Harry yawned and glanced exasperatedly down at Colin Creevey, who decided despite the fact it was the crack of dawn, thought that Quidditch practice would be an exciting endeavour. Harry on the other hand had to force himself not to do anything drastic: such as ermanently sticking the minuscule first year to the wall.

“You were the youngest seeker of the century weren’t you? Eh?”  

Harry rolled his eyes heavenward. He had already answered that question at least six times; perhaps if he ignored the excitable kid he would just go away.  

“I heard your dad was on the Gryffindor team in his day. Must get it all from him? Where did you get your broom? Is it your own? Can I fly it?” 

Colin must have seen his dark scowl because he took the hint and started asking his questions in a more sedated pace. “Have you ever gotten hurt? Broken something? Have you injured someone else on an opposing team? Is there a lot of blood and guts in Quidditch?” 

Harry stared into the space in front of him, his emerald eyes glazed over as he pretended to listen to Colin Creevey’s inane prattle. A part of him wished he could make the little Gryffindor shut up but immediately Harry began to feel a tad guilty. Unspoken Gryffindor Rule Number One: Never pick on a First Year. Harry thought that the rule was ridiculous because now that he was in second year he was vulnerable to the ilk of Percy Weasley who seemed to delight in pointing out all his faults.  

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts away from Percy Weasley, annoying first years and Gryffindor Rules. Instead he thought back to the meeting with ‘Cyrus’ in the green house the night before.  Cyrus had been quite pleased about something. His dark eyes flashed as he told in great detail how he had gotten to name his twin ‘Saige’.

“And that’s what I shall call you from now on, Saige Snape,” Cyrus said pompously. 

Harry remembered his indignation. “Why?” he demanded. “It sounds like a potion ingredient!” 

Cyrus had been a little put out and explained very slowly as if talking to a village idiot. “A father always names his sons; a mother the daughters. It’s wrong not to have Father name you.” 

“Why?” Harry demanded. He had always enjoyed playing the devil’s advocate. Cyrus didn’t have an answer; but it seemed Harry was stuck with the alias ‘Saige’.

He murmured the name under his breath so Colin – Annoying – Creevey wouldn’t hear. No trouble there the brat was still rattling off questions.  

Harry considered the name and remembered the ‘romantically cute’ story Cyrus had told him about their mother. He would be lying to say he was not curious. Actually Harry was dying of curiosity; Snape as far as Harry could tell was not married nor did he have a partner. Where was his mother? More importantly did she have a name and a face? While living at the Dursley’s he was deprived of knowing Lily Potter’s name and face made him obsessed with needing to know these things. Cyrus the mountain of knowledge of these things could not shed any light on their mother’s identity. 

Having the little toe-rag Creevey tagging along had made Harry late and had annoyed Oliver Wood. Harry pretended to watch Oliver’s early morning presentation of lines and squiggles. But there were too many lines and arrows and shapes that Harry’s tired eyes started to see kaleidoscope patterns.  

After Oliver finished blabbering on about Quidditch tactics and had told everyone how they were to do their job the Gryffindors were marched out onto the field: the grumbling Weasley twins taking up the rear. 

They hadn’t been in the air too long when Oliver swore loudly and swooped to the ground. Harry would never forget that confrontation. 

 Harry would never forget the confrontation that ensued. Nor would poor Ron, Harry thought with a mixture of bemusement and resentment at the slimy Slytherins. Even now Ron was taking regular trips to the toilets to throw up large, thick, slick slugs. Harry sat as far away from his friend as possible, while being close enough to be supportive. Even the thought of those horrid slugs made Harry shiver with revulsion – and he rather thought that his stomach might just revolt at the sight of them. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Harry muttered to Hermione who was watching Ron dash from the Common Room for the seventh time that hour. “I need to think.” 

Hermione nodded wistfully and not getting a verbal answer Harry stood and slipped from the portrait hole. He walked along some deserted corridors and down some stairs that looked like no student had stepped on for the last decade. It looked like a promising place to explore without being disturbed. There were even lacy spider webs in the corners that blew in the castle breeze. 

Taking great care to remember where he had been Harry explored some very old looking classrooms and offices. He had even found an old parchment with lines, ‘I shalt no pick my nose in Madam’s class it isn’t very ladylike.’ Harry folded the lines carefully and stashed them into his robe pockets, who knew when they would be good for a laugh and prosperity before continuing on. 

In one of the lasts classrooms of the corridor Harry was surprised to find that he wasn’t alone.  “Good afternoon, Nick,” Harry said in way of greeting to the Gryffindor ghost, who was looking positively glum. 

“Afternoon yes,” Nick replied glancing down at a transparent letter. Apparently ghosts were able to send each other mail – but their parchment was a clear as they were. “Good no.” 

“Er – you looked troubled.” 

