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bouwrites · 1 year

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Argo: Year 2

First, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Professor Hicks, whom Argo very quickly starts calling Auntie Lally even if Rolf doesn’t quite manage, is an excellent teacher. She teaches them often with games, getting them to use spells to accomplish tasks, then only once they’ve mastered them does she pit them against each other, or against her, or together against her in duels.

She also teaches them to duel, though they very quickly scrap nearly all of the rules of a wizard’s duel in their practice because “bad guys won’t follow the rules” so structured dueling is not the most effective way to train for a real fight.

Over the course of the summer, Auntie Lally teaches Argo nearly every spell he knows of that might be classified as a schoolyard jinx, as well as a fair few “real” dueling spells and a couple of charms that aren’t technically combat magic but which Auntie Lally encourages him to “use creatively.”

(One of Argo’s favorites is the supersensory charm, which is quite tricky even for Rolf but it makes Argo feel like one of the creatures with those enhanced senses. He plays with it so much that he ends up fairly skilled with it.)

It’s actually a lot of material for a just a few months. Rolf keeps up okay, though there are some spells he still struggles with, but Argo honestly only feels mildly competent at best on the whole, with a few spells he has down really well. But crucially, he knows the spells, he knows what he needs to work on, and he knows how to continue practicing, which means he can gain that competence with more practice during the school year.

Maybe Professor Flitwick will be willing to help?

But Argo really wants to focus on Transfigurations this year to prepare for attempting the animagus transformation next year. Managing his schedule to include it all will be such a pain. It’ll be easier when he’s actually at Hogwarts and has his class schedule and he can really start planning. All he can do now is organize things to be slotted into whatever time slots he can eventually find, and that’s just not satisfying like having a complete plan is.

He satisfies himself, a little, when his book list comes in and he has a better idea of what to expect. It’s mostly just higher-grade editions of the textbooks for first year, so he expects about the same level of work. The only exception is his Defense Against the Dark Arts book list, which is completely absurd.

“Break with a Banshee, Gadding with Ghouls?” Argo murmurs, reading off the list. “These can’t be textbooks, can they?”

He shares an unsure look with Rolf, who leans over his shoulder to look. “The titles certainly sound like fiction. Or perhaps biographies? Whoever your Defense teacher is, it looks like they’re a big fan of… Gilderoy Lockhart? That must be the man’s entire collected works.”

“Gilderoy Lockhart…” Argo hums. “Never heard of him. Do you think we’ll even find these books in America?”

“Who knows?” Rolf shrugs. “I’ve never heard of these books, either. And why do you need so many different books for a single course? All your other classes have a single textbook for the whole year.”

“Probably for money,” their mother says, frowning at the list as well. “The teacher probably knows Lockhart and is forcing students to buy all these books. Or maybe your teacher is Lockhart himself. Either way, this seems suspicious. Let’s run this by your granny. She’ll probably know if these books are any good at all or if this is just some scam.”

“Really?” Argo asks.

“You’re self-studying Defense, anyway, and we already knew we’d have years where your teacher is useless. I’m not too concerned about your progress in the subject.”

Huh. That makes sense to Argo. Truthfully, he’s probably well advanced at this point, considering he’s been self-studying since the start of first year, plus his summer tutoring. Most of the creatures covered in Defense class he’s already familiar with as well, being from a magizoologist family.

They do end up taking the book list to Granny Tina, who takes one look at the thing, rolls her eyes, and passes it off to Grandpa Theseus. He tells them that they just shouldn’t waste the money. The whole book list for Defense alone is something like thirty-five galleons, which they can easily afford but is still just absurd, and the books are written as autobiographies, though Grandpa Theseus isn’t convinced any of the events actually happened and is even less convinced that Lockhart is the one who has gone through them.

Grandpa Theseus tells Argo explicitly that if the books are actually relevant, he’ll buy them and send them to him when he ends up needing them. And if Defense class is as much of a waste of time as this book list makes it look, he should self-study during that time block, even if it means ditching class from time to time.

Argo, who never expects to be told to ditch class, doesn’t know how to feel about that, but resolves to listen to his grandpa’s advice. Learning to defend himself properly is more important than his attendance record.

Ravenclaw shares Defense with the Gryffindors. Maybe he’ll use that period to teach Potter. It all depends on how the teacher turns out, he supposes. If it comes to that, he will have to talk to Professor McGonagall about it. He’d rather waste time in a useless class than lose his animagus lessons with her, and she is very clear that he has to perform and behave well if she’s going to help him.

Grandpa Theseus and Auntie Lally, who looks at the book list and actually laughs for a good five minutes, spend the next few hours going over a revised self-study schedule with Argo, “just in case,” which really tells Argo that they think he’s going to need it. Still, including what he’s meant to learn in second-year curriculum in his already busy self-study schedule is a bit tight. Argo has no complaints, of course, but he’s going to have a very busy year, he thinks.

The sad thing is that he knows that, if it proves too much to keep up with, Transfiguration is the thing he’s going to have to drop first. Defense is just too important with Voldemort stirring and he also needs to keep up with the classes first before worrying about extracurricular things, so Defense is doubly higher on the priority list.

But Argo really wants to become an animagus. He only has a year to prepare before the opportunity comes!

He also needs to study occlumency for Grandma Queenie, but he thinks that occlumency will help him with the animagus ritual? The first thing his occlumency book tells him to practice is regular meditation, so at least that skill will help. He’s already making progress, though he does find meditation tedious and not very helpful yet. He suspects there’s just something he’s missing, and pondering that missing thing tends to distract him and ruin all his attempts.

And so, it is with his mind swimming with scheduling and organization that he boards the Hogwarts express. The Weasley twins find him alone in his compartment not long before the train leaves and stay with him, listening to his chattering about everything he’s going to need to do and learn this year.

When he mentions animagus training, they beg him to let them in on the secret, but that’s one thing that Argo has to refuse them. He promises his grandpa that, when he’s old enough and is eventually allowed to look at the process, he won’t ever share it without permission, and he’s not going to break a promise to his grandpa.

There’s a reason he’s going through all this preparation before he’s even allowed to look at the thing. Spreading it willy-nilly is asking for accidents. He explains all this to the twins and while they accept his reasoning, they also resolve to prepare themselves, so that Argo won’t have any reason to refuse them when they’re ready.

The door to their compartment slams open. “Oh, thank goodness!” Granger dives in, throwing herself down onto an open seat in tears, startling all three boys there. “Have any of you seen Ron or Harry? I’ve been looking all over the train for them, but I can’t find them!”

Fred and George share a look. “Harry was with us at the end of summer. He and Ron were right behind us,” one twin says.

“We were running late, though, so we didn’t stop to make sure they got on the train…” the other one says.

“You’re sure they’re not here?”

“They’re not!” Granger wails. “I’ve looked all over for them! They’re not on the train!”

Did they get left behind? That’s… that’s absurd. School hasn’t even started yet and those two are already getting into trouble. Argo just shakes his head. “Listen, Granger… they’re not stupid, right? Fred and George said they were running late, and they only got here after the train started moving. They probably just didn’t get on in time. If those two missed the train, then they’ll send an owl to the school or the Weasley’s parents will figure out how to get them there. They’ll be fine.”

Granger sniffles, but Argo’s words sink in and her panic slowly abates. “Yes… yes you’re right. There’s no reason to consider anything bad might have happened to them. And Harry has Hedwig with him. He’ll message the school and the professors will figure out how to get them there in time for classes.” She takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Scamander.”

“No problem. But if your friends aren’t on the train, do you want to sit with us?”

Granger’s head shoots up like Argo just says that there’s a dragon outside the window. “Really?” she asks quietly. “You want me to sit with you?”

Argo just shares a look with Fred and George, who know her much better than he does. “Why not?”

Granger shifts uncomfortably. “Well… people tend to think I’m… annoying.”

Not that Argo will ever say it to her face, but she’s not wrong. Between her general behavior in classes (even the two most useless classes they have, which are the only ones he shares with Gryffindor) and her trying to drag him into whatever Gryffindor nonsense her trio is getting into at the time, Granger is almost nothing but an annoyance to him last year.

But Argo is taught that if he doesn’t have anything nice to say, he just shouldn’t say anything at all. And she’s not insufferable. He knows he has a lot more patience than a lot of his classmates (working with animals requires a great deal of patience quite often – much of what they do is just sitting still and observing, hoping that maybe the beast will come to them) but she’s certainly not bad enough to justify completely shutting her out.

“Who cares what they think?” one twin asks.

“Yeah,” the other says. “Join us. Argo was just telling us about all the extra studying he’s planning on doing this year.”

“Adorable, really.”

Granger lights up, happy to be invited, and perhaps even more happy at the prospect of studying. “Extra studying?” she whips around to Argo. “Are you falling behind? Do you need help in any of your classes?”

“Oh, no,” a twin answers, “he’s not doing extra because he’s falling behind.”

The other twin continues, “He’s doing extra because he’s not far enough ahead.”

“Oh!” Granger exclaims. “You read ahead, too? Have you gotten through the Defense books yet? I have to admit, I’m very excited that Lockhart will be our teacher. He’s so accomplished!”

“Is that confirmed?” Argo asks. “Gilderoy Lockhart is the new Defense teacher? I assumed because of the book list, but…”

“It is! We went to his book signing in Diagon Alley and he said as much.”

Oh, wonderful. He may as well just start planning his Defense self-study, then.

Argo grumbles. “No, I haven’t read them. I scanned through Gadding with Ghouls and decided not to waste my money.”

Granger gasps. “What? You’re saying you didn’t get the required textbooks for your classes?”

“Oh, I got all the textbooks,” Argo says. “I just didn’t buy the fiction ones.”

“Fiction!” Granger exclaims, horror written all across her face. Even the twins seem a little unsure. “Those books are autobiographies! They’re not fiction!”

“They aren’t?” Argo asks. That’s news to him. “Huh. I think someone mentioned that at some point. But, sorry, when the guy paints ghouls as some horrific dark creature, I can’t take it seriously. Even the ministry rates them as harmless. Jason is rated at three Xs, and I’ve been carrying him with me for as long as I can remember.”

“He has a point,” one of the twins chimes in. “We have a ghoul in our attic. We treat it as a sort of family pet. The most dangerous thing it’s ever done is growl at us.”

Argo nods. “I have some disagreements with ministry classifications of creatures, but they’re not that far off that they’d rate a seriously dangerous creature as only two Xs.”

Granger furrows her brow, looking a bit put out but curious enough not to dismiss their arguments. “I’m sorry, but… who is Jason? You’re saying you’re carrying around a creature classified as three Xs?”

Argo nods. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It just means they can cause trouble. Any competent wizard should be fine. It’s at classification of four Xs that specialized training is really required. I personally think Grindylows should definitely be three Xs, and Knarls should really be two, but that’s neither here nor there.” He reaches into his robes to remove Jason and cuddle him. “This is Jason. He’s a niffler, if you’ve never seen one. Relatively harmless creatures, really.”

Fred snorts loudly.

Argo pretends he doesn’t hear him. “But they love shiny things. Regular little thieves they are, grabbing anything shiny they can get their paws on. They’re rated at three Xs because they can get into a lot of trouble trying to steal their shinies and put a wizard through their paces trying to keep up with them.”

Granger looks oddly at him, and at Jason, and asks, “You named him Jason?”

“Technically my brother Rolf did, but yes, his name is Jason.”

“Like… like Jason and the Argonauts?”

Argo winks.

“Are you allowed to have him at school?”

“Honestly?” Argo shrugs. “Not sure. I haven’t gotten in trouble yet. But if you’re still unsure, it’s worth noting that crups and kneazles are both also classified as three Xs. It’s no different from how a dog or cat could hurt you if you don’t treat them right or aren’t careful. Now, ghouls are actually classified as less dangerous than common household pets. So please explain Gadding with Ghouls to me, because I’d really like to know.”

Granger starts to argue, but quickly stops short. “I… suppose you might have a point. If ghouls are really that harmless then that book doesn’t make much sense. Maybe it was just a… particularly foul-tempered one?”

“Maybe a chameleon ghoul?” George says. “Even they aren’t really dangerous, though…”

“Anyway,” Argo says, “yeah. It reads like fiction to me. And probably anyone who knows anything about the creatures he’s supposedly dealt with.”

“Okay,” Granger says, “so maybe Gadding with Ghouls isn’t his best work. But it’s not like that’s his only accomplishment! He cured the Wagga Wagga Werewolf and saved the whole village!”

“He cured lycanthropy?” Argo scoffs. “He’s really saying that?”

“It’s true! It says so in Wanderings with Werewolves!”

“You do know he wrote that, right?” Argo sighs. “How did he say he cured this werewolf?”

Granger puffs herself up, feeling very much like she’s won this argument. “With the homorphus charm, of course.”

The homorphus charm? The homorphus charm? Argo groans. “Granger. He didn’t cure the werewolf. The homorphus charm can revert a werewolf’s form back to human, if cast correctly, but the moment the charm wears off they just transform again. It actually does more harm than good most of the time because the werewolf has to suffer the pain of transforming twice as much or more in a single full moon. It’s only really useful if a werewolf is actively attacking you, and even then, it’s too complex for most wizards to use in the middle of battle.”

“But Lockhart cast it perfectly.”

“That is if it’s cast perfectly. Even if he somehow managed to set the charm to be permanent, which is a different thing entirely, that still wouldn’t cure lycanthropy. It would only stop the actual transformation at best or force them to switch back and forth constantly throughout the whole night at worst. They’d still be a werewolf.” Granger’s eagerness falls and falls as Argo talks. “Look, I’ll grant that, at the time of casting, it would certainly look as if he’d cured the werewolf, but if he legitimately believes that, then that village probably still has a werewolf problem.”

Granger stares at her hands like her whole world is falling apart. “That can’t be,” she mutters. “It says right in the book…”

“…I love watching nerds argue,” one of the twins whispers to the other.

“Absolutely adorable, aren’t they?” the other agrees. “Our little Argonaut didn’t even buy the books and he’s still read more than us.”

“Did you buy the books?” Argo asks, attention suddenly on the twins. “For the fourth-year course?”

Fred and George both nod. “Even Percy had the same books on his list. It seems as if every year is using the same books this time.”

“Well,” Argo says, “that just makes what he’s doing even more obvious. Please tell me you didn’t buy a copy for each of you. All those books together is incredibly expensive and your sister is starting this year, too, right? That’s what? Five sets?”

Fred and George wince. “We tried to convince mum we didn’t need them…” one of them says.

“We at least convinced her that the two of us can share, and Harry was nice enough to give Ginny a set he’d gotten for free just for being famous in Lockhart’s general area, but she still bought a set for Ron and Percy each.”

“She’s swept up in the Lockhart craze like every other woman who sees his face.”

Argo wrinkles his nose. “…I don’t get it. He’s not that pretty?”

“Oh, no, he is,” one of the twins says. “One of if not the most handsome bloke I’ve ever seen.”

