November 2nd, 1992, 221B Baker Street, London, 11:43 PM
The letter from Harry arrived well past midnight, borne by Hedwig whose snowy feathers were ruffled from the long flight. Ethan had been working in his study, reviewing documents that was prepared to send to the I.C.F, when the distinctive tap of beak against window drew his attention.
He opened the casement immediately with a small wave of his hand, allowing the exhausted owl inside. She landed on his desk with visible relief, extending her leg to deliver the rolled parchment.
"Well done, girl," Ethan murmured, offering her water and owl treats before unrolling Harry's letter.
His dark amber eyes scanned the contents with methodical precision, though his expression remained carefully neutral. When he reached Luna's postscript about the Wrackspurts being agitated, something shifted in his gaze—a calculation being made, pieces falling into place.
"So it begins," Ethan said quietly to the empty room.
He stood, moving with deliberate purpose toward the basement laboratory. Harry had heard Parseltongue in the walls. A hunting voice. Something connected to Slytherin.
Combined with what Dobby had warned about, with Lucius Malfoy planting that diary in Ginny Weasley's cauldron, the pattern was clear.
The Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
And if the Chamber was open, the Basilisk would soon claim victims.
The basement was dark save for the soft glow of enchanted flames that sprang to life as Ethan descended the stairs. He moved through his familiar preparations with practised efficiency—drawing the runic circle, positioning the silver mirrors, lighting the braziers filled with crushed dreamroot and powdered valerian.
Dream Divination was different from his usual prophetic work. More invasive, more dangerous.
Ethan settled into the centre of the circle, his sycamore wand held loosely in one hand, the other pressed flat against the cold floor. He closed his eyes and spoke the incantation with quiet authority.
"Somnia Revelare. Ostende Veritatem. Monstra Secretum."
The world shifted.
Suddenly Ethan was standing in a corridor he recognised—Hogwarts, second floor, near the abandoned girls' bathroom that housed Moaning Myrtle. But this wasn't the present. This was memory, dream, truth filtered through the castle's ancient awareness.
A young girl stood before the bathroom sinks, her red hair unmistakable even in the dreamscape's muted colours. Ginny Weasley. She clutched a battered black diary to her chest, tears streaming down her face.
"Please," she whispered to the empty air. "I didn't mean to. I don't want to hurt anyone. Please make it stop."
But her hands moved independently of her will, opening the diary. Ink bled across the pages, forming words in elegant script:
You're doing wonderfully, Ginny. Just one more task. Open it for me. Speak the words.
"No," Ginny sobbed. "I won't. I can't—"
You already have. Every time. You just don't remember. But you will. You'll remember it all. The rooster killings. The writing on the walls. And tonight... tonight you'll open the Chamber itself.
Ginny's eyes went blank, her expression smoothing into something empty and doll-like. When she spoke, her voice was flat, monotone.
"Open," she said in Parseltongue—though in the dream, Ethan understood the command perfectly.
The sink before her began to move, sinking into the floor, revealing a massive pipe that descended into darkness. The Chamber of Secrets, open once more after fifty years.
The vision shifted, and Ethan saw deeper—saw Tom Riddle's preserved consciousness bleeding through the diary like poison, saw the Basilisk stirring in the depths, saw the threads of fate tangling around Harry and Ginny and the school itself.
And beneath it all, he saw his own calculations bearing fruit. The Basilisk's venom. The narrow window. The chance...
Ethan's consciousness pulled back from the dream, returning to his body with a jolt. He sat in the centre of the runic circle, breathing carefully, processing what he'd witnessed.
'Ginny Weasley is the unwitting catalyst,' he thought clinically. 'Possessed by Tom Riddle's preserved soul fragment, forced to open the Chamber against her will. The Basilisk will hunt. Students will be petrified. And eventually, inevitably, the path will lead to Harry facing the serpent directly.'
Every protective instinct Ethan possessed screamed at him to intervene. To go to Hogwarts immediately, to extract Ginny from the situation, to destroy the diary before more harm could be done.
