbled up about the two adults who had officially ruined his afternoon.

At five thirty-three, Harry barged into Snape’s classroom, breathing heavily. He was three minutes late, but Harry honestly didn’t care—not today.

It took several great gulps of air before the boy’s breathing began to slow. Harry could hear Snape moving about in the storeroom, but he simply leaned back against the high desk and said nothing. There were several buckets of some sort of dead…creatures…waiting patiently in the back of the classroom.

“You’re late, Potter,” Snape called out from the storeroom, the steely edge to his voice echoing off of the surrounding walls in the cramped space.

Harry jerked a bit in alarm as Snape’s stern voice sliced into the thick atmosphere of the dungeons.

But the boy remained silent; he brought his elbow back to rest on the table behind him, trying his best to appear impervious to the man’s intimidation. Harry’s heart rate had increased slightly, but Harry didn’t think that Snape would be able to tell.

As if materializing out of thin air, Snape emerged from the storeroom, glaring.

“Well?” he snarled. When Snape didn’t receive an answer, he moved forward slowly, “Tell me, Potter, since when have I ever tolerated a lack of response? You will explain your tardiness.”

Harry pressed his back as far as it would go into the edge of the table. Using all of the courage he had, the boy shrugged, his risky impudence causing him to feel jittery.

Snape narrowed his gaze dangerously and continued to close in on Harry. But the boy was unmoved. The professor leaned forward.

“Tardiness is inexcusable, Mr. Potter; it is disrespectful, indolent, and most importantly, it wastes my time.”

Intense heat rushed in waves up the back of Harry’s neck, but he was still too angry to allow himself to disclose the embarrassment, “It was only three minutes…” Harry mumbled, averting his eyes from the dark piercing ones that threatened to impale his.

A shadow passed over Snape’s face.

“Choose your words carefully, Potter,” the man whispered frigidly, “for you are treading on very. thin. ice.”

Harry swallowed and wedged his bottom lip between his teeth. Since when am I not?...

Snape paused a moment longer before continuing in a clipped tone, “If you are late for your final detention tomorrow, you will receive another week’s worth. Is that clear?”

Gritting his teeth, Harry barely nodded.

“Sit,” Snape commanded as he turned and walked over to the storeroom door to close it.

Harry shook his head and glared as he rounded the desk. Climbing onto the stool, the boy hoisted up the bag full of Lockhart’s rubbish and forcefully tossed it onto the table top, thoroughly irritated.

However, the boy wasn’t prepared for the deafening thunk as the heavy bag landed. Nor did he expect the flap to suddenly throw itself back open.

Several books spilled out and slammed onto the stone floor in one loud and florid movement.

Harry froze.

Snape had spun around swiftly. The silence throbbed throughout the room.

“Pick them up, Potter,” Snape finally growled quietly.

“It was an accident—“

“I said pick them up!” Snape roared. And surveying the boy’s immobile state, he added a fierce, “now!”

Harry clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his small chest. He was beyond fed up with being ordered around and belittled. Lockhart had no right to make Harry act out scenes from his bloody books in front of the whole class. And if that weren’t enough, the brainless git had even caused him to miss dinner tonight just so he could pawn off a few of his worthless scribbles to Harry. At the moment, Harry wasn’t exactly sure with whom he was the most furious, but currently, Snape was the one standing over Harry like an enormous bat, and Harry knew that if he didn’t stand up for himself, he’d never be a true Gryffindor.

“No,” Harry stated quietly. And immediately, his legs began to feel rubbery.

Snape’s chest began to rise and fall more rapidly. He looked terrifying. But he continued to speak softly. Deadly.

“That was not a request, Potter. Obey me.”

Harry pressed his lips together, almost painfully, but he shook his head.

“This is your last chance,” Snape warned coldly. Harry blanched. His professor’s entire body radiated with fierce seriousness.

The logical part of the boy’s brain desperately screamed at him to just pick up the damn books. But his defiant side won over once again, and Harry remained in his seat, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands.

As Snape moved forward with brisk strides, something inside Harry snapped.

“Okay, okay!” he cried quickly, hopping off of his stool, and scrambling to gather the discarded volumes, “Okay, I’m doing it—“

But Snape paid no attention to Harry’s last-minute attempt at reconciliation. Rounding the edge of the desk, Snape grabbed the boy firmly by the arm and turned him.

Sensing what was coming, Harry unconsciously arched his back to move his backside out of the line of fire, but Snape’s aim was precise, as he drew his arm back and smacked the boy hard. Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the stinging impact.

Pausing only a brief second to consider, Snape cracked his palm a second time across the same area. Harry emitted a soft, strangled groan at the concentrated burn of the unexpected follow-up.

Snape stopped and spun him around. The man gripped Harry firmly by the shoulders as he spoke.

“Potter, do you honestly wish to discover just how well I keep my promises over something as foolish and petty as this tantrum you’re throwing?”

Harry couldn’t look at him; he was so humiliated.

“No, sir,” the boy replied so faintly that he almost mouthed the words.

Harry, you coward, he scorned himself, scared of a smack…

Just then, Harry felt a firm grip on his chin as Snape forced him to look forward. Snape’s hold didn’t hurt, but he was grasping powerfully enough to squeeze Harry’s cheeks together slightly.

Weakly, Harry tried to pull away, but the potions master retained his solid grip, and Harry gave up his attempt, knowing already that it would lead nowhere.

“What is the matter with you, Potter?” Snape demanded, giving Harry’s shoulder an emphatic shake.

Harry stared at him…The matter?...I’m hearing voices in the walls, Hermione’s tampering with mail in the Owlry, I hate Professor Lockhart, you gave me a zero and embarrassed me in front of the whole class, and now, I’m stuck in detention with you…

The boy attempted to void his face of all emotion, but the act of putting up such a stony façade was impossible. A thick, painful knot formed in Harry’s throat, and he opened his eyes wide to stifle the tears that were forming.

You are twelve years old! Stop crying! You never cry, Harry scolded himself frantically.

Snape gave Harry a strange look as he surveyed the boy’s rigid expression. The man could tell that something was bothering him, but he knew better than anyone that the child’s insufferable pride would suffocate any logical reasoning. Snape could feel Potter’s jaw bulging from his clenched teeth. His green eyes were watery. But the boy wasn’t going to spill a word. They both knew it.

The professor released his grip and pointed towards the stool. Harry obeyed stiffly, hating himself for his weakness.

“Put your head down, Potter,” Snape ordered, “I don’t want anything to do with you until you have controlled your emotions,” the man added as he strolled back around to the front of the table.

Harry gaped at him in shock, Put my head down?...

“I’m twelve…” he croaked, as if that counted for something.

Moving forward, Snape extended a hand and pressed on the back of Harry’s neck until the boy finally gave up and dropped his head to rest on the hand that was splayed on the tabletop.

Snape snorted as he returned to his work area, his disgust toward adolescent angst and arrogance clearly evident, “That is precisely my point, Mr. Potter.”