“I prefer men more rugged, honestly, but either way, he’s just…” the other says, “a bit too…”

“Raging narcissist.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Pretty as the sunset, but his personality, not so much.”

“At least, from what we saw at that book signing. Charlie’s friends despise the man, too, so maybe that’s influencing our opinion.”

“Your brother’s friends?” Argo asks. “Have they met him?”

“Oh, yeah,” a twin says, “he’s been by the school a few times in the last few years. Some Valentine’s Day events or something. Whatever he did, he made enemies.”

“Huh. Good to know.” Argo hums thoughtfully. The twins say that the Weasley family only bought three sets. Which still comes out to something like over a hundred galleons but is much more reasonable than five sets. Argo will just trust that they can afford that much. He knows the Weasleys don’t have much money, but he isn’t familiar with how poor they are. Certainly not enough to know if abnormally expensive supply lists is enough to hurt them.

And he’s not nearly close enough to them to pry into their finances, so he has little choice but to let it go.

“Hey,” one of the twins says suddenly, “you seem to know a lot about the magic that’s supposed to be in those books…”

The other twin’s eyes widen and he turns on Argo as well. “And you had a tutor specifically for Defense over the summer, didn’t you?”

“One who taught your brother at the same time? A brother who’s our age, and in our year?”

Uh oh. Argo narrows his eyes, already knowing where they’re going with this and not wanting to ask to confirm. “What about it?”

“Well,” a twin says. “Maybe Lockhart will surprise us, but if you’re right about his books, he probably won’t teach us much of anything, will he?”

“And if that’s the case, we’ll have to study Defense on our own,” the other says.

“And someone here has a whole plan for self-study of Defense, doesn’t he?”

Argo’s eyes narrow even further. “No.”

“And if we say please?”

“Absolutely not.”

The twins share a wicked look. “What about a deal?”

Argo wants to flat-out deny them, but… a deal with the twins? It’s intriguing. He’ll at least hear them out. “What deal?”

“You teach us what your tutor taught you, and maybe a little extra-”

“We definitely want to learn the tracking spell.”

“-and we’ll teach you what we know and help you practice. Fair enough?”

“Oh!” Granger says. “It’ll be great to have fourth-years there to watch our forms, won’t it? We’ll learn so much faster with more experienced students watching!”

…At this rate, Argo should just ask Auntie Lally to come teach Defense. He’ll have a whole class for her.

Upon arriving at the school, Argo’s first order of business is to meet with Professor Flitwick about his schedule and Defense sessions from last year. All signs point to him needing to continue them this year as well, and he needs to know all of that scheduling business when he meets with Professor McGonagall and arranges a time for his animagus training.

It’s easy enough to convince Professor Flitwick to give him his class schedule now rather than at breakfast tomorrow, when classes actually start, and Argo also takes time to go over his revised Defense self-study with his head of house.

Professor Flitwick eyes him carefully, perhaps a little knowingly, when he sees the obvious inclusion of the entire standard second-year curriculum (the stuff the ministry dictates they must learn for the year) but doesn’t outright ask whether Argo intends to even attend his Defense classes this year.

Which Argo is thankful for, because honestly? It’s still up in the air.

They arrange to meet a little more often than they did last year, due to the need to cover so much more material, and the arrangement is largely the same. Argo will study and prepare all on his own, and will meet with Professor Flitwick to try practical casting for the first time, then he’ll continue to practice and hone his skill on his own time.

Perfect. Argo takes all of this and heads directly to Professor McGonagall’s office.

She arches her brow curiously at first, but when he explains why he’s there, she just smiles fondly. McGonagall remembers perfectly well her promise to help Argo with his animagus preparation, but she doesn’t expect to see him in her office so soon. Perhaps a week or two after classes begin, once he has a chance to get into his schedule and can plan with more ease.

But no. He actually goes out of his way to get his class schedule from Professor Flitwick before they’re handed out, before the welcoming feast, even, comes into her office with a thick stack of parchment which makes a surprisingly solid thud when it hits her desk, and begins explaining how he’s planning his days, including making time for some independent study with some of his classmates.

The independent study doesn’t surprise McGonagall in the least. The fact that he intends to essentially form a small Defense study club with what sounds to be exclusively her Gryffindors is somewhat more surprising. That those Gryffindors are the Weasley twins, who are both two years ahead of Argo and not known for taking their studies, or anything, particularly seriously, and Harry Potter, whom he spent all of last year avoiding like a plague, is very surprising.

(Ironically, if it were any of the Gryffindors coming to her with this plan, she would think they are plotting something. That it’s Argo, however, convinces McGonagall, for now, that it is exactly what he makes it out to be.)

Still… to be planning such a thing for Defense Against the Dark Arts the year that Gilderoy Lockhart is hired to teach… And McGonagall gets a glimpse at Argo’s note-riddled plan for it; it includes all of the standard material for second-year Defense, with more hasty notes of fourth-year curriculum (The twins are a late addition, then?) as if Argo is expecting to need to practice a whole lot more than last year to keep up… or doesn’t expect to learn anything at all in his classes.

McGonagall doesn’t keep track of the Scamander family as well as some others. The last Scamander to attend Hogwarts is Newton, just about eighty years ago now. He is in McGonagall’s very first class as a Hogwarts professor, as a… fourth year? Fifth year? She’s can’t remember that clearly, but is certain she’d remember if she was teaching Newt for his N.E.W.T. exams, so it must have been before that.

Is the Scamander family familiar with Lockhart? McGonagall, who remembers teaching the man, and Snape, who is a student alongside him, are both highly skeptical of Dumbledore’s choice to make him a teacher. If Argo is of the same mind… this is very much in keeping with what McGonagall is learning to expect from him.

Maybe she should see if she can’t look into the rules about clubs in Hogwarts. Traditionally, the three main clubs are for third-years and above, but Argo and whomever he ends up studying with might make very good use of the Dragon Club facilities…

“Professor!” The door slams open as the caretaker, Argus Filch, dashes through.

“What is it, Argus?” McGonagall snips. “Can’t you see I’m with a student?”

Filch pants there, unconcerned with Argo’s presence. Argo doesn’t mind. He just bends down to let Mrs. Norris sniff at his fingers. She ends up hissing and returning to Filch’s feet, but Argo is certain it takes longer than for most students.

She likes him. He knows it.

“It’s Potter and Weasley, ma’am,” Filch says, shoving a newspaper onto the desk.

McGonagall looks down at what Filch gives her, unsure what to expect. So many years as a teacher means that McGonagall has seen it all at this point, or so she likes to think.

All that experience dealing with children does not prepare her for what she sees.

Hearing Professor McGonagall’s uncharacteristic squeak of surprise and outrage, Argo glances over to the paper as well. It’s the Evening Prophet, and the headline reads, “FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES.”

Argo has never seen Professor McGonagall look quite so furious before. Somehow, even the sight of that doesn’t stop him from muttering, “They had an owl with them! What kind of Gryffindor nonsense is this?”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes fix on Argo. He gulps. “What do you know of this?” she whispers.

Argo, with nothing to hide, shrugs, somewhat relieved. “Granger came into our compartment during the train ride wailing about how Potter and Weasley were nowhere to be found. Fred and George said they were really late, like, literally the last minute late, and those two were the last in line to go through the barrier at the platform. We figured they didn’t make it fast enough, but I managed to calm them down because I thought they’d just send Potter’s owl or wait for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”

Like any sensible person, Argo holds his tongue and only just manages not to say.

“One would think,” Professor McGonagall growls. “Forgive me, Mister Scamander, but it seems I have something I must take care of immediately. Go down to the Great Hall for the feast. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”

Argo just looks between the newspaper, McGonagall’s fury, and Filch’s glee and makes the sensible decision to do exactly as Professor McGonagall says. He grabs his papers and scurries away as fast as he can without openly fleeing the situation.

The next day at breakfast, Argo is rather excited. He has his meeting with Professor McGonagall to finish, still, and then he’ll finally have all the components squared away and he can officially organize all the work he’s going to have to do into the time he has. He’s been stressing over this schedule for ages, so to finally get it out of the way and solved i-

“-STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE-”

Stars and garters, is this necessary? Jason starts squirming in Argo’s robes, agitated by the screaming, so Argo has to spend the entire length of the howler bouncing Jason like a baby instead of covering his ears. He can’t think, either way.

The absolute moron who decides to steal a flying car to take to Hogwarts instead of just sending a letter explaining the situation absolutely deserves the howler, but does everyone else have to suffer, too?

In Transfigurations, Professor McGonagall is clearly still upset over the whole thing and, though she isn’t outright mean in any way, her countenance is somehow even more severe than normal. Argo’s successful transfiguration of a beetle to a button on the first try pulls a smile from her, though, which he counts as a win.

After transfiguring a handful, and successfully transfiguring them back, Professor McGonagall drops a single black feather on his desk with a wink along with a small scroll. Many of the other students in the class eye him curiously, or jealously, but Argo just grins with excitement, knowing what this must be a part of.

The scroll contains only four things, all in strict, neat handwriting. An incantation, “Reparifarge,” along with the correct pronunciation, a description of a wand movement, sort of a “U” shape, and a formula entirely in the transfiguration alphabet. The last thing on the parchment is just a small note saying that everyone will be learning this spell this year, but that she’s giving this to him now to test him on his understanding of transfiguration formulas.

Casting the spell is obviously the challenge, but the rest seems straightforward enough. This black feather is what he’s meant to untransfigure and it’ll either be itself his next step or Professor McGonagall will bring him the next thing to work on once he’s done it.

Thus far they’ve always undone transfigurations by simply casting the same transfiguration spell again and going in the opposite direction. Essentially, they actually transfigure the thing again, just to how it was originally. A general spell to untransfigure objects is interesting, and must be useful if one doesn’t know exactly how something is transfigured in the first place.

“Hey, Scamander,” a Slytherin at the next table, Daphne Greengrass, whispers, “what’s that about?”

Argo just grins. “Extracurricular project, that’s all,” he says, and rebuffs any further attempts to pry.

The trick, Argo finds, is that a key element to all their transfigurations thus far in class is that he has to have a very clear image of what he is hoping to create. By just dropping a transfigured feather on him, Argo doesn’t know what it is he’s trying to create. But that’s the difference. This isn’t a transfiguration spell. It��s a counter to transfiguration.

Argo spends nearly the entire remaining class period deciphering the formula he’s given, sure that it will tell him everything he needs to know. It’s only with a few minutes remaining that Argo sets down his quill, looks through his notes and equations one last time, and picks up his wand.

Quite a few students, most of them having successfully transfigured their own beetles to buttons by now as this is review, openly watch him as he does.

He traces the correct movement with the tip of his wand and whispers, “Reparifarge.”

The black feather shudders a little, but settles back, unaffected.

Argo huffs. A little more power? “Reparifarge.”

Still nothing. Argo goes back to his notes. Wait. Not power. He doesn’t know what the quill is originally. Obviously, this is where the unknown variable of Z comes in. So, if he just… “Reparifarge.”

The black quill shudders, then twists, swelling into a forest green, leatherbound journal.

Argo picks the thing up, curious, ignoring all his classmates eyeing him and the journal with equal curiosity. There’s no name listed anywhere, though on the inside cover there is an unfamiliar scrawl reading, “Property of,” and nothing else.

Pursing his lips, Argo pages through it, finding only blank pages. Somewhere around the middle, though, a small black feather, much smaller than the original, flutters from between the pages down to his desk.

Argo looks up to Professor McGonagall, who only smiles mysteriously at him, so he turns to untransfigure the thing. “Reparifarge,” he says, but the feather does nothing at all.

Professor McGonagall is smirking as she calls the class to attention, gives her parting words, and dismisses them.

Argo shoves the feather back into the journal and drops the whole thing into his bag. Clearly, he’s going to need to practice that spell.

Herbology brings adorable mandrake babies, though Argo admittedly goes through the class slightly distracted by the puzzle Professor McGonagall has set up for him, and with the reminder of mandrakes and their properties, the near certainty that one will play a major role in whatever the full process of becoming an animagus is.

They are just about the best thing in existence for anything to do with restoring a human to their natural state, whether from certain poisons, curses, or even transfigurations. Much like the spell McGonagall has him learn today, actually, which only convinces him further. Argo has long suspected that mandrake plays a role due to that effectiveness in, essentially, allowing a person to be and remain human. It’s likely a big reason why animagus transformations are voluntary, and why animagi retain their minds when they transform, as ordinary human to animal transfigurations, as Argo understands it, don’t allow such a thing. At least, not with such totality and reliability.

What Argo can’t begin to guess yet is what part of the mandrake is used and how it is treated. How old the mandrake needs to be is also a valid question, though he does have a guess that they need to be fully matured.

Anthony and Padma partner with him for the repotting, and Daphne Greengrass joins as well, asking along with Anthony and Padma about Argo’s mysterious extracurricular project for Professor McGonagall, but Argo keeps mum on the subject.

He doesn’t think Professor McGonagall will appreciate him going around spreading the fact that she’s helping a second-year prepare to become an animagus. Fred and George know, and that is admittedly probably a mistake, but he can’t have everyone knowing.

He’d never get a moment’s peace with how everyone would bother him to learn to process, and that’s to say nothing of what Professor McGonagall would have to deal with.

No. All he tells them is that it’s a project that his grandfather arranges for him, which he’s getting Professor McGonagall’s help with. Nothing to do with school. All true, without revealing exactly what it is.

The Ravenclaws of the group are still curious, but ultimately accept that it’s a personal project of his. The Slytherin does a fair job of masking how suspicious she obviously is. Argo rolls his eyes. Slytherins.

Herbology resolves nicely enough, though, leaving Argo with even more to think about, and they have some time to clean up in their dormitories and eat lunch.

Argo realizes then that Professor McGonagall’s note says that second years will be learning Reparifarge regardless, and so it must be in his textbook. Most of the rest of his break is spent reading all about the spell in preparation for attempting to cast it again after classes today.

After lunch, though, it’s time for Defense Against the Dark Arts class, which Argo admits he’s somewhat dreading.

Defense is together with the Gryffindors, so Argo sees Potter’s trio sitting together when he shuffles in just before class begins. He slides into one of the few remaining seats, far from them, near the middle. The class seems nearly perfectly split between the girls up front and the boys in the back.

Argo just sighs. Maybe Lockhart will be better than he expects. He has to at least give the class a fair shot. So, Argo takes a bracing breath and sets out some parchment and a quill to take notes, ignoring how his desk is conspicuously lacking an absurd stack of seven books.

Lockhart, thankfully, doesn’t even seem to notice that he doesn’t have the books out, or at all, and starts his lecture by picking up one of the Gryffindor’s books and holding it up, so that the winking picture of himself on the cover perfectly mimics the Lockhart present in the room.