But the divination had been clear. If Ethan interfered now, it would shift into darker probabilities. Harry needed to face this. Needed to be bitten. Needed those crucial seconds of Basilisk venom weakening the Horcrux before Fawkes arrived with his healing tears.
It was monstrous. It was calculated. It was necessary.
Ethan released a long, shuddering sigh, the sound of a man bearing impossible weight.
Then he pulled out fresh parchment and began to write.
Dear Harry,
Your observations are noted and appreciated. The situation you describe is indeed concerning, and you're right to be cautious.
I cannot intervene directly—there are factors at play that require events to unfold naturally. But I can provide you with tools to protect yourself and gather information.
Enclosed you will find a comprehensive guide to Parseltongue mastery. Study it carefully and in private. The ability to understand and speak the serpent tongue may prove invaluable in the coming months. Practice discretion for this skill is often misunderstood and feared.
Trust your instincts. Trust your friends. And Harry, if you find yourself in immediate mortal danger, use the pocket watch I gave you. It will bring you home.
Stay safe, my son.
With love,Dad
P.S. Miss Lovegood's observations about the Wrackspurts are, as always, remarkably astute.
Ethan sealed the letter along with a slim leather-bound book—The Serpent's Tongue: A Comprehensive Study—and attached both to Hedwig's leg.
"Take this back to Harry," he instructed the owl. "And Hedwig? Watch over him. He'll need all the protection he can get in the coming weeks."
Hedwig hooted softly, as if understanding the gravity of the situation, then launched from the window into the night.
Ethan stood alone in his study, staring out at the London darkness. Somewhere north, in a castle filled with secrets and danger, his son was walking into a trap that Ethan himself was allowing to spring.
'For the greater good,' he thought bitterly, the phrase tasting like ash.
But it didn't make the decision any easier to bear.
November 7th, 1992, Hogwarts Grounds, Quidditch Pitch, 7:34 AM
The Gryffindor Quidditch team trudged toward the pitch with the exhausted determination of soldiers marching to war. Most were still half-asleep, their eyes bleary, their movements sluggish despite the crisp November morning.
Oliver Wood strode at the front, his eyes blazing with manic enthusiasm, a large roll of parchment tucked under one arm and what appeared to be a model Quidditch pitch balanced precariously in his other hand.
"—and if we execute the Plumpton Pass whilst maintaining a fifteen-degree angle on the Sloth Grip Roll, we can create an opening for the Chaser triangle formation, which naturally leads into the Hawkshead Attacking Formation, assuming Katie and Alicia maintain proper spacing whilst Angelina draws the Keeper's attention to the left hoop, at which point—"
"Oliver," Fred Weasley groaned, "mate, it's seven-thirty in the morning. On a Saturday!"
"We appreciate the tactical analysis," George added, "but some of us are still technically asleep. I'm sleep-walking right now! This is a dream..."
"Quidditch never sleeps!" Oliver declared with the fervent intensity of a man possessed. "Champions are forged in the early morning hours when lesser teams are still in bed!"
Ron, walking beside his brothers, looked particularly wretched. His face had gone slightly green, and he clutched his gifted broom like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"He woke us at four," Ron muttered to Harry and Hermione, who'd come along to watch practice. "Four in the bloody morning. Drew out this massive tactical diagram on a chalkboard he'd somehow smuggled into the common room... I don't think he's slept in three days."
"He's a madman," Fred confirmed.
"A beautiful, terrifying madman," George agreed.
"The best kind of madman," they finished together, though their hearts clearly weren't in the usual synchronisation.
Luna, walking beside Harry with her dreamy serenity seemingly immune to the early hour, tilted her head. "Oliver has quite a few Wrackspurts buzzing about his ears. The obsessive kind. They feed on singular focus and insufficient sleep."
"That explains so much," Hermione said, struggling to stifle a yawn.
They were perhaps fifty feet from the pitch when they spotted the Slytherin team already assembled on the grass, their green robes stark against the frost-touched ground. But something was different about their composition.
Theodore Nott stood amongst them, wearing Slytherin Quidditch robes and holding a Nimbus 2001—the latest model, its handle gleaming with silver inscriptions. He smirked when he spotted the approaching Gryffindors, his sharp features arranged into an expression of smug superiority.