“Yes well apparently I don’t fulfil requirements to join the headless hunt,” Sir Nick pointed out. “But you are only nearly headless,” Harry said and then immediately cursed his tactlessness as Nick stared at him bitterly. “Half an inch – half an inch of skin and sinew. If that! Most people would say that is good and beheaded, but oh no not nearly good enough for Sir Properly Decapitated Podmore!” 

“Well it sounds like you don’t like Sir Podmore. Do you really want to be in his little club?” 

Sir Nick sighed noisily through his ghostly nostrils. “Yes. No. I suppose not.” 

“I wish I could help,” Harry murmured. 

Sir Nick stopped suddenly and Harry not watching at all where he was going stepped through him. Harry shivered violently. Walking through any ghost was like taking a freezing shower.

Nick however was staring at Harry with fathomlessly eyes burning with excitement. “A mortal at my deathday... oh yes... Sir Poddy never had mortals at his deathday,” Nick mumbled  to himself. Harry was not feeling too happy about the ghost rambling and was frantically wondering what he had just got himself into. “There is something you can do for me...”

 Harry let Sir Nick’s words to hang thickly around them and waited partiently for the ghost to continue.

 Harry had ended up dragging both Hermione and Ron to Sir Nick’s deathday party.

“That was the most depressing birthday party I’ve ever been to,” Ron complained as they made a hasty exit as Sir Nick valiantly tried to give an awe inspiring speech over the noise that was the headless hunt. 

“I don’t think it was supposed to be cheery,” Hermione said, her cheeks still had a green hue they had taken when they had smelt the decaying food. 

“Pudding might still be on the table,” Ron said hopefully. 

“How can you think of food after standing near the party tables?” Hermione muttered. 

That was when Harry heard that voice again. 

“... kill... blood...tainted...hungry... thirsty.” 

Harry stopped dead in his tracks for a heartbeat. Once he was certain he knew which direction the voice was coming from, he conveniently forgot about Snape’s dire warning and dashed down the corridor with Hermione and Ron close on his heels. 

“Harry wait!” 

“The Great Hall is the other way!” 

Harry leaned on a wall and pressed his ear to the cold stone. 

“Harry...” Ron started to whinge.  

Harry however silenced Ron with a simple hand gesture and hissed urgently. “Don’t you hear that?” 

“...time to hunt... kill...hungry... no food...so long.” 

“Harry I can’t hear a thing,” Hermoine pointed out unhelpfully. “Perhaps you should just go to bed.” 

Harry shook his head and decided to chance Snape finding out and discover what was behind the mysterious voice that only he seemed to be able to hear. He dashed around the next bend only to come to a screaming halt. Words glistened and gleamed in the torch light. 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.EMEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE. 

Harry edged closer and slipped. Glancing down he realised there was a large puddle of water on the floor. He gulped and pointed needlessly to the horrific words.

“It looks like it is written in...” 

“...blood.” Hermione and Ron chorused. 

“Er... what’s that?” Ron inquired pointing a finger to a dark silhouette hanging from a torch bracket.  

Hermione crept forward slowly and then gave an unladylike shriek and clasped her hands over her mouth. Her chocolate brown eyes were wide with fright. It was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s ferociously loyal cat. She hung stiff as a board swinging slightly like a morbid Halloween decoration. “Happy Halloween,” Harry muttered. “Filch is going to torture us.” 

The trio however, didn’t have time to retreat before half the school came baring down on them. Harry noticed with some consternation that the Slytherins were looking morbidly curious at the strange scene and words. Draco Malfoy even read the words incredulously and eyed Hermione with a smirk. 

“What’s going on here? Outta the way? Shoo!” 

Harry gulped as Filch’s wispy grey head came into view. He would take Snape over Filch any old. Filch’s bulbous eyes scanned the scene to the figure of a now unmistakable outline of the feline hanging stiff as a board. 

“YOU!” Filch hissed surging forward and grabbing Harry collar and hoisting him straight into the air. “You murdered my cat! You murdered poor Mrs. Norris!” 

“Argus a little bit of decorum please.” Harry almost breathed in a sigh of relief as Snape glided through the Slytherin crowd. Almost, the dark potions master was staring at Harry with slitted obsidian eyes. 

Filch slowly lowered Harry to the ground and the young Gryffindor took quick steps away from the murderous caretaker. 

“I suggest that anyone not wanting to be cleaning the dungeons for the rest of term depart now,” Snape said airily and at the same time darting his hand out and pinching Harry’s ear. Predictably students scrambled as fast as they could to their dormitories despite wanting to see what gruesome fate awaited poor Harry Potter. Even Hermione and Ron left with sympathetic yet relieved expressions. 

“Take your frail feline friend to Madam Poppy,” Snape said snidely sneering at the misshapen Mrs. Norris. “Stop snivelling man. She’s petrified not dead. Potter and I are in need of a serious discussion.”

 Snape gave Harry’s ear a painful wriggle before turning abruptly and dragging the young wizard down the now deserted hall. 