“Me,” he says, pointing at the portrait and winking along with it. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Arts Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award,” one of these things is not like the others, “but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

He waits, like he expects a laugh or something. Argo is thus far unimpressed.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books – ah, pardon me young man.” Lockhart stops at Argo’s desk, finally spotting the missing stack of books. “Did you have trouble finding them all? Or did you just leave them in your dorm? Not to worry, not to worry. Naturally, I won’t be expecting you to drag seven books around every day! Make sure that next class, you have your copy of Travels with Trolls with you. Unless you’ve already memorized the whole thing, of course!” He grins, like that’s a perfectly reasonable expectation of a twelve-year-old faced with seven books on top of their real textbooks.

“Speaking of! I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you’ve read the books, how much you’ve taken in –”

When he hands out the test papers and tells them to begin, Argo smoothly flips his sheet over and balks.

The entire thing doesn’t ask a single question about any of the magic in the books. It’s all personal questions about Lockhart. Idiotic things, even, like what his favorite color is or his ideal birthday gift.

Argo stares at the paper, unable to bring himself to even attempt to answer. On the bright side, he can’t require more proof for Professor McGonagall that he’s better off studying on his own, so he’s a lot less nervous about losing his animagus lessons because of his inevitable “acting out” in this class.

But he will have to show the thing to Professor McGonagall. He quickly, as subtly as he can, scans the room. All the students are focused on their papers, and Lockhart is busying himself with a mirror, so Argo carefully pulls out his wand and uses one of the more advanced spells Auntie Lally teaches him over the summer. One of the ones to “use creatively.” Argo doubts this is what she intends, but also doubts she’ll disapprove.

He just barely raises his wand over his desk and whispers, “Geminio,” then snatches the new copy of the test sheet and tucks it into his robes, handing it off to Jason for safekeeping.

He doesn’t actually fill out the real test, only partly because he hasn’t read most of the books, and also cannot care less what Lockhart’s secret (but written in his books?) ambition is, so he spends the rest of the thirty minutes mostly just reviewing Reparifarge in his head, with a small interlude of meditation for his occlumency because it occurs to him that this is a good opportunity for it.

He’ll need a clear head to make it through the rest of the class.

The test concludes with ten points to Gryffindor for Granger knowing absolutely everything, no mention at all of the test sheet Argo hands up with nothing at all written on it except his name, and Lockhart finally starting… something, by pulling a large, covered cage out from under his desk.

“Now,” Lockhart says dramatically, “be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind!” Foulest creatures like harmless ghouls? “You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room.” Argo knows what his worst fear is, and knows that if it were in the room, it would eat Lockhart in a second, along with the rest of them, even if he is as skilled as he pretends to be. “Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

Oh, boy, so whatever is in the cage must be classified as three whole Xs. Terrifying. Despite Argo’s nonchalance, everyone else, even those who were mocking Lockhart earlier, are drawn in. Argo just… isn’t scared of creatures at all, with one exception, so maybe he’s just an odd man out in this case.

“I must ask you not to scream,” says Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

As the class holds its breath, Lockhart whips off the cover. “Yes,” he announces, “freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

Merlin, Argo was joking. Pixies are literally classified as three Xs. Argo has an equivalent creature hiding in his robes right now, who is actually classified as such for almost the same reason – not danger but troublemaking – and Lockhart is acting like the pixies are bloody dragons.

After an exchange with a Gryffindor who has a perfectly reasonable response to all this, Lockhart goes and opens the cage.

Eight inch tall, electric blue, pointy little pixies shoot in every direction, spreading into the space of the room like water. Two actually start lifting a Gryffindor by his ears, and several break through a window near the back, showering the students there with glass Argo is only just quick enough with his wand to block with Professor Flitwick’s dueling shield.

The rest just do as pixies do and make a complete mess of the classroom. Grabbing and tossing things, tearing books and papers, even tossing bags out the window. This is why they’re classified as three Xs. Usually, they’re in smaller colonies than this (though they have been known to form far larger), and thus are less annoying, but aside from accidents from them tampering with something that might end up dangerous, and the occasional hanging of a person from high places, the pixies themselves are harmless. They’re only playing.

Before Argo knows it, most of the class is cowering under their desks, that one Gryffindor is hanging from the iron chandelier, and Lockhart is bellowing, “Come on now – round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies!” as if he’s actually taught them any method of dealing with the pixies yet.

He does utter a nonsense incantation, which accomplishes no magic, but does accomplish a pixie throwing his wand out the window, which is admittedly very funny. Especially when he dives to cower under his desk.

It’s less funny when the chandelier gives way, and the Gryffindor falls with it. Argo is quick to cast a cushioning charm, hoping he hits both the floor the Gryffindor lands on and the chandelier itself, which crashes down on top on him.

The only one actually doing something to stop the pixies is Granger, using a clever freezing charm to immobilize two pixies at once.

Alright, that’s enough. Argo rolls his eyes, points his wand high in the air, and shouts, “Rictusempra!”

Bright silver light erupts from his wand, which he whips around, sending the tickling charm all throughout the room. The pixies, who are only trying to have fun, start giggling uncontrollably and begin to fall out of the air, unable to fly as they roll on the floor, howling with laughter.

There’s still an uproar, as the pixies aren’t quiet, but the humans in the room all just stare, including Professor Lockhart. “Well?” Argo says, irritated, and gestures to the prone pixies. “Put them back in the cage, will you?”

With that, he starts plucking the wheezing creatures from the ground and tossing them into the open cage.

When the bell rings, Argo doesn’t even bother ensuring the last of the pixies are locked up. He just stalks out of the room, plotting how he can get away with never going back to that class for the rest of the year.

The trick with XXX rated creatures is that any competent wizard can handle them. Today proves that someone, unfortunately, doesn’t meet that qualification.

Argo, wanting to do this properly and in a way that won’t get him in trouble, sends a letter home to his grandparents. The very next day, he gets their response and, following their instructions, quickly writes another letter, asking for a meeting with his head of house in an official capacity, and asking if Professor McGonagall will be available to attend too, as he wants to have this conversation with her as well.

Apparently, such official channels aren’t used often, or at least not so early in the year, or perhaps both his teachers are just curious, because he gets his meeting for that very afternoon. (Good. It means he doesn’t have to suffer Lockhart’s class again before he can get this settled.)

His professors smile warmly at him as he enters Professor Flitwick’s office and takes his seat. “Thank you for meeting me, professors. And I apologize, Professor McGonagall, for taking time out of your day for something you don’t technically have to be involved in. I just want you to understand the full situation in light of our extracurricular lessons. I don’t want you to think I’m just acting out or slacking off.”

With his professors’ understanding and approval, Argo gets right to the point. “Lockhart is worse than useless as a professor, so I’d like to opt out of Defense Against the Dark Arts this year in favor of a self-study curriculum approved by my head of house.”

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick share an unsurprised look. Argo knows they already know all about it. Still, they have to ask, “On what grounds,” Professor Flitwick asks, “do you believe Professor Lockhart is not satisfactory as a teacher?”

“For one, the Cornish pixies,” Argo says plainly. “They’re rated three Xs, able to be handled by any competent wizard, and he released a colony of them in a classroom, tried to fight them with a spell using the incantation ‘Peskipiksi Pesternomi’, and did nothing as student property was destroyed and one student was hung from, and subsequently fell from, the chandelier. He even lost his wand. I should note that this is all without giving us any lecture at all on pixies’ habits, abilities, or weaknesses, much less any practical instruction on spells we can use to counter them.”

Both of his professors sigh wearily, shaking their heads.

“I also have this,” Argo says, reaching into his bag.

“There’s more?” Professor McGonagall groans.

Argo chuckles. “I know I can get into a lot of trouble for copying tests, even minor pop quizzes, but… well, just look.” He puts the test paper on the desk and sits back as the professors lean in to examine it.

“What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?” Professor Flitwick reads.

“What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?” Professor McGonagall continues. “This… this isn’t about Defense at all! It’s just about him!”

“So,” Argo says, “you understand why I’d prefer to spend that class period studying Defense on my own.”

Professor Flitwick huffs with disbelief. “The study plan you intend to follow is the one we’ve been working on?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Approved. I’ll handle all the necessary paperwork. You will no longer be held accountable for attendance to that class.”

“And you needn’t worry about our lessons,” Professor McGonagall says. “I suspected from the start that you’d choose this path. It is responsible of you to put your education first over a likely easy mark.”

“Thank you, Professors. You’ve no idea how much easier this will make my year.”

Professor Flitwick smiles. “Most students consider self-study a more difficult route.”

“Well,” Argo shrugs, “when the alternative is Lockhart…” He shakes his head. “As you know, I was intending to self-study anyway. I consider this… consolidation, rather than losing an instructor.”

His professors chuckle. “Well,” Professor Flitwick says. “Remember to meet with me or another teacher when casting unfamiliar spells for the first time, but you already know that. Good luck with your studies. I know you’ll make us proud.”

“You can come to me as well,” Professor McGonagall says. “And how are you doing on the project I gave you?”

Argo grins. “I’m still on the second feather, unfortunately. I got somewhat distracted trying to arrange all this so quickly. I was going to get back to it as soon as this was resolved.”

She nods. “That you managed the first reversion so quickly and with so little instruction is impressive. Keep in mind, the next one is a bit trickier.”

“So, it’s not just the same as the first feather?”

Professor McGonagall smiles enigmatically. “What would you learn by doing the same thing over and over again? You, of all students, I trust to practice. A hint; think about the key to transfiguration.”

The key to transfiguration? Since last year, Professor McGonagall has been saying that the key is visualization of the desired result. But assuming he has to untransfigure the feather, like the last one, he doesn’t know what the result is going to be.

Is Reparifarge more powerful if he knows the original state of the transfigured object? …It makes sense… and he can test that. Even if it takes asking a prefect to transfigure something for him so he doesn’t know what it is; their spells should be stronger than if he asks another second-year, as well.

That’s a good idea. He’ll find Penelope soon and ask about Reparifarge, maybe play with it a bit. Then apply that to his clue. He’ll still have to find a way to learn what it is before untransfiguring it, though…

Professor McGonagall hums. “It seems you’ve come up with a plan. Don’t let us stop you. Unless you have more business for us?”

“No, professors,” Argo says. “Thank you again for taking the time, and for approving my request.”

“It’s what we’re here for,” Professor Flitwick chirps. “Have a good day.”

Argo spends the next few days working directly with Penelope Clearwater in an attempt to understand Reparifarge inside and out. Some questions Penelope can answer right away, but others they work together transfiguring and untransfiguring objects to figure out.

The spell is indeed more powerful if one knows the natural state of the object and can visualize it, and the difference is significant enough to overpower most minor resistance spells Penelope says are used to make transfigured objects “stick” instead of wearing off and reverting on their own.

Suspecting that that’s exactly what’s going on with his mysterious black feather, Argo dives headlong into their experimentation.

He doesn’t limit himself to what he believes is relevant to his feather, either. He asks any and all questions he can think of about the spell and comes out the other end of his time with Penelope feeling like he’s very nearly mastered it.

Now he just needs to turn back to that feather and get it untransfigured. The problem remains that he doesn’t know what it is originally. If he can puzzle it out, then he can untransfigure the thing, but until then… His best clue is the journal it comes in.

Nearly all his time not in class or studying is spent learning the journal inside and out. A quick perusal reveals nothing actually written in the thing, so Argo brands the whole thing into his memory like he’s studying it for transfiguration.

Which is all well and good, but how does it connect to the feather? Why does Professor McGonagall give this to him?

He turns back to the inside of the front cover, where the only thing written at all in the journal is. “Property of,” it reads. Argo growls at the pages. “Property of who?”

He’s been thinking about transfiguration up until this point, but maybe… it’s not like the animagus transformation is only transfiguration, after all. There’s also an incredibly complex potion and ritual work involved that Argo knows of. Possibly quite a bit more. So, maybe his approach needs to be more… multidisciplinary?

“Revelio,” he murmurs, pointing his wand at the two words.

The name of whomever owns this journal does not appear, but on the very first page, something else does.

Of course. The Revelio Charm is a little advanced for a second-year, students normally learn it in third, but Professor McGonagall knows that Argo already knows it. The tracking spell is a derivative of it, so Professor Flitwick teaches it to him in their private sessions last year.

With mounting excitement, Argo examines the passage. It’s written in a somewhat messy scrawl, almost as if it is written in a rush, not the strict, clean lines of Professor McGonagall’s handwriting. The handwriting is the same, however, as on the inside cover, so it’s likely the handwriting of whoever this journal originally belonged to.

Argo reads,

“Argo Scamander,

Well done! As you’ve probably figured out by now, Professor McGonagall has set up a sort of scavenger hunt for you designed to test your skills and teach you what’s necessary before your first attempt at becoming an animagus next year. Don’t ever hesitate to go to her, or another teacher or older student, if you get stuck. We’ve tried to limit the requirements to things that we know you know, or otherwise provide you with the means to learn them, but much of it is still advanced for a second year. There’s no shame in asking for help, nor will you be penalized in any way for it. This is supposed to be fun!

But you must be wondering who I am. I won’t tell you my name right away, consider it another challenge if you’d like, but I will tell you this: I am the last student from Hogwarts to successfully become an animagus. Professor McGonagall reached out to me over the summer to discuss ideas on what, exactly, will be most helpful for you to learn, and how to make learning it as engaging as possible.

This is what we’ve come up with together. But between you and me (Don’t tell Professor McGonagall!), I’ve left a few little extras for you that I haven’t told her about. The first you’ll find only after you’ve solved the puzzle that comes with this book. Speaking of, here’s your clue.

Yours sincerely,”

In place of a signature is a simplistic symbol. A capital “K” within a circle. Argo isn’t sure if that’s his clue, the author’s signature, or both.

“P.S. Professor McGonagall said you’re friendly with the Weasley twins. I happen to be a friend of their brother Charlie, and we knew each other when the twins had just started Hogwarts. Tell them to send me a letter, will you? Make them swear it. They’ll know who I am.”

Intrigued, Argo decides to follow up with the twins right away. The symbol means nothing to him, so he’ll need to do some research into it, and if the twins know whoever wrote this, they may even recognize it. Argo will just have to ask.

As he’s rushing through the common room to leave, he’s stopped by Anthony, who grills him for a while on why he’s not attending Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. When Argo explains, Anthony stares a little in wonderment. “You can do that?” he asks.

“So long as you can explain how your teacher is unsatisfactory and provide a self-study curriculum that’s good enough, yes. It’s ultimately up to your head of house, though.”

Anthony considers this. “I don’t suppose you’d let me take a look at your schedule?”

“I’ve been studying extra since first year and I have a summer tutor for Defense. It’s tailored specifically for me, sorry. You’d have to make your own.”

“Drat,” Anthony groans. “Lockhart is absolutely useless. Most of our classes are just spent acting out parts of his books. We don’t even use magic! He always plays himself, and even he doesn’t actually use the spells he says he does in the books. Because he doesn’t want to hurt us, he says.”

Yeah… none of that surprises Argo. At all.

When Argo finally catches up with the Weasley twins, they’re stalking through the halls so furiously that Argo very nearly just turns around to find them another day.