Oliver stopped dead, his tactical enthusiasm evaporating instantly. "What are you lot doing here? We booked the pitch for seven-thirty."
Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain—built like a troll and possessed of similar intellectual capacity—stepped forward with a piece of parchment. "We've got a note from Professor Snape. Says we can use the pitch this morning to train our new Seeker."
"New Seeker?" Oliver's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "What happened to Malfoy?"
"Malfoy's father withdrew his equipment sponsorship," Theodore said smoothly, examining his Nimbus 2001 with affected disinterest. "Something about focusing family resources elsewhere. Fortunate timing, really—it opened a position just when I happened to be available."
Harry, from his position slightly behind Oliver, he could see the entire picture clearly. Lucius Malfoy hadn't just withdrawn support—he'd deliberately sabotaged his own son to make room for Theodore Nott, who'd presumably been plotting to replace Draco all along.
'Clever,' Harry thought darkly. 'Get Draco removed from the team, claim the Seeker position, all whilst making it look like coincidence.'
"You can't just take our practice time," Oliver protested, his Scottish accent thickening with anger.
"Take it up with Professor Snape," Flint said with a nasty grin. "He signed the authorisation himself. Come on, Nott. Let's see what that fancy broom can do."
The Slytherin team swept past the Gryffindors with deliberate arrogance, Theodore pausing to smirk directly at Harry.
"Looking forward to our first match, Weasley," he drawled. "I'll try not to humiliate you too badly. Wouldn't want you to cry."
"Shove off, Nott," Ron growled.
But Theodore's attention had already shifted to Hermione, who stood beside Luna near the edge of the group. His eyes narrowed with calculated malice.
"Well, well. Granger. Come to watch real wizards play Quidditch?" His voice carried clearly across the grass, drawing attention from both teams and the scattered students who'd come to watch practice. "Or are you hoping some of their talent might rub off on you? Though I suppose that's unlikely... Mudbloods rarely excel at anything requiring natural magical ability."
The word hung in the cold morning air like a curse.
Silence fell. Even the Slytherin team looked uncomfortable, several of them shifting their weight and avoiding eye contact. Using that particular slur in public, in front of witnesses—it crossed a line that even many pure-blood supremacists hesitated to approach openly.
Hermione's face had gone pale, then flushed bright red. Her hands trembled slightly where they clutched her school bag, but she stood her ground, chin raised in defiance despite the obvious hurt in her brown eyes.
Around them, whispers started. Giggles from some of the Slytherin students. Shocked gasps from others. The word "Mudblood" rippled through the gathered crowd like poison spreading through water.
Harry felt rage surge through him, hot and overwhelming. His green eye seemingly flashing with Accidental Magic, but Luna's gentle grip on his arm stopped him.
Yet, Ron was already moving, his face purple with fury, his wand whipping out with surprising speed.
"Eat slugs, you slimy git!" Ron roared, jabbing his wand toward Theodore. "Slugulus Eruc—"
However, Theodore was cunning—that had always been his defining trait. He'd anticipated retaliation, had his own wand ready, and with a sharp twisting motion, he deflected Ron's spell with a hastily cast shield charm.
The curse rebounded, striking Ron squarely in the chest.
Ron's eyes widened in horror. His mouth opened, and a fat, glistening slug slithered out, dropping to the grass with a wet plop.
"Oh no," Hermione gasped.
Another slug. And another. Ron tried to speak, but only more slugs emerged, each one larger and slimier than the last. He doubled over, retching, as his backfired curse forced him to vomit an endless stream of the disgusting creatures.
Theodore laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "How fitting. A blood traitor spewing slugs. Perhaps you should keep better company, Weasley. Might improve your spell-work."
"That's enough!" Oliver roared, but Theodore and the Slytherin team were already walking away, their laughter echoing across the pitch.
Harry dropped to his knees beside Ron, who was now on all fours, slugs pouring from his mouth in a steady, revolting stream. Hermione had tears running down her cheeks—whether from the slur or from seeing Ron's suffering, Harry couldn't tell. Luna produced a conjured bucket from somewhere, positioning it under Ron's mouth with her usual practical dreaminess.