“Sir, I...” Harry began feebly, wishing with all his might that Snape would let his ear go from his pincer grip. He thought perhaps some quick damage control might save him from the quite obviously wrathful potions master. Snape gave Harry’s ear a vicious tug in response.  

“Ow!” Harry complained and tried to bag Snape’s fingers away. “That hurts.” 

“Silence,” the older wizard hissed venomously. “You’re lucky I didn’t turn you over my knee in the hall for all to witness.” 

Harry audibly gulped – it was definitely time for damage control. “Sir it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

“Indeed,” Snape huffed. “We’ll discuss that at length in my office.” 

“Sir...” 

“SILENCE!” Snape barked. “Not another word from you.” 

Harry sighed heavily and resigned himself to the fact that he was now officially doomed. Snape, Harry thought bitterly, had already decided that he was guilty and was determined to punish him. Never mind the fact the man was probably relishing the idea of humiliating him. 

Snape however glanced down at his now silent charge. He hated the way he was always so protective of Harry-Ruddy-Potter. He hated the fact that he was always around picking up the pieces for the stupid child of James-too-perfect-Potter. 

Snape barged through his office door and practically shoved Harry at the corner. “Nose to wall and don’t think of moving.” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled somewhat mutinously staring at the brick wall. He hated the way that his gut clenched in the ominous silence that followed. It was almost like Snape’s disappointment was tangible in the room.  

‘It doesn’t matter; I don’t care what Snape thinks of me,’ Harry told himself scratching his nose and peering inconspicuously over at Snape who seemed to have started some marking. The man was slashing red ink over some poor Hufflepuff’s essay. But just looking at Snape Harry knew he was kidding himself, although the intimidating Head of Slytherin had no idea, Harry knew the truth. The man was his father... and undoubtedly was going to punish him and his rear end quite soundly. 

Finally, after what had seemed to have taken millennia, Snape pushed his chair away from his desk. “Potter to me.” 

Harry dragged his feet but found himself in front of the dour potions master.  

“You heard the voice again,” Snape commented. Harry grimaced and nodded feebly, just wishing that Snape would just get it over and done with. “You pursued said voice.” 

Harry stared at his shoes listening to his breath as it came too quickly. 

“An answer in this century would be greatly appreciated.” 

“Yes sir,” Harry mumbled miserably. ‘What was it with adults making you feel more miserable than you already were before punishing you?’ Harry though with disdain. 

“Even though we had discussed the punishment for pursuing the voice,” Snape continued in his quiet silky voice. 

“Yes,” Harry almost squeaked, wishing that he had the guts to outright lie to the head of Slytherin. If it had been Professor McGonagall he would have tried it; but Snape seemed to know when you were lying before the words were out of your mouth and Harry knew that Snape hated lying. 

“Well...” Snape continued. Harry glanced up there was decidedly something off in Snape’s voice. “I fully intend to keep my promise.” 

Snape’s hand shot out grabbed Harry’s waist and before Harry could mentally count to three he found himself over Snape’s knee. The younger wizard surprised how right he was in his assumption; Snape’s knees were bony. 

Slap!  

Harry yelped in surprise. Snape’s hand did not relent, more stinging swats ensued landing on his upturned bum at a rapid pace. Snape wasn’t just good at potions Harry realised biting on his lips to stop his sobbing; the man possessed a firm hand and was very good at delivering a spanking. Harry would even take a pummelling from Dudley over a spanking over Snape’s lap.  

It wasn’t until Harry counted to at least thirty swats and he was sobbing, that Snape’s voice interrupted the rhythm of swats. 

“If concern over your own welfare, Mr. Potter, will not stop your foolish stunts perhaps your concern over your backside might.” 

Harry tried to wriggle free in the interlude, but Snape had pre-empted him and caught him firmly before delivering six harder swats in very quick succession. Embarrassed Harry found himself yelping, squirming and crying harder than he’d thought he could.  Snape merely raised one knee.

“Be thankful you did not lie to me like you were thinking about doing,” Snape commented. “A full dozen of the ruler I think would do you well.” 

“Noooo,” Harry whined and wriggled; despite having promised himself he would not beg Snape under any circumstances when the man had started. 

“I don’t think you are in the position to argue,” Snape commented wearily before bring the ruler down; hard. 

Harry mentally counted the swats and by ten he was sure he was howling. Snape finished the spanking with two last swats and set the young Gryffindor on his feet.  

“Give thanks that you are not a Slytherin,” Snape told Harry sternly steering him through the door and towards some sinks. “The most I can do to you is smarten your trouser pants with a ruler.” 

Harry gulped heavily and swiped his face quickly free himself from any trace of tears. He was very thankful that Snape did not know that he was his father. He had a strange feeling he would be seeing the dungeon floor over Snape’s lap often, if the man knew. He did not want to even contemplate being spanked on the bare over that man’s lap. The man was a tyrant! 

“Wash up and back to your lion’s den,” Snape commanded before turning away with billowing robes, “And Potter I will not hesitate to give you a full spanking with my ruler if the circumstances warrant it.”