But it’s Fred and George. The simple fact that they aren’t laughing is concerning enough for Argo to investigate. “You two alright?” he asks, sidling up to them.

Both twins huff. “…Yeah,” one answers.

“Just Slytherins being horrible again,” the other says.

Argo tilts his head. He doesn’t have many troubles with anyone, not even the Slytherins, who the Gryffindors are constantly complaining about. He does have the advantage of being both not in the rival house and also a talented pureblood, though, even if some think he’s a bit mad for his love of creatures, his Grandpa Newt is the one who went through all the trouble of actually making magizoology a respectable field. “What happened?”

“They interrupted quidditch practice,” a twin says.

“Took the field while we had it booked with permission from Snape. To train their new seeker.”

“New seeker?”

“Malfoy.”

Huh. Argo literally cannot care less. Malfoy barely registers on his radar, and the only reason Argo has taken any notice of him is because he glowers any time Argo does better than him in class. He’s never said anything, but if what Argo has heard about Malfoy is true, that’s probably because Argo comes from a relatively respectable pureblood family.

“Anyway, Ron and Hermione got into a bit of an argument with Malfoy and he…”

“He called her a mudblood,” the twin mutters darkly.

“Ron tried to curse him, but the charm backfired and now he’s vomiting slugs in Hagrid’s hut.”

“But we’ll figure out how to make Malfoy pay. He’s not getting away that easily.”

Oof. Yikes. Things like this are why Argo prefers creatures. “Well,” Argo says, “don’t get carried away. It’s not worth getting in trouble for.”

“Don’t worry about us, little Argonaut,” a twin says, finally smiling as he hooks an arm around Argo’s shoulders. “We won’t get caught.”

“Right,” Argo chuckles. “Anyway, I’ve been looking for you. I have a message to give you.”

“You do, now?” says the other twin. “From who?”

“Don’t know,” Argo admits. He pulls the journal out of his bag to show them the postscript. “I’m supposed to figure out who they are myself, but they said they’re a friend of your brother Charlie. An animagus. They asked me to tell you to write to them.”

“Write to an animagus friend of Charlie’s?” The twins lean close, looking at the book over Argo’s shoulders. At once, their breath catches. “Fred, that symbol…”

“Look,” Fred says. “Make them swear it.”

“You don’t think-”

“He must’ve-”

Very quickly, the twins work themselves into a state, bouncing more and more excitedly as they stop and start sentences that don’t mean anything but which they seem to understand regardless. Then, together, they grab Argo by either arm and march him around the corner, leading him to a less populated area, then duck with him into a secret passageway Argo has never seen before.

“Can we see that?” George asks, wand already drawn as he gestures to the journal.

Argo, having no idea what’s going on but generally trusting Fred and George, hands it over. George grins wickedly and taps his wand to the open pages. Then, he says, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

What? The phrase to open the Marauder’s Map? Make them swear it; Merlin’s beard! Is the owner of this journal helping Fred and George decipher the map?

The journal, once George utters the last syllable, leaps from his hand and begins spinning. There’s a flurry of pages flying out, though the journal itself does not appear damaged, and whipping about all around them. In only a moment, the pandemonium of the papers dies down, the journal drops gently into Argo’s hands, and a thick stack of parchment settles into a neat stack in Fred’s.

While Fred and George start looking through the papers, Argo checks the journal. It’s unchanged, and Argo suspects that using the key phrase again will do nothing. It’s obvious enough that whatever that is, it’s a gift for Fred and George, and not related to Argo’s mission. After all, the first “extra” for Argo is supposed to be after he figures out this little black feather, so it can’t be for him yet.

Still, once he’s sure that the journal is left unchanged, he puts it safely back in his bag and joins Fred and George in hunching over their stack of parchment.

“Woah…” Argo mutters, completely thrown off by the advanced spell formulas listed out seemingly randomly on the page. “Can you guys make heads or tails of this?”

Fred glances up to Argo, grinning like he’s won the lottery. “This, little Argonaut, is the secret to hiding anything we’d like behind a passphrase like the Marauder’s Map, and how to set up another phrase to hide it again.”

“Our friend who sent this to us,” George says, “says that this is adapted from portkey activation codes! How did he learn how to make portkeys?”

“Curse-breaker,” Fred reminds him. “Bill knows, as well.” For Argo’s sake, he adds, “They need to be able to dismantle them if they happen across one so they aren’t sent to bottom of the ocean or something.”

Well, that makes sense. Argo looks back at the page and frowns when he sees that same “K” inside a circle again stamped proudly in the corner. “What is that symbol?” Argo asks, pointing to it. “Your friend signed his note to me with it, too, and said it was my clue.”

Fred and George share a look and, for a moment, fall unusually quiet as they silently debate something between themselves.

“That symbol,” George eventually says lowly, “is shorthand. For the Circle of Khanna.”

“The Circle of Khanna?” Argo echoes. “Khanna… like Rowan Khanna? The student who…?”

“Yes,” Fred says grimly. “The circle was formed after that. In his memory. Bill and Charlie are members. As are we.”

“But you don’t need to worry about that,” George says. “It’s little more than just a name for a group of friends, nowadays. We still use the shorthand, sometimes, when sending messages to each other, though.”

“Curious why he would send that to you,” Fred hums. “There are a few hidden places around the castle that he and the circle used. I don’t think many others would have found them, but at least a few doors have been marked. Maybe that’s what you’re looking for?”

It’s the only lead he has at the moment, so it’ll have to do. “Do you know where these doors are?”

Fred and George both smirk in tandem. “And ruin the mystery? You have to do some of the work yourself.”

“It’s probably that one, though, isn’t it?” George asks.

“I’d guess so,” Fred says. “But I’m sure our little Argonaut has his own way of finding things, don’t you?”

His own way of finding things? Argo scowls. All the pieces are there right in front of him, he just needs to put them together.

He has a transfigured item that he needs to know the true identity of before he can untransfigure it, a symbol representing the Circle of Khanna but no idea what to do with it, and hidden locations around the castle that may or may not be relevant at all.

He has to find… Argo pulls the feather out of his pocket, to stare at it. He has to find, of course! It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know that this thing is, so long as it’s connected to the location he needs to go!

Argo gasps. “Fred, you’re a genius!”

“I am? I mean- of course I-”

Argo dives into him, hugging him tight, then hugs George just because, and takes off into the hall shouting, “Thanks guys, I have to follow up on this now, bye!”

He grins, points his wand at the black feather, and incants, “Avenseguim.”

The feather twirls in his hand, lifts up into the air and, root first, shoots off through the hall. Towards the place where it belongs. Grandpa Newt uses this spell all the time to find things. The tracking spell reveals something left behind, and this spell turns what’s left into a tracking device to follow over a greater distance. He should have thought of this from the start!

If he doesn’t know what the feather really is, then instead of banging his head on a wall trying to somehow see through a transfiguration, he needs to find its original purpose instead, not its name. The purpose will reveal to him just what it’s supposed to be!

Argo races through the school, chasing after the feather, hastily apologizing when he nearly runs a poor student over in his haste to keep an eye on the tiny black feather in Hogwarts’ labyrinthian halls.

When the feather comes to a stop, slipped partially into the lock of a nondescript door far from the usual paths through the castle, Argo skids to a stop alongside it. He straightens up, ruffled and panting, to examine where the feather lands.

“Think about the key to transfiguration!” Argo breathes. “It’s a key! I’m such an idiot!” He snatches the feather from the keyhole and aims his wand. “Reparifarge.”

Just like that, he’s holding a small golden key strung on a thin chain. If Argo doesn’t know any better, he’ll mistake it for a Gringotts key. Palming his prize, he refrains from opening the door just yet, thinking about what Fred and George say about some doors being marked.

Not seeing anything, Argo hesitates, then casts, “Revelio.”

Just above the metal part of the knob and lock, carved carefully into the wood, the letter K appears within a perfect circle. Argo can’t contain himself as he touches the groove in the wood. “Brilliant…” he murmurs. Someone can pass this door with the feather in their hand a thousand times and never notice.

Wasting no more time, Argo slips the key into the lock and turns it. With a satisfying click and a turn of the knob, the door opens.

The room beyond is small, with a high window on one side letting dusty sunlight stream through. The only furniture present is an old, vandalized desk, a wobbly stool, a mostly-empty bookshelf, and a standing blackboard.

Argo cautiously steps inside.

The bookshelf, being the obvious first place to investigate, contains only a few dusty, but well-loved books. A copy of Intermediate Transfiguration is an altogether unsurprising find. The Tales of Beedle the Bard is much more so, especially when he pulls it off the shelf and finds not Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump, the tale with an animagus protagonist, but The Warlock’s Hairy Heart marked with a torn slip of paper. Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration immediately follows it, which makes more sense, and the last two books are The Decline of Pagan Magic and an incredibly thick and boring looking tome entitled, Extraordinary Trials in History.

Aside from Intermediate Transfiguration, which provides an overview of what it means to be an animagus for students learning about them in their third year, Argo isn’t sure what, exactly, any of these books have to do with his lessons at all, although he assumes the last one is meant to warn him about animagus law. He hums thoughtfully at the books, but decides to come back to them later, once he’s gone through the rest of the room.

The blackboard is blank, and even a revelio charm doesn’t reveal anything interesting about it, but the desk is one of those old, hinged ones, where the surface lifts to access a storage space underneath.

In that space is a large, black quill.

Argo grins. Another black feather. These are the thread, then, which he must follow. He immediately attempts to untransfigure it and finds it distinctly unsurprising when he is not successful.

No matter. His grin only widens. He moves back to the bookshelf to pull all the books off and, with a heave, drops them with a dangerous thud onto the desk.

It’s time to get started.

Harry really doesn’t want to be a bother. Ever since the year begins, Scamander is running around like a madman, frenetic in a scary kind of way, like Hermione right before exams. Seeing that he has his own projects going on, Harry holds his tongue and hold himself back, unwilling to distract him and risk angering him.

But Scamander agrees last year to teach Harry about Defense, and with Lockhart as his teacher and a mysterious voice in the walls talking about killing, ripping, and tearing, Harry fears he needs proper instruction now more than ever. He worries that he can’t afford to wait until Scamander remembers on his own.

Harry tries at first to talk to Scamander during classes, but with him just… not attending Defense Against the Dark Arts anymore (something which has Hermione in a fury) and their only other class together being History, which is essentially a free study period which Scamander naturally uses with increasing vigor, Harry never finds an opportunity.

He goes looking for Scamander, even stakes out the library for a while, but finding no hint of him gives up and turns to the twins for help.

Naturally, Fred and George somehow manage to track him down within the day.

They guide Harry to an out-of-the-way hallway he doesn’t think he’s ever gone through before. It’s bright and airy, but too quiet for such a large space.

A small door off the side is their destination. It’s so ordinary Harry nearly misses it.

One of the twins produces a sack stuffed full of something, but before Harry can question it, the other knocks on and opens the door.

The twins march in, but Harry follows at a more sluggish pace, unsure about the new location. Inside, however, isn’t much. There’s a squat bookshelf, empty, an old, scratched up desk with some thick tomes stacked atop it, and a crooked old stool that looks like it has one leg too short. That’s about it. The only other things in the room is a blackboard being furiously written on and Argo himself who looks more ragged than Harry has ever seen him.

His robes are rumpled, his red bangs, despite not being long enough to reach his eyes, is pulled back with a bright pink girl’s beret, and he paces back and forth in front of the board, a book in one hand, wand in the other, alternating between flicking his wand at the board, making a piece of chalk and an eraser work double-time, and flicking through the pages of the book in his hand.

The twin with the sack sighs and places the thing on the desk, carefully moving the books there to the top of the bookshelf to make room. The other twin goes directly to Scamander. “Come on, now, little Argonaut,” he murmurs kindly, taking Scamander by the shoulder to guide him away from the blackboard. “Time to eat.”

Scamander, who throughout this has his eyes firmly fixed on the pages of his book, now finally stops and glances up. He smiles, pulls a torn piece of parchment from his pocket to place between the pages as a bookmark, and presses contentedly against the Weasley, more nuzzling into his chest than anything else. “Mm,” Scamander hums. “Thanks.”

Harry boggles. He can’t recall the twins ever being so… gentle. He knows they’re kind and good, and this is just that being shown to him, but they’re just not people he associates with this kind of… care.

The sack is full of food, it turns out, and they lay out a small meal for Scamander right there before they do much talking at all.

“He missed lunch,” one of the twins explains quietly. “Again. He’s been shut up in here for a while now, trying to figure out the next stage of his project.”

Harry glances at the blackboard, surprised to find what looks like a… literary analysis? About some story called The Warlock’s Hairy Heart. Harry does not understand anything about what is happening right now.

“Sorry,” Scamander murmurs, setting his book down properly to dig into the food. Harry glances at the title. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Harry has never heard of it. “I lose track of time pretty easily, and in this room all alone there’s nothing much to remind me. I can start work in the morning and all of a sudden I haven’t eaten all day.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, haven’t seen you in a while, Potter. You need something?”

Harry feels terribly asking for his help while witnessing firsthand just how busy he is. With a weight in his gut, Harry prepares some excuse to leave Scamander to his work, but the twins don’t allow it.

“Harry was wondering when you’d get around to teaching us all the defensive spells your tutor taught you,” one of the twins says.

“You did promise,” the other twin says. “And maybe it’ll do you good to take your mind off this for a while.”

Argo tilts his head, chewing slowly. “Right,” he says after swallowing. “Forgot about that. Sure, we can figure out a time. When were you thinking?”

Harry shifts uncomfortably. “Er… as soon as your schedule allows, I suppose.” He hesitates for a moment, then decides to tell Scamander and the twins about the voice he hears in Lockhart’s office during his detention, and how nervous it’s making him.

The twins share looks of concern. “It’s not good to be hearing voices, Harry.”

Yeah, Harry has figured out that much on his own, thanks.

Scamander, with a similar look of concern, but something harder behind his eyes, hums. “Alright. I see why you’re worried. Let me finish up what I’m doing right now, and I’ll meet you… Where can we practice Defense?”

“The courtyard?” Harry offers. They aren’t really supposed to be using those kinds of spells out in the open, but…

“The Dragon Club?” one of the twins says.

“Not open to second years, remember?” Scamander says. “Even if you get us in this time, we can’t use it reliably.”

The other twin clicks his tongue. “Honestly, I thought you’d already have the room sorted.”

“Why’s that?”

The twin shrugs. “I figured that feather of yours would have led to one.”

Argo frowns, then pulls out a forest green journal and flips through it. “Nothing has been added since I found this room. I figured there’d be more, but… I think I just haven’t found the trigger, yet. You thought it’d lead me to a room more suitable for training?”

The twins both look at each other and nod with identical shrugs.

“And you don’t know where this room is yourself?”

“No – well, we know a few suitable rooms, but we don’t know which in particular they used – we only know that the older students used it. We were just firsties at the time – they didn’t include us in that kind of training.”

What kind of training? Harry looks back and forth between the other boys wildly. Who are they talking about?