"We need to get him to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said shakily.
"Hagrid's is closer," Harry replied. "Come on. Fred, George—help me get him up."
The twins, their usual jovial expressions replaced with cold fury, each took one of Ron's arms. Together, they half-carried, half-dragged their younger brother toward Hagrid's hut, leaving a trail of slugs in their wake.
November 7th, 1992, Hagrid's Hut, 8:12 AM
Hagrid opened his door to find a bedraggled group on his doorstep—Ron still vomiting slugs into Luna's conjured bucket, Hermione tear-streaked and shaking, Harry radiating barely contained fury, and the twins looking murderous.
"Blimey!" Hagrid exclaimed. "What happened?"
"Backfired curse," Harry explained tightly as they bundled inside. "Ron tried to hex Theodore Nott for calling Hermione a—for using a slur. The spell rebounded."
Hagrid's beetle-black eyes went hard. "That Nott boy's always been a nasty piece of work. Come on, get Ron sat down. I've got something that might help."
The hut was warm and cluttered as always, Fang the boarhound immediately bounding over to investigate the commotion. Hagrid bustled about, pulling various bottles from shelves whilst muttering under his breath about "rotten pure-blood attitudes" and "need a good thumping."
The door opened again, and Draco Malfoy slipped inside, slightly out of breath.
"Heard what happened," he said without preamble. "Brought proper supplies."
He pulled a small leather case from his robes, opening it to reveal neatly organised vials and medical supplies. "Slug-Vomiting Curse reversal requires a specific counter-agent. Standard protocol is letting it run its course, but that takes hours. This—" he held up a purple potion, "—will neutralise it in about ten minutes."
"Where'd you learn that?" Fred asked, eyeing Draco with new respect.
"Uncle Sam insisted I study field medicine," Draco replied, already measuring out a dose. "Said knowing how to treat curse effects was as important as knowing how to cast them. Ron, you need to drink this between slugs. Try to time it when there's a gap."
Ron, looking utterly miserable, managed to gulp down the potion during a brief respite. Almost immediately, the stream of slugs began to slow.
Whilst they waited for the counter-agent to take full effect, Hermione sat hunched in one of Hagrid's oversized chairs, her arms wrapped around herself. The hurt from Theodore's slur was written clearly across her face—the public humiliation, the giggles from onlookers, the casual cruelty.
Luna settled beside her, not saying anything, just being present. Harry took Hermione's other side, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently.
"He's a git," Harry said quietly. "And he's wrong. You're brilliant, Hermione. Blood status doesn't determine worth. Never has, never will."
"I know that intellectually," Hermione whispered. "But it still hurts. Especially with everyone watching. Everyone hearing it. Some of them laughing..."
"Those who laughed revealed their own character," Draco said, carefully monitoring Ron's symptoms. "Not yours. You're a skilled witch, Granger. Top of our year in most subjects. That threatens people like Nott, people who've built their entire identity on the accident of their birth. So they lash out, try to diminish you. Don't let them succeed."
Hermione looked up at Draco with surprise. Coming from a Malfoy, even this reformed, Sam-mentored version, the words carried unexpected weight.
"Thank you," she managed.
Hagrid, who'd been listening whilst preparing tea, set down enormous mugs for everyone. "Yer a credit ter Hogwarts, Hermione. Don' let anyone tell yeh different. An' as fer that Nott boy—" his expression darkened, "—bullies always get what's comin' to 'em eventually."
Ten minutes later, Ron was finally slug-free, though he looked exhausted and slightly green around the gills.
"Never," he croaked, "never again. Next time I'm just punching him."
"Next time, we help you aim properly," Fred said.
"So the spell hits the target," George agreed.
"Instead of bouncing back," they finished together.
Despite everything, Hermione laughed—a watery, shaky sound, but genuine. And in that moment, surrounded by friends who'd rallied immediately to support both her and Ron, the sting of Theodore's slur began to fade, replaced by the warmer knowledge that she wasn't alone.