Scamander suddenly gasps. “Something a little extra,” he murmurs. “Don’t tell Professor McGonagall, he said. I haven’t found any extra, yet, maybe that’ll help. But wher-” Scamander’s eyes fall to The Tales of Beedle the Bard and he falls silent. “…I’m an idiot.” He smacks himself, hard, dropping his face into his hand.

Without waiting for questions, of which Harry has many, he flips open the book and removes the torn parchment he used as a bookmark. “None of the other books had sections noted for me. Why would there be a bookmark in this one? Revelio.”

Ink suddenly blooms across the fragment of parchment. Harry gathers around with the others to take a look. It reads, “Well spotted, Argo Scamander. One more secret and you earn a prize.” Along with the letter “K” within a circle.

Scamander is suddenly a flurry of robes and limbs. He flies to his books, flipping through the pages like a madman. “No,” he mutters. “No. No.” He snaps the book sharply and picks up another. “No. No.” Another book. “No.” Last book, which is massively thick, but he just thumbs along the pages anyway. “No. Where is it?”

“Where is what?” a twin asks.

“The page the note is from. It’s torn off of something, right? I bet whatever it came from is hidden here somewhere.”

Harry looks around the room, which is completely bare save for everything they’ve already been using.

Scamander, undeterred by lack of options, drops his books and aims his wand at the stack. “Revelio.” When nothing happens, he just hums and repeats the spell at the bookshelf instead. Then at the walls. Then the desk, the stool, and the blackboard. Finished, he crosses his arms with a huff. “What are you hiding…?”

Harry and the twins just stand back and watch, the twins looking amused and fond, but Harry mostly just frightened.

Scamander gasps. “The desk!” He rushes to it, floats everything remaining on it into the sack, and brushes off the top with his sleeve. As he scrutinizes the wood, Harry realizes the thing isn’t just scratched up, but vandalized, with actual writing on it. All he can see, though, is normal school things. Nothing that doesn’t sometimes appear on the desks in his actual classrooms.

Scamander looks at every mark closely, though, then lifts the lid and examines the underside. After a minute or two, he suddenly breaks out into a wide grin. “Bingo,” he whispers. “Don’t forget where you came from?” he reads. “Don’t forget…” Another sharp intake of breath and Scamander shuts the desk, puts the torn scrap of paper on top, and points his wand at it. “Reparifarge.”

Where there was once a scrap of paper, two full books and a note rest unbothered.

“Wicked,” one of the twins says.

Scamander picks up the note. Everyone crowds around to read with him.

“Another job well done! Professor McGonagall mentioned that Gilderoy Lockhart is your new DADA teacher, so I figured you’d need these, and a place to learn unbothered by him. Go to the Hippogriff Club entrance, but don’t bother knocking. There’s another door behind the portrait of the three club founders. That secret club room isn’t in active use, and thus isn’t barred for lower years. I used to duel my friends there all the time, when the Dragon Club was too busy.

P.S. One more secret: I don’t like parting.”

“I don’t like parting?” Harry echoes. “And what are these clubs?”

Scamander snorts. “Professor McGonagall is much cleverer with hints.” He rolls his eyes, pulls out his green journal, and places the page inside. It magically joins with the journal, and some more writing even appears on the next page. Scamander scans it but shuts the journal too quickly for Harry to do so. “Not important for Defense training, so I’ll get back to it later. For now,” he holds up the two books, Self-Defensive Spellwork and A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions, “I believe we have lessons to get to.”

With now-regular Defense lessons with Potter’s crew and the twins in the secret club room, Argo is dragged out of his study room more often. It’s… probably good for him, honestly, but the twins make sure he eats and sleeps anyway, so he feels he’s doing alright.

Potter takes to defense like a grindylow to water, and Granger isn’t half bad either, if a bit stiff. The only real problem is Ronald Weasley, and not for lack of trying or ability, Argo thinks, but because his wand is snapped in half and spellotaped together.

But that’s none of Argo’s business.

Halloween comes and goes, and Argo is so focused on getting through the extraordinarily dry writing of Extraordinary Trials in History that he barely even notices the feast. Anthony and Padma both share concerned looks when he slams the massive tome on the table, but understanding well the desire to get through a book, don’t try to bother him as they all eat.

Argo is back in his common room and just about through the remarkably thick, and surprisingly interesting despite the dry wording, piracy trials of the late 1700s when the whole house is suddenly in an uproar about some writing on the wall and someone killing Filch’s cat.

It’s the latter which snaps Argo out of his book. No one harms an animal on his watch. Mrs. Norris might not be the most pleasant feline in the school but she’s a cat and therefore automatically better than most humans.

It’s with great relief that Argo hears later the cat is only petrified and will be revived. Chatter still persists, however, and now it is almost exclusively about the Chamber of Secrets.

An older student manages to grab a copy of Hogwarts: A History, which touches on the legend, and reads it aloud to the common room. Argo winds up squished between Anthony and a tiny, blonde first year with radish earrings when he sits down to listen.

The gist of the story being that Slytherin, dissatisfied with muggleborns in his school, builds a hidden chamber in the school. His heir, whenever they happen along, can then open the chamber, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all those “unworthy” to study magic.

It sounds like a load of dung to Argo, frankly, so he promptly turns back to his pirate trials and all but forgets about the Chamber of Secrets.

Then Granger asks Professor Binns about it. It’s honestly a bit of a surprise that Professor Binns notices.

The tale that Professor Binns tells them is close enough to Hogwarts: A History that Argo doesn’t learn anything new, nor is he any more convinced it’s anything more than tales. But this time there is more questioning about what exactly lies within the chamber. Some sort of monster, it is believed, which only the Heir of Slytherin can control.

Argo’s heart sinks when he sees the collective eyes of the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw second years turn to him. It’s like they hear the word “monster” and think, “Oh, Scamander must know all about it.”

Professor Binns starts droning again, so Argo turns back to his history texts once more, steadfastly ignoring any hushed attempt to grab his attention.

The moment class lets out, he’s beset by his classmates. Anthony and Padma, thankfully, are good enough to form a sort of barricade, allowing Argo to slip out, though he knows those two well enough to know they’ll be asking him about it as well, just later. Probably back in the common room.

The rest of the day, and indeed the next few days, are filled with students of all years trying to corner him to ask about what kind of monster may be hidden in Slytherin’s chamber.

It’s against his own will that he actually begins considering the question. Assuming the Chamber of Secrets exists, and the monster does as well, what might such a monster be? It would have to live an extraordinarily long time, or otherwise be capable of reproducing in the environment of the chamber. Assuming Mrs. Norris is a victim of it, it must be capable of petrification. And legend says it’s there to kill, and to kill specifically muggleborns, so either something intelligent enough to discriminate, or much more dangerous to muggleborns than to purebloods.

The thing that narrows it down the most is the petrification ability. Not many creatures do that.

It’s also Slytherin’s chamber, and the monster will apparently obey the Heir of Slytherin. Enchanted, perhaps? Or, more thematically appropriate, the monster is some kind of snake. Slytherin is famously a parselmouth, after all, and no one else in the British Isles is known to have the ability, so it’s a good way to weed out his heir assuming he’s not just testing for blood.

Blood by now would be so diluted anyway that Argo isn’t sure even magic would be able to tell someone is Slytherin’s heir if it isn’t updated in the meanwhile to follow the family lines.

Slytherin does have a family line, Argo recalls. Some pureblood household that Argo only remembers because they’re very distinctly not one of the “proper” noble, posh kind of purebloods. They’re apparently dirt broke and possibly dead? Argo hasn’t heard anything about them in a while.

There are also the muggle lines of Isolt Sayre’s squib child in America. That’s a story anyone who goes to Ilvermorny is familiar with. But those lines haven’t been tracked very well, on account of them not being magical.

That’s all Argo recalls off the top of his head. Nothing that might identify any heir here at Hogwarts. He might still look into it out of curiosity, though. As for the monster itself, heedless of master, well… Argo isn’t confident enough to say any guesses aloud, but the only long-lived snake, intelligent enough to follow relatively complex orders, dangerous enough to kill with near impunity, which is also capable of petrification that Argo can think of is the basilisk.

And isn’t that a terrifying thought? It’s a good thing this Chamber of Secrets is a load of hogwash, or they’d all be in real trouble.

“Did you know,” Argo says when the twins kidnap him for the umpteenth time since he’s known them, “you’re the twenty-eighth person to ask me that?”

“Really?” The twins grin.

“Today.”

“Then you must be really good at answering it.”

Argo groans. “The Chamber of Secrets doesn’t exist. I’ve got much more important things to do than think about a fictional monster.”

The twins are undeterred. The one Argo thinks is Fred says, “Yes, we know what you’ve been telling everyone else.”

Probably George says, “But we’re your favorites!”

Argo takes a hissing breath through his teeth. They are his favorites.

“You must have thought about it,” says probably Fred. “Just give us a guess.”

Argo sighs. Only because it’s Fred and George. “You don’t go spreading this around,” Argo hisses. “I won’t be responsible for causing a panic.”

Fred and George, suddenly serious, look to each other and nod firmly. “We won’t tell a soul. Promise.”

With a cautious glance around, Argo admits, “If there really is a monster, and it’s responsible for petrifying Mrs. Norris, it’s most likely a basilisk.”

Fred and George balk. “A basilisk? That’s… bad.”

“What do you know about basilisks?” George asks. “How bad is it if there is one here?”

Argo sighs. “Well, it depends. There are several different kinds of basilisk. There’s the true basilisk, known as the king of serpents, which is extraordinarily rare and only pops up in the wild once every few generations at most.”

“Basilisks occur naturally?” Fred asks. “I thought that old dark wizard invented them.”

“Herpo the Foul, yes,” Argo says. “They almost never occur naturally because it’s… well, it’s not natural. Sitting eggs isn’t a toad’s natural behavior, so it’s very rare that you’d find one willing to sit a chicken egg to birth a basilisk. But it does happen. Herpo the Foul’s basilisk is the first recorded one in existence, but researchers have since discovered a few in the wild. Luckily, basilisk newborns are very rarely suited to thrive in the environment they’re born in, and thus the few rare instances where one is hatched naturally, they usually die long before they can become a threat to humans. I mean… the crow of a rooster kills them, and they’re hatched from chicken eggs…”

Fred and George share a look. “You know… I hadn’t ever thought about that before.”

Argo shrugs. “True basilisks, like their false counterparts, are sexually dimorphic.”

“Should we be taking notes, George?”

“I feel like I’m in Professor Kettleburn’s class.”

Argo sighs. “You asked,” he huffs. “Do you want to know about basilisks or not?”

George mimes zipping his lips shut while Fred teasingly says, “Pardon us, please continue Professor Argonaut.”

Argo rolls his eyes. “As I said, they’re sexually dimorphic, with males having a plume of red feathers on their crowns. No one’s really sure why this dimorphism exists, though, considering true basilisks have to be hatched under toads from chicken eggs, and they don’t actually reproduce as we understand the process. The leading theory within the magizoology community at the moment is that the true basilisk is actually displaying Batesian mimicry, using the appearance of the false basilisk to ward off predators.”

George raises his hand. “I’ve never heard of a false basilisk, but aren’t normal basilisks, like… one of the most dangerous creatures in the world?”

“Good question.” Argo inclines his head. “True basilisks are indeed incredibly deadly. They possess one of the most potent venoms known to man, sharp needle-like teeth made for puncturing, incredibly tough scales on par with some dragonhide, and, famously, a deadly gaze which will take the life of anyone who meets it.”

“Not petrification?”

Argo shakes his head. “Petrification is actually the most notable ability of the false basilisk, though the true basilisk can petrify if its gaze is met indirectly. In a reflection, for instance, or through something transparent. The false basilisk, for comparison, doesn’t petrify through its gaze. It actually has a hypnotic gaze, which is used to hold prey in place long enough for their petrifying venom – or poison, it should be noted that it acts as both – to take effect.

“Anyway, while true basilisks are some of the most dangerous creatures in existence, they don’t start that way. Newly hatched basilisks have almost none of the defenses that they will have when they mature. It’s another reason why you never hear about naturally occurring basilisks causing problems. They die long before they mature enough for their venom or gaze to develop.”

“I had no idea,” George murmurs.

“The only other thing of note,” Argo says, “is that true basilisks are intelligent creatures. According to the writings of parselmouths who have kept and conversed with them, they have an understanding of just how fragile they were when they were babies, and thus are incredibly loyal to a witch or wizard who cares for them through that childhood period. Though it’s said that, aside from raising it from an egg, there is no way to domesticate a basilisk. Oh, and they do have a specially designed nictitating membrane, a sort of extra eyelid, which can prevent their gaze from causing harm. It’s important to note, if we’re considering one loose in the school, that true basilisks are capable of relatively advanced reason and can be perfectly safe, in theory, if they can be negotiated with.”

“Well, that’s… good?” Fred says

“But we can’t rule out the monster being a false basilisk, can we?” George asks. “What about them?”

“Not as yet, no,” Argo admits, deciding for the moment to simply play along and not bother with insisting there is no monster in the first place. “False basilisks are also serpents, almost identical in appearance, though, save for the babies, trending much smaller in size. I’ve already mentioned they lack a murderous gaze and deadly venom in favor of a hypnotic gaze and petrifying venom. Unlike true basilisks, they also have fangs, specialized, grooved teeth for delivering venom – the true basilisk’s lack of specialized fangs despite its reliance on venom has baffled magizoologists for a while, but true basilisks are strange creatures in the first place. The most unique skill the false basilisk has, however, which the true basilisk does not, is the ability to spit their venom and petrify from a distance. That’s why I mentioned it’s also a poison. Ingesting or inhaling it, and to an extent even just absorbing it through the skin, can lead to petrification as easily as being bitten. It’s also an incredibly dangerous animal, and unlike the true basilisk, possesses all these defenses from the moment they hatch, but it’s generally less intelligent, and its life cycle and reproduction is much more typical of serpents we’re familiar with.”

“Huh,” Fred says. “You sure know a lot about basilisks. How’d you learn all this, anyway? Didn’t you have to go research that three-headed dog last year? I thought you didn’t know as much about dangerous creatures.”

Argo shrugs. “Well, since finding Fluffy last year, I figured I’d brush up. I’m going alphabetically.”

“I swear my class doubled in size since dear old Cuthbert gave his lecture!” Professor Kettleburn, who is in possession of only one arm and half a leg, moans dramatically through the eager smile on his lips. “But for the life of me I can’t recall whether the new additions are actually new, or if they’re technically taking my course and just stopped coming.”

Argo snorts and sips his tea. “I was stopped in the hall five times just coming from the Great Hall to your office, you know. Those people are crazy.”

“Almost makes me want to let the chimera loose again,” Professor Kettleburn murmurs into his own tea. “But alas, I can’t afford to be put on probation a sixty-third time. Not if I hope to teach a Scamander in the future.”

“Are you staying?” Argo asks. “Professor Sprout said you were talking about retiring not long ago.”

Professor Kettleburn guffaws, and nearly spills his tea. “And pass up the chance to teach the grandson of Newt Scamander? Not bloody likely! I can retire when you graduate!” He points his prosthetic hand, which is more a wooden pincer, really, at Argo seriously, clacking his “fingers” together to strike his point home. “You are taking Care of Magical Creatures next year, aren’t you?”

Argo can’t resist laughing. “Who do you think I am? Of course, I’ll be taking Care.”

Professor Kettleburn sits back with a satisfied huff, then says, “Good. Not that there’s much I suspect I can teach you on the subject, but I’m hoping you can learn something. And I’m sure I’ll be learning as well. If nothing else, it’ll be a fun period for you.”

“There’s always something new to learn about creatures,” Argo says fondly, allowing Jason to run up onto his head and catching him when he falls off. “I’ve had Jason for years and I still learn more about him every day. I’m sure you have loads to teach me.”

Professor Kettleburn straightens up, puffing out his chest with a proud sniff and what might be tears in his single remaining eye.

Before his professor can say something incredibly embarrassing, Argo hurries to say, “By the way, with all this buzz about Slytherin’s monster and Mrs. Norris being petrified, you have talked to the headmaster about what such a creature might be, right?”

Professor Kettleburn thankfully takes the bait and relaxes back into his tea again. “Naturally. Why, Dumbledore stopped by just last week asking about it. I told him, you can probably guess, only thing it could be is a basilisk. Who knows if it’s a true or false one, but given Slytherin’s reputation, I wouldn’t be surprised either way.”

Argo blinks. Professor Kettleburn’s conclusions don’t surprise him, of course. He comes to the same ones, after all. But the way Professor Kettleburn is talking… “Do you believe the Chamber of Secrets actually exists, professor?”

Professor Kettleburn’s eye gleams. “I sure hope so! Imagine! A live basilisk right here in the school! I’ve been searching the halls every night for some sign of it!”

He’s searching for it? Argo chitters nervously. “Are you sure that’s wise, professor? If it is a true basilisk…”

“Oh, pshaw,” Professor Kettleburn waves off his concern with his wooden pincer hand. “I’m taking precautions, of course.” He reaches into his tattered coat’s pocket to draw out a small hand mirror. “This to look around corners, a good old Fumos if I’m lucky enough to find it and not get petrified, nothing I can’t handle!”

“Fumos, sir? That’s the… smokescreen spell?”

“Exactly! The basilisk’s gaze can’t kill me if it can’t see me, now, can it? Then, all I have to do is avoid the teeth! And I’ve gotten quite good at that!”

“That’s… smart,” Argo hums. “Sir, would the smokescreen spell play nice with the tracking spell? That way, you can keep track of the basilisk, but it wouldn’t be able to see you?”

Professor Kettleburn takes a moment to tap his chin. “I don’t see why not. But let’s find out!” He leaps to his feet, a feat of acrobatics very impressive for such an old man with so few remaining limbs. “Have you learned the smokescreen spell yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, we’ll fix that right now! Can’t have you running into that basilisk without me and getting caught off guard, can we? Then you can try the tracking spell, too; have you ever tried directing it like you’re thinking of?”

“No, it usually just covers an area. I’ve never used it to highlight a specific thing before. But I don’t see why it wouldn’t be able to. At the very least, I should be able to focus it on one thing more than others.”

“Well, no time better to try than the present! If this does work, I’ll have another tool to study the basilisk! You’re already teaching me!”

“And you’re already teaching me,” Argo chuckles. “The smokescreen spell seems fairly versatile. I’m excited to learn it.”

“And I’m excited to teach you!” Professor Kettleburn exclaims. “Now, to the paddock!”

He prances away, tea forgotten. Argo fondly rolls his eyes, downs the last of his cup, and rushes after his professor. Tea time with Professor Kettleburn, something he insists on once Professor Sprout stops beating him off with a stick, is always interesting, but this is the first time Argo gets to learn a new spell from it.

It’s nice to just talk to someone about creatures. Someone who understands. But it’s also always nice to learn a new spell. Argo grins as he follows Professor Kettleburn’s excited babbling.

He can’t wait for Care of Magical Creatures next year.

Just as the chatter about the Chamber of Secrets and the constant harassment about the monster begins to die down, Potter goes and lets Lockhart remove all the bones in his arm.

Ordinarily, these two things shouldn’t be connected, but it’s as Argo is heading to the hospital wing to take pity on Potter and tell him to just ask Professor McGonagall about opting out of Lockhart’s class and doing a self-study (which is normally much more difficult to get approval for, but Argo suspects Professor McGonagall is just waiting for Potter to finally ask about it) that the harassment about the monster and the whispers about the chamber come back in full force.

Argo barely makes it to the hospital wing, with how the other students stop him every three steps. He seriously needs to look into disillusionment charms.

Of course, it’s only once he’s there that he realizes just what all the hype is about. There’s been another petrification. This time a first-year Gryffindor Argo vaguely recognizes as following Potter around like a duckling after its mother.

He’s got his hands up in front of his face, and a melted camera is set on the bedside table next to him, so it’s not difficult to figure out what happened. He must see whatever gets him through the camera, if he sees it at all, so while they luckily don’t have a death, they still can’t say with certainty that it isn’t a true basilisk. Argo has a terrible feeling that it is.

Except it isn’t at all because the chamber doesn’t exist. Argo is quite certain of it. Definitely. He hopes.

His chat with Potter ruins his happy denial. Apparently, as Potter hears during the night when the new victim is brought in, Headmaster Dumbledore himself believes the Chamber of Secrets really has been opened, and therefore really does exist.

Which means they’re dealing with a basilisk.

Merlin’s beard. He has a letter to write to his grann- actually, that better go to his grandpa instead. Grandpa Newt will be much more helpful than Granny Tina in this case. He hopes.

With this revelation, Argo all but insists that Potter drop Defense with Lockhart, and encourages him to tell Granger to, as well. Argo doesn’t think she will, since she seems rather enamored with the useless professor, but as she’s muggle-born she’s most in danger if the legends are true, so he’d rather equip her with the Fumos spell at least, if he can.

Potter also mentions Dobby, the house elf who has been bothering him, which is admittedly very strange behavior for a house elf but Argo honestly doesn’t have much to tell Potter about that considering he’s never even seen the elf himself. A short review of the relationship between house elves and wizards is the best he can do.

Then Potter says they’re going to make Polyjuice Potion to trick Malfoy into revealing to them that he’s the one who is opening the chamber.

Malfoy.

Argo just blinks. “Potter,” Argo says slowly, “if the Malfoys really were descended from Slytherin, do you really think you wouldn’t be hearing about it every other minute?”

Potter opens his mouth to speak but shuts it before any sound comes out. “Good point. Malfoy would never be able to resist bragging about it.”

Argo sighs. “Slytherin’s line is actually fairly well documented. At least, compared to say, Gryffindor’s.”

Potter eyes him curiously. “You know a lot about that lineage stuff?”

Argo snorts. “Not especially. I do come from a pureblood family, so even if the Scamanders don’t make a big deal about it, I know about my own line.” Though he’s careful not to hint that that line is anything but Scamander. “But about Slytherin in particular, just about anyone who goes to Ilvermorny is familiar with the story of Isolt Sayre. My brother Rolf attends Ilvermorny, as did my mom, so I know it, too.”

“Isolt Sayre?”

“Descendant of Slytherin,” Argo says. “She was born into the House of Gaunt, the modern line descended from Slytherin. I won’t bore you with the details, as that’s basically all the important bit, but she ended up running off to America, married a muggle, and founded Ilvermorny. The snakewood tree in Ilvermorny’s main courtyard is grown from Salazar Slytherin’s wand – she stole it from the Gaunts and buried it there.”

“So, we know who the Heir of Slytherin is?” Potter asks.

“Not at all,” Argo admits. “I looked into it when this started. The last of the Gaunts died in the forties.” Argo furrows his brow. “Actually, weirdly enough, Terry Boot might be the closest thing to an heir currently attending the school.”

Potter blinks. “Terry Boot? In Ravenclaw?”

Argo shrugs. “I don’t know for sure that it’s the same family,” he admits. “I’d have to ask him, and I honestly don’t care enough to do so. But Isolt Sayre had four children. Two were adopted. Chadwick and Webster Boot.”

“But if they’re adopted, do they count?”

Being adopted himself, hearing his brother by birth say such a thing admittedly makes Argo wince. He knows that’s not what Potter means, but… “Probably not. Not if the legends about Slytherin are true, anyway.”

“What about the other two kids?”

“Ah,” Argo hums. “Rionach Steward, that was her name, she swore off marriage and children. The story is that she actually was a parselmouth and powerful witch, but she didn’t want to continue Slytherin’s line. The other child, Martha Steward, was a squib. I suppose her line could have continued, but magicals don’t keep track of squib lines, usually, so that’s been lost to history. It could be just about anybody.”

“Parselmouth?” Potter asks. “What’s that?”

“Someone who speaks Parseltongue. Probably what Slytherin is most famous for, aside from blood prejudice. It means he could talk to snakes. I’ve spoken to a few in Africa. It’s a fascinating ability, and their writings give us magizoologists unprecedented insights into the lives of snakes. You know, it can even be taught. It’s a language like any other, though magical in nature. My grandfather knows a little Parseltongue, what the parselmouths he’s talked to were willing to teach him. Of course, the innate ability to understand it is in the blood, not taught, but that’s alright.”

Potter’s eyes go wide. Quietly, after a long moment of hesitation, he says, “I can talk to snakes.”

Argo’s mind grinds to a halt, then nearly burns out trying to start up again. Harry Potter is a parselmouth? That… doesn’t make any sense. Argo’s parents have always made sure that Argo understands his lineage. Some things come through the magic, after all, and that’s not even starting on the physical. They dive deep into the Potter pedigree after they officially adopt him to make sure there won’t be any surprises.

Argo is one hundred percent certain that the Potters are not related to Slytherin in any way.

(Well, that’s technically not true, as the lines do converge at the Peverells, but that’s through two different brothers so the Slytherin blood and the Potter blood never actually mix.)

So how can Harry be a parselmouth?

Spontaneous mutation? The ability is magical, and magic can be fickle at times, so it can, on occasion, pop up in unexpected places – just look at muggle-borns – but parselmouths are rare, even outside of Britain and America, and to Argo’s knowledge they can all trace their histories back a long way. This would be the first time Argo has heard of that particular ability appearing spontaneously in a new line.

“Potter,” Argo says, voice strained. “That’s… an incredibly rare gift, you know. If you really can talk to snakes, you might be the only person with the ability in the British Isles except for…” Ah. Maybe he shouldn’t say that. But Potter does have to know how people here will take it.

“Except for who?”

Argo winces. Parselmouths are practically revered in other areas of the world. The ones Argo has spoken to in Africa were well beloved, and there’s a similar trend in India as well. Argo doesn’t know of any anywhere else, except for a single woman in America, but even there it’s not treated too differently from any other rare magical bloodline trait. The fear from Isolt Sayre’s time, and indeed the British fear, died away along with America’s loyalty to the crown. Long independent now, America has long-held independent beliefs as well.

Meeting those parselmouths in their own cultures, and growing up in America and travelling the whole time in the first place, has colored how Argo appreciates the gift. British wizards, according to Grandpa Newt, almost exclusively associate the gift with dark wizards. Slytherin, or worse, Voldemort. They’re terrified of it.

(America, in contrast, tends to associate it with Rionach Steward instead, and so don’t carry that same hatred.)

Argo sighs. He can’t very well hide this from Potter. He needs to know to be careful about who finds out about his parseltongue. “You-Kno- ah…” Argo says, “Voldemort. He was a parselmouth.”

Potter’s expression crashes.

It just makes Argo feel even worse to have to share the next bit. “Potter… I can’t express enough just how valuable and precious that gift of yours is. Magic like that is rare and wonderful, and you should never see it as anything but the gift it is.”

“But Voldemort was one,” Potter says bitterly.

“Yes,” Argo says. “He was. And he was a brilliant wizard. A horrible one, but brilliant.”

“Ollivander said almost the same thing.”

Why would Ollivander mention Voldemort at all? Argo shakes his head. That doesn’t matter right now. “Parseltongue is a language, Potter. The ability to understand it is something to be treasured. It means you can communicate with beings no one else can! In a way most can’t imagine! The writings of parselmouths have brought forward magizoology research in snakes so far. My family and I have nothing but respect for the gift, and you should too.”

Potter hugs his knees, frowning doubtfully. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“Because there is,” Argo sighs. “If you were anywhere else in the world, you’d have no problem. Parselmouths are even revered in some places. But in Britain…”

“Everyone just thinks of Voldemort.”

“Yes. If people find out, most will assume you’re a dark wizard. Maybe a little dark lord in training, so to speak. The next coming of Voldemort. They’ll certainly think you’re the Heir of Slytherin. You’ll be vilified.”

Potter takes a deep breath. “Typical,” he mutters. “So, I shouldn’t tell anyone, then?”

“Not if you can help it. Not in Britain.”

Another deep breath. “…Thanks for warning me. I don’t know much about magic. I wouldn’t have thought it was strange otherwise.”

Argo smiles as best he can. “It’s not strange, Potter. I admit that you’re one is a bit strange, since it’s usually a bloodline trait and the Potters don’t have any recorded parselmouths that I’m aware of. But the magic itself isn’t strange at all. It’s well documented, with a rich history, and not anything to be ashamed of, no matter what one culture has decided.”

Potter sighs. “Thanks, Scamander. That… makes me feel better. And… you can call me Harry, you know.”

Argo bites his tongue. He does know. He doesn’t for a reason. All Potter’s group, except Ron sometimes only because it gets confusing with Argo being friends with the twins, get last names because Argo very deliberately does not want to get close. Argo just hums, noncommittal, and wraps up the conversation quickly.

Argo just hopes that whatever Gryffindor nonsense those three are planning, all that Argo has told Potter will make them reconsider. Really! Polyjuice Potion!

With everyone bothering him about Slytherin’s monster, Argo takes to avoiding people as much as he can. That means shutting himself in his study room even more than before.

He makes a right mess of the place, if he’s honest. Notes are scattered everywhere, the blackboard is practically just white with chalk, and Argo has even brought in another board which he pins connections to.

It looks like some kind of conspiracy theorist’s hovel. Rolf will be proud.

But he’s on to something. He knows it.

On the parchment where Argo has listed out every spell he knows Professor McGonagall knows he knows, every spell she should easily be able to find out he knows, every spell he’s not sure at all she has any idea he’s aware of (including Avenseguim, which calls into question how difficult that second feather was supposed to be), and every spell detailed in Intermediate Transfiguration and Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, Argo marks the next spell with a small “x” in the negative, quite sure it isn’t going to help him with this task.

He turns back to the journal, reading once again the message left for him upon placing the note about the secret club room into it.