November 12th, 1992, Various Locations, Hogwarts
Harry had been studying the Parseltongue guide Ethan sent with intense focus, practising in private whenever he could find isolated spaces in the castle.
The book was comprehensive, covering not just the sounds and grammar of Parseltongue, but the mindset required. "The serpent tongue responds to intent as much as phonetics," one passage read. "You must think like a serpent—patient, watchful, attuned to vibrations and heat."
Harry practised the sibilant hisses, the elongated vowels, the particular inflections that differentiated "friend" from "food" in snake speech. It felt strange, the sounds emerging from his throat with an ease that suggested this ability was deeply ingrained in his magical core.
However, if he could use it to gather information, to understand what was hunting through the castle—then it was worth the discomfort.
He was walking back from one such practice session, the Parseltongue guide hidden in his enchanted satchel, when he heard it again.
"...blood... I smell blood..."
Harry froze in the corridor, his heart hammering. The voice was closer this time, more distinct. And it was moving—sliding through the walls with that same sinuous quality he'd heard before.
"...so hungry... been so long... kill... must kill..."
Without thinking, Harry began following the voice. His hand moved to his wand, gripping it tightly as he tracked the sound through increasingly empty corridors. Most students were at dinner; the castle was eerily quiet.
"...there... yes... perfect..."
The voice stopped moving. Harry rounded a corner near the second-floor girls' bathroom and stopped dead.
Water covered the floor, spreading from beneath the bathroom door. And there, lying rigid in the middle of the corridor, was Mrs Norris—Filch's beloved cat.
She hung suspended from a torch bracket by her tail, her body stiff as a board, her yellow eyes wide and staring. She wasn't dead—Harry could see the faint rise and fall of her chest—but she was completely petrified, frozen mid-yowl.
On the wall beside her, written in what looked horribly like blood, were words that made Harry's blood run cold:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
"No," Harry breathed. "No, no, no—"
"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?"
Filch's voice cracked like a whip. The caretaker appeared at the end of the corridor, his usually sallow face going purple when he spotted Mrs Norris.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY CAT?" Filch roared, advancing on Harry with his fists raised. "YOU'VE MURDERED HER! YOU'VE KILLED MY CAT!"
"I-i d-didn't—I j-just f-found her—" Harry stammered, backing away.
But more people were arriving now, drawn by Filch's shouting. Students poured from the Great Hall, teachers appeared from side corridors. Within moments, Harry was surrounded by a crowd, all staring at him, at Mrs Norris, at the bloody writing on the wall.
"Caught in the act!" someone whispered.
"Potter did it!"
"The Heir of Slytherin—it's Potter!"
The whispers grew louder, more accusatory. Harry felt the walls closing in, panic surging through him. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too much suspicion.
His hand moved instinctively to the pocket where his Invisibility Cloak stayed permanently shrunk and concealed—a gift that had become a security blanket, a means of escape when the world became too overwhelming.
Professor McGonagall was pushing through the crowd, her expression stern. "Mr Potter, you will need to come with—"
But Harry didn't wait to hear the rest.
He pulled out the Cloak, threw it over himself, and ran.
"Potter!" McGonagall called. "Mr Potter, come back here this instant!"
But Harry was already gone, invisible, fleeing through the stunned crowd.
Behind him, he heard Hermione's voice, thick with worry: "He didn't do it! Harry wouldn't hurt Mrs Norris!"
And Luna's dreamy tones: "Of course he didn't. But he's frightened. We need to find him before he does something inadvisable."
Ron's voice, still slightly hoarse from the slug incident: "Bloody hell. Where'd he go?"
But Harry didn't stop to listen. He ran until his lungs burned, until he found an abandoned classroom, until he could collapse against a wall and try to make sense of what had just happened.
Mrs Norris petrified. The Chamber opened. Enemies of the Heir beware.
And everyone thinking it was him.
Harry pulled his knees to his chest, the Invisibility Cloak still wrapped around him like armour against the world, and tried very hard not to cry.
Somewhere in the castle, something was hunting.
And Harry had just become its scapegoat.