“I suppose that one wasn’t that clever, was it? Well, don’t blame me, I’m no Ravenclaw. Did you know, Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were both hatstalls and both stuck between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. I’ve heard them banter often about how they might be leading the other’s house if things had been any different.

Anyway, as you can tell, this journal is enchanted to give you clues as you find triggers for it. But we haven’t made the triggers freebies! You’re going to have to work for them, too. Good job on finding your first extra, and I hope both rooms come in handy – I can tell you; they sure did for me. And good luck on the hunt proper!

Until next time,”

It’s signed once again with the shorthand symbol for the Circle of Khanna.

Argo doesn’t even have a proper hint yet. He’s starting to think that this part of his hunt is designed to teach him patience, making him go through a law book of all things without any guide to direct him.

Argo gently thumps his head on the desk, thinking about the hints he’s gotten so far. The one about the key to transfiguration was quite clever, and ended up being relevant in more than just one way. His only other hint was to put the note in the journal. “I don’t like parting…” Argo murmurs.

“I don’t like parting…”

Curious, Argo picks up one of the five books and cracks it open. “Parting…” he echoes.

Struck by sudden inspiration, Argo opens Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration. “In order to revert an object to its natural state, all parts of the whole must be accounted for,” he reads. “Just as the mending charm cannot conjure the components necessary to fix an object, neither can any but the most skilled conjurers make a whole from a part, thus if your object has been transfigured into pieces, every component piece must be gathered together before attempting the reversal spell.” Argo grins. “I don’t like parting, that’s it! That ass! Trying to trick me into thinking his hint stopped at the journal!”

Argo quickly gathers all his books together – he’s tried many times to use the revealing charm, and even Reparifarge on them just in case, but he’s never considered trying with the books and the feather together. Placing the black quill atop the stack of books, Argo points his wand. “Reparifarge.”

It works. The whole stack of books reverts into two small slips of paper. The first has just the right dimensions for Argo to slip into his journal, where it joins with the other pages, and the other is a permission slip signed by Professor McGonagall to get a book out of the restricted section of the library. “Book of Spells by Miranda Goshawk?” Argo murmurs to himself.

Miranda Goshawk is the author of The Standard Book of Spells series which all Hogwarts students use as their Charms textbooks. Argo has no idea what just Book of Spells refers to, though, nor why something by a respected author of appropriate textbooks like her is in the restricted section.

Well, he’ll find out soon enough, won’t he? He turns his attention to the journal to see what’s been left for him. On the page he adds in, now-familiar writing appears.

“Did I get you? I was trying to be clever. However you found this, though, good job! You’re doing great! The next step is self-evident, but once you’ve got that delightful little book in your hands, your next puzzle begins.

Professor McGonagall has asked me to remind you that transfiguration is not only transubstantial, but also covers the topics of vanishment and conjuration. Most would consider the animagus transformation a transubstantial one, and it is on a base level, however it’s not uncommon for animagi to form a sort of separation between themselves and their animal form. They are one, but they are also separate.

In my own experience, even today, long after I underwent the ritual, I still sometimes feel as if I have a second heartbeat in my chest. Which sounds a bit scary written like that, and it was at first, but I’ve found as time passed it’s become almost a comfort to me. Additionally, as an animal, while my cognition is unchanged, my emotions are noticeably different. I react differently to things as an animal than I would while human.

Thus, there is a theory that has gained some traction, that the animagus transformation isn’t only transubstantial, but involves elements of conjuration as well.

And between you and me, Miranda Goshawk’s ‘Book of Spells’ also has some handy jinxes and curses, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. Just a thought.

Your hint: I already gave it to you! Figure it out!

Until next time,”

Well, that would certainly explain the complexity and difficulty of the animagus transformation. Conjuration is notoriously more difficult than transubstantial transfiguration, which is already a difficult and dangerous field of magic. Combining the two, along with the potions aspect, would certainly make something prohibitively difficult to complete successfully.

Argo can’t wait to get his hands on this book, and proceeds to the library at once.

Madam Pince, the librarian, is a thin, irritable woman who looks like an underfed vulture. She’s also one of Argo most favorite people at the school.

What can he say? He has a thing about creatures in need. It comes with being a Scamander. Anytime he sees anyone or anything which looks like it could do with a good meal or a nice brush, he gets itchy. Potter is murder on that instinct of his.

Madam Pince, though, also strictly enforces the quiet of the library, and thus has become something of a savior to Argo by fending off all the noisy questions the other students bother him with about Slytherin’s monster when he’s only trying to study. As Argo himself never causes trouble, nor has much reason to even make any noise, Madam Pince is nearly equally fond of him.

“Book of Spells?” Madam Pince repeats, examining the note closely. “Ah, yes. That book has fallen somewhat to the wayside in favor of the same author’s Standard Book of Spells series.”

“What’s the difference?” Argo asks. “Honestly, I don’t know anything about the book. Figuring out what I’m meant to do with it is part of my project.”

Madam Pince eyes him carefully over the note. “The Standard Book of Spells series are specifically Charms textbooks. And they do not deal with dark charms, either. Book of Spells, released many years earlier, is a collection of all studies of magic. You’ll find Charms, but also Transfigurations, Conjuration, Defense, and even the occasional curse, hex, or jinx. It’s the latter which lands it in the Restricted Section. You have no idea what you need it for?”

Argo considers what she tells him and what he’s been told thus far. “At a guess, I’m looking at conjuration.”

Madam Pince’s expression sharpens into something even more severe than her usual. “Conjuration is a very difficult area of magic, young man. You’re still young. Don’t rush into something you are not prepared for.”

“I understand, Madam Pince,” Argo says easily. “And I’ll be careful. Though honestly, I think that if Professor McGonagall thinks I’m ready to study it, I should be fine.”

Madam Pince hums, glances back at the permission slip as if to confirm that it is Professor McGonagall’s signature after all, and quickly fetches his book.

He takes it to a quiet corner to examine, and gawks when he begins going through the table of contents. In terms of conjuration, which Argo suspects he’ll need because of the reminder in the journal stating that the animagus transformation has a conjuration component, there’s the bird-conjuring charm, the snake summons spell, the spider-conjuring spell, the fire-making spell, and the water-making spell.

A quick perusal of those sections prompts Argo’s decision to at least learn the bird-conjuring charm and the snake summons spell as soon as possible, as according to the book, birds and snakes are easier to conjure than other creatures, though no one is sure why. The fire-making spell and water-making spell both are in the Charms curriculum of Hogwarts, so they’re of lesser interest to Argo at the moment.

But besides conjuration, the book is a treasure trove. The disarming charm (which Argo is already sort of familiar with, though not proficient at), the gouging spell, the severing charm, the stunning spell, the shrinking and engorgement charms, the oppugno jinx, the bat-bogey hex (which apparently Miranda Goshawk creates herself?), the reductor curse, the expulso curse, the flagrante curse… Argo understands why this thing is in the restricted section. None of the curses are “dark” like one would consider the Unforgivables, but they certainly have the capacity for a lot of damage if not taught properly and approached with care.

It even contains the patronus charm! How exciting! Just seeing the name reminds Argo of that terrible night with the lethifold and makes him shudder. If he can, he’d like to dedicate some time this year to working on that spell. He’s progressed far enough to conjure a light wisp! So, it shouldn’t take too much more to get a real shield. Even if he never masters the spell, he’ll feel much better with that much protection.

Argo shakes his head. He’ll do that, definitely, but first he’s going to focus on learning these conjuration spells, then a few of the more interesting and versatile charms, jinxes, and curses. He’s especially interested in the gouging spell, which can be used to carve through stone, the severing charm, which cuts things, and the oppugno jinx, which causes objects to attack a target. Every one of the spells in this book is interesting and worth learning, but those, he thinks, he’ll be able to make the most diverse use of the most quickly.

Although the gouging spell may be a bit advanced for him at the moment… he’ll start with the oppugno jinx, then, and the severing charm, then move on to that last.

When is his next meeting with Professor Flitwick?

“Now, most wouldn’t consider the tickling spell to be a ‘real’ dueling spell,” Argo says to his collected audience, which somehow now includes Anthony, Padma, Terry Boot, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot from Hufflepuff, and, ignoring the suspicious glares from the Gryffindors in the room, Daphne Greengrass from Slytherin, “but anything which can incapacitate or debilitate, when in a fight for your life, is something worth using. Now, you may be thinking, why not use a binding spell or a stunning spell instead? And that’s a good question. The truth is that in many scenarios, you might. But what if you don’t want to harm? What if you need not to just stop your opponent from attacking, but distract them as well? It’s not about being the best spell for any specific scenario you might find yourself in – those come with more expertise. I mean, do any of you know the stunning spell yet? Keep your mouth shut, Fred, you’re two years ahead of us.”

Anthony snickers at Fred’s playful pouting.

“The point with spells like the tickling spell, are that they’re easy enough for even us second years to get a good handle on them quickly, but they’re versatile if you’re creative in how you use them. So, everyone pair up – Fred, George, pick a second year. You can help. – and let’s get started on the practical. For those of you who are new,” he looks specifically to Terry, the latest addition, “I’ve been reviewing every spell with Professor Flitwick and getting his permission to teach my fellow classmates as each new spell comes up. Just in case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t,” Terry says. “You were smart enough to ditch Lockhart’s classes from day one. You’re obviously the brightest one here.”

Ron laughs.

Argo just shakes his head. “Right, so, the spell formula is on the board, for anyone who uses that.” No one does. Argo wonders why he even bothers. “The wand movement is like this, a sort of swoosh like a loopy, capital D. The incantation is ‘Titillando’.” Anthony’s hand is in the air before Argo even finishes speaking. “Yes, Anthony?”

“You used a tickling spell to subdue the pixies on the first day of Defense Against the Dark Arts. But the incantation then was Rictusempra. What’s the difference?”

“Rictusempra is the tickling charm,” Argo says. “Tittilando is the tickling spell, also sometimes considered a hex. They both tickle, but do so in very different ways, and that distinction makes the tickling spell, or hex, much more versatile in self-defense situation. Rictusempra works by causing little ‘flicks’ against the target. Without much power behind it, it can feel like someone running their fingers down your sides, just brushes. Titillando, however, creates ribbons of light shaped like hands which, with some skill, can be manipulated. Can anyone guess how both could be used for something other than tickling? Yes, Greengrass?”

Greengrass rolls her eyes. “Call me Daphne, Scamander, seriously. Rictusempra, when used with much more power behind it, causes an impact. Those little ‘flicks’ become more like punches and it can knock a person flat. Titillando, creating hand-like ribbons, is more difficult to control but can be used both to attack, much like Rictusempra can, but also to restrain, like a sort of weak Incarcerous spell.”

“Exactly right. Sorry to say I can’t give points to Slytherin.”

Greengrass rolls her eyes again, more dramatically.

Argo continues. “Titillando is the more difficult spell, but I think it’s still well within this group’s abilities, and I, personally, prefer it. The only thing it’s really worse at is large numbers of targets over a large area, like the pixies in Defense. So, let’s get casting. Everyone has a partner? Good.”

Argo ends up pairing with Terry so that everyone has a partner, then, when he calls for them to begin, ribbons of hand-like purple light begin appearing, and howling laughter starts echoing through the secret club room.

It’s a good session, with everyone managing the spell at least a few times, and once they have the basics down some exercises in using it more creatively

They’re cooling down when Ron brings up the notices in the common rooms that morning about a dueling club starting up tonight. Considering the crowd, all people who are dissatisfied with Lockhart’s lessons and therefore come seeking Defense lessons elsewhere, there’s no surprise that there’s interest in it.

“My aunt taught me a bit about dueling,” Bones says as she rebraids her hair. “We didn’t spend much time on it. She said no one who’s going to attack me is ever going to follow the rules of a wizard’s duel, so I’m welcome to look into dueling if it interests me, but she’s going to teach me how to actually defend myself.”

Argo giggles. “My Auntie Lally said almost the same thing!��

“Oh!” Bones says. “Is she an auror?”

“Nah, she’s a charms teacher. But my grandparents are aurors – minus Grandpa Newt, of course. They’re the ones who asked her to teach me in the first place, so…”

“So, are you two going, or not?” Greengrass asks. “I honestly can’t tell.”

Bones and Argo share a snicker. “I suppose we may as well,” Argo says.

“It’s better than nothing,” Bones says. “And nothing is better than Lockhart. Professor Flitwick is a dueling champion, do you think he’ll be in charge?”

“Professor Snape has some dueling accolades, as well,” Greengrass says. “Though… I’m in Slytherin and even I’m not sure about him actually casting spells at students.”

They chat about it, speculating, basically until it’s time to go to the meeting. At eight o’clock that evening, they all meander together to the Great Hall.

Their speculation only hypes up their excitement for the club, so one can only imagine the group’s collective disappointment when, rather than Professor Flitwick, Gilderoy Lockhart swaggers onto the golden stage. That Snape accompanies him is a small comfort to those hoping to actually learn anything here.

To be honest, Argo sort of zones out as soon as Lockhart starts talking. The next thing he knows, Professor Snape is casting a disarming charm with such loathing that he overpowers the spell and knocks Lockhart clear across the room, off the stage, and into the wall, which he slides comedically down into a heap on the floor.

It’s wonderful. Argo thinks he might cry.

Lockhart starts trying to play it off as all being on purpose on his part, and the glower that Professor Snape aims at him might just be the best thing Argo has ever seen in his life. Even if he learns nothing from this excursion, at least it’s entertaining.

“Enough demonstrating!” Lockhart announces, finally noticing Professor Snape’s murderous glare. “I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me –”

They move through the crowd, matching up pairs. Snape reaches their group first, thankfully. He looks balefully down at Ron and Potter and sneers, “Time to split up the dream team, I think. Weasley, you can partner with Finnigan. Potter –” His eyes dart around, first landing on Malfoy not too far away, but catching on Argo with a calculating expression. “Mr. Scamander, come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter.”

Argo frowns at Snape, not quite sure what he’s playing at. There’s something in his expression, like he’s testing one or both of them for something, but Argo doesn’t know what he’s looking for. All he knows is that it’s unsettling.

Severus Snape, for his part, eyes the two boys curiously. His first thought is, of course, to pair Potter with Malfoy, knowing that Malfoy’s father will have trained him in the art of dueling well enough, at least, to embarrass someone like Potter, but then he catches sight of that familiar red hair.

Lily’s hair.

Snape notices, naturally, that Scamander avoids Potter like the plague in their first year, which only makes Snape more suspicious. He’s almost certain that, if there is anything to those glimpses of Lily in Scamander, Potter has no idea about it. Scamander, though… Snape is sure that he knows something. There is some connection there, something tying him to Lily Evans, and he avoids Potter to prevent it from coming out.

But what?

While the two aren’t nearly as distant this year, Snape still thinks putting them together may unveil something. And, if nothing else, Scamander is an exceptionally talented student, one whom McGonagall and Flitwick cannot stop singing the praises of. And a pureblood, at that, or at least, raised as a pureblood, with vocational training with wild animals and dangerous creatures. Plus, according to Snape’s colleagues, Scamander receives summer tutoring specifically in Defensive magic. Argo Scamander might very well be the most skilled second-year duelist in this room. He’s probably better than many of the third and fourth years, even.

The problem, Snape notices quickly once their duel begins, which he forgets about in his memories of Lily, is that Scamander doesn’t know competition if it hexes him in the face.

That’s an entirely Scamander trait. Lily was fiercely competitive. Almost frighteningly so. If Snape’s suspicions have any truth to them, he has no idea where Scamander gets that from, especially since he knows Tina and Theseus Scamander, at least, are both competitive people.

“Face your partners!” Lockhart shouts. “And bow!”

Potter and Scamander bow low, Potter oddly tense, but Scamander utterly relaxed.

“Wands at the ready! When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents – only to disarm them – we don’t want any accidents – one… two… three –”

Potter points his wand at Scamander and shouts “Titillando!’ Purple hand-like ribbons erupt from Potter’s wand to bounce harmlessly off Scamander’s silently cast duelist shield.

Scamander grins lazily, like he knows there’s no possible way Potter can disarm him. “Nearly there!” he says. “A little more flick of the wrist, and try a little less power, too.” He waves his wand and says, “Avis.”

Professor Snape scoffs. Is he just showing off? Summoning birds in the middle of a duel? Conjuration is impressive for a second year, Snape can admit, but birds are among the easiest creatures to conjure, and they only flit about the room chirping uselessly in a duel.

Potter grits his teeth. “Petrificus Totalus! Flipendo!” He follows with an onslaught of spells. Trip jinxes, tickling charms, even shooting sparks, which tempts Snape to stop them to punish Potter for not listening about trying only to disarm.

The only thing that holds him back is that Scamander just stands there, batting the oncoming spells away with amused twirls of his wand, while his conjured birds chirp like he’s a princess in a fairy tale or something.

Only when Potter tires himself out and sighs, lowing his wand and dropping his stance, does Scamander actually attack. He grins, says, “Nicely done, Potter, that was the fastest you’ve managed yet!” then incants, “Oppugno.”

The conjured birds shoot at Potter like feathery arrows, pecking and scratching at his wand hand until he shouts, “Flipendo!” and knocks all the birds away from him.

The birds, intent, just reorient themselves and fly once more for Potter. Scamander, though his spell will surely disarm Potter in a matter of moments as the birds focus on his wand hand, winces. “Ooh, back that up a bit,” he says, cancelling both spells, making the birds disappear. “Sorry about that, I didn’t imagine they’d be that vicious. Is your hand okay?”

Potter just groans. “I’m fine,” he says. “We’re supposed to be dueling.”

Scamander shrugs. “Still, Episkey.”

Potter blinks down at the minute scratches the birds leave him, not even enough to break the skin, mending to nothing at all before his eyes. After a dejected sigh, like he expects this, Potter, much less enthusiastically, points his wand and says, “Immobulus.”

Scamander blocks the spell with his duelist shield and counters with, “Relashio.”

With Scamander actually using an attacking spell, Snape expects that’s the end of the duel, but he’s very surprised when Potter reveals that he knows the shield charm well enough to use it practically and sends a stinging hex towards Scamander, who simply side-steps the attack.

Snape, curious, looks elsewhere around the room only to find that not only are Potter and Scamander having something approximating a real duel – as much as Potter can when Scamander heals him in the middle of the duel and spends more time giving advice than actually counterattacking – but a collection of other second-years are having similar success. Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot to a lesser extent. The whole group which enters together.

Snape knows that they have a little Defense club going, taught by Scamander. Snape personally thinks it’s the best idea any of those children have ever had, considering who their official Defense teacher is. Anyone would be better off learning from a twelve-year-old over Lockhart, as the Weasley twins, who are two years ahead of Scamander and performing better than the other fourth-years present, prove.

It’s quite annoying, actually, watching the duels, as, despite embarrassing Potter as thoroughly as Snape expects, Scamander doesn’t manage to actually embarrass him because he keeps shouting encouragement and refusing to actually finish Potter off, so Potter manages to show off a few skills that are, as much as it pains Snape to admit it, beyond second-year level.

Scamander doesn’t even struggle, he just encourages Potter to keep trying, like the goal of disarming their opponent only applies one way.

It’s infuriating.

(It hurts something deep inside Snape.)

It’s condescending.

(It doesn’t feel condescending in the same way that Lily teaching Snape charms never felt condescending.)

In hindsight, it’s Snape’ own fault for pairing Scamander with anyone from his Defense study group. He should have put him with Malfoy.

Argo figures out what he’s meant to learn from Miranda Goshawk’s Book of Spells almost disappointingly quickly. But then, it is a library book and he does have to return it, so the challenge is probably made easier on purpose so he doesn’t spend a whole month hogging the thing.

(He still spends as much time as he can with it, not knowing when he’ll next have opportunity to check it out of the restricted section, and learns every spell he reasonably can from it whether they’re relevant to his animagus mission or not.)

Which is why it isn’t long before he’s meant to board the train to leave for the winter holiday, just around the time that there’s another attack, this time on a Hufflepuff in his year and the Gryffindor ghost, of all things (Argo doesn’t know before this that basilisks can petrify ghosts, mostly as he doesn’t know ghosts can be petrified at all, so that does come as a surprise to him like anyone else.) that he finally attempts what he is certain is his challenge.

He stands in his study room looking up at the high ceiling, to a small crack in the wall near the very top. He conjures his birds and directs them to the crack, hoping that something, perhaps another black feather, will be within.

His birds struggle fiercely but manage to pull out a short rope which hangs limply from the entrance.

So, he’s right, there’s something hidden there, but his birds are far too weak to wrest whatever it is free. Does he need to summon something stronger? A bigger bird, perhaps? How does he control such a thing? His little house wrens just happen without much direction beyond “bird.”

Argo groans. He should know better by now. Professor McGonagall and this guy from the Circle of Khanna aren’t ever going to just hand him the win. Really, a lecture about conjuration, a spellbook with conjuration spells, and a mysterious crack in the wall that one of those conjurations spells might be able to make a creature to reach… too easy.

But how to overcome this, then?

Back to the grindstone.

With the idea of changing what kind of bird he conjures, Argo finds something promising in Book of Spells fairly quickly.

“But your teacher will be able to explain the Principle of Artificianimate Quasi-Dominance which will help you understand some of the many things that can go wrong when conjuring animals from nothing.”

Is the book telling him to ask his teacher about it a hint that he should go back to Professor McGonagall? It’s not the first time he’s told he should ask her for help, after all.

If the Principle of Artificianimate Quasi-Dominance is what it sounds like, Argo doesn’t think he needs to do more than just find another book that addresses the subject, but on the other hand, he does want to talk to Professor McGonagall anyway.

He may not be as concerned about the basilisk loose in the school as the poor students who have no idea what “monster” is running amok, but as much as he loves all creatures, he’s not an idiot. A basilisk loose anywhere, especially a school, is a recipe for disaster. Grandpa Newt has written back to him, and he needs to figure out what, exactly, the school is doing about the issue so they can figure out what to change or continue to actually solve it.

He asks Professor Kettleburn, but nearly everything that man does is independent of the school, not any organized effort to find the basilisk and keep the students safe. And with the recent new attack…

It’s a miracle no one has died. The pure lucky coincidences that have led to indirect gazes thus far can only continue so long, and that’s not even considering the unanswered question of why the basilisk hasn’t just eaten the petrified students before they were found.

With that concern (and, frankly, task from his grandfather,) to address, Argo sends a note requesting a meeting with Professor McGonagall formally.

He’s still pretty sure he’s the only one who bothers going through the official channels like this, but he mostly doesn’t want to risk another student coming in for office hours and hearing about the basilisk if he asks her about it then.

He gets his meeting, asks about the transfiguration principle and gets his explanation, and then, when Professor McGonagall is sure he understands all he needs to know and is ready to dismiss him, he hesitates.

“You have something else on your mind,” Professor McGonagall says. “I would not recommend attempting conjuration like this with a split attention. Is it something I can assist with?”

Argo awkwardly clears his throat. “Er… yes, actually. It’s just… Can I ask, Professor, what exactly is the school doing to address the basilisk?”

Professor McGonagall raises an eyebrow. “Professor Kettleburn had mentioned you believe the monster is a basilisk.”

“He thinks so, too. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I don’t know if it’s a basilisk or a false basilisk I admit, but… Actually, I think with Nearly Headless Nick it can only be a true basilisk…”

Professor McGonagall stares him down for a moment, then sighs. “I appreciate your discretion on this matter, Mr. Scamander. If word got out that there is a basilisk in Hogwarts, there would be panic. More people would be hurt, perhaps killed, in the confusion.”

“I know,” Argo says. “I’ve read all about basilisks, I know how people have reacted to them before.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Only the Weasley twins, but they won’t tell anyone.”

Professor McGonagall nods sagely. “Incredibly clever, those two. I only wish they would apply themselves to their schoolwork as much as their pranks.” She takes a deep breath, leans on her desk, looking more weary than Argo has ever seen. It doesn’t suit her. “To answer your question, we are, of course, quietly searching every inch of the school.” Argo silently wishes the twins are further on their map – it’d be very useful in canvassing the school, even without whatever tracking charms are used to identify people. “I understand it is taking longer than you must be comfortable with,” Professor McGonagall continues. “But more to the point, what happened to Nearly Headless Nick was not as accidental as it appears.”

It takes Argo a moment to process that. “You’re using the ghosts?”

Professor McGonagall nods somberly. “The Hogwarts ghosts agreed to help us search the castle, and to watch out for the monster. Being transparent, we had hoped that if the basilisk does catch a student unaware, a ghost may be able to leap between them and the student would be merely petrified rather than killed.”

“Wow. Good thinking,” Argo says. “That never would have occurred to me. And it looks like you were right.”

Professor McGonagall nods again, but doesn’t look at all happy about it. “What we didn’t expect,” she says, “is that Nick himself could be petrified. The ghosts are in a panic, and as of now we are unsure if they will continue their search and protection.”

Argo’s chest tightens. “You’re planning to cure the petrification with a mandrake draught,” he says. “We don’t know that a potion will work on a ghost. Being petrified might not be as easily cured for them.”

“Precisely.” Professor McGonagall collapses in her chair like a huge weight presses down on her shoulders. “Mr. Scamander, because you understand what we are dealing with, I will be completely honest with you. If there is one more attack; if we cannot solve this problem over the holidays or the ghosts do not remain cooperative… it is likely that Hogwarts will have to close.”

Argo sincerely wishes that thought was at all surprising. But honestly? He’s surprised Hogwarts hasn’t already closed down, if only while the teachers search for the basilisk. Knowing about the ghosts makes the decision to keep the students in the school make more sense, but even still…

Argo has a magical home to return to. He even has another school or two he can transfer to if necessary. He’s distinctly advantaged to have that. Closing Hogwarts honestly wouldn’t hurt him personally much at all, but others, especially the muggleborns… Penelope, Granger, even Potter… where would they go? Penelope might be old enough to make it okay, but Granger and Potter still need to learn. At their age they still can’t fully control their magic. It’s dangerous not to receive an education.

Closing Hogwarts, while not affecting him terribly, would be devasting to so many people. If the teaching staff is seriously considering it now…

Argo sets his jaw and crosses his arms. It can’t happen. Not for long. And there’s only one way Argo can think of to stop it. He looks directly to Professor McGonagall and declares, “I’m going to stay for the holidays, and I’m going to ask my grandfather to come to the school. The basilisk needs to be found and dealt with, professionally.”

McGonagall, white at the thought of her second-year student so brazenly declaring he’ll help capture a basilisk, nonetheless answers, “I had considered… Professor Dumbledore no longer has quite the same amount of sway with your grandfather that he used to. We considered asking him to come only as a last resort.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re just about there, anyway,” Argo says. “And frankly, you should have called professionals from the moment Professor Kettleburn told you it’s a basilisk.”

“We have,” Professor McGonagall says. “They were unable to locate the beast. Perhaps your grandfather will do better.”

Argo can think of one way right now. Go to one of the sites where a student was petrified, maybe even that corridor where the message is written on the wall, and use the tracking spell. Argo hasn’t tried yet partly because he has other things to focus on with his schoolwork and transfiguration project, but also because he isn’t stupid enough to actively chase after a basilisk alone.

But it can’t be that simple, right? Not if other magizoologists have already failed to find it. Huh… Argo will have to talk it over with Grandpa Newt. Maybe just try it and see what happens.

“I’m going to send Grandpa Newt a letter immediately,” Argo says. “When he gets here, we’re going to meet with Professor Kettleburn and figure out how to find the basilisk and remove it safely once and for all.”

He doesn’t wait for approval or anything else. Argo leaves Professor McGonagall’s office to draft his letter.

McGonagall just stares at her door, after one of her most promising students, wondering how she could have failed him – failed all the students of Hogwarts – so terribly that a twelve-year-old has be the one to put his foot down to solve the school’s problems.

She remembers perfectly well what happened fifty years ago when the Chamber of Secrets was opened last time. Ms. Warren’s ghost is a constant reminder. It’s why she never once doubts the existence of the chamber, after Mrs. Norris is petrified. It’s why she does everything she can thus far to resolve this issue, including working with Professor Kettleburn and hiring those magizoologists and nagging Professor Dumbledore nearly every day.

But is she doing enough?

The attack on Mr. Finch-Fletchley, Mr. Scamander’s sudden (surprising) resolve… they tell her that she is not.

She will be at that meeting, once Newton arrives. To offer her assistance in any way they can use her.

Newt Scamander doesn’t expect the letter he receives from his grandson, but he doesn’t hesitate one moment to jump to his grandchild’s aid. Theseus and Tina mobilize almost as quickly as he does, and the delay is only because it’s his name on the letter.

It’s exceedingly rare for Argo to ask for help like this. For advice, to learn, yes, almost always, but to come help with something he cannot solve himself… Well, Newt thinks Argo is simply too sensible to get into situations that he cannot resolve himself, and thus doesn’t need to ask for their help. Tina and Theseus seem to believe more that he just likes the challenge.

Newt knows he’s going to have to fight to allow Argo to participate at all once they arrive. He’s tempted himself to tell Argo to sit back and let the adults solve everything, too. Of course, he is. It’s his grandson and a basilisk. But the simple fact that the adults have already failed thrice over means that will never work.

Argo is usually content to sit back and let the people who should handle things like this do so. He’s usually the first to go to an adult when it’s called for. But this is something he knows about, something he has trained for, and something that, when he does leave it to the adults, is not resolved for months now.

Argo has decided to solve the problem. He’s going to be working on it one way or another. Better to go together where they can keep an eye on him than allow him to run around behind their backs. It’s just like with the graphorn four years ago.

Besides, Newt knows Argo has been preparing no doubt since he learned about the possibility of a basilisk. He has plans, probably something very clever, and Newt is not going to underestimate just how much he can contribute because he’s still so young.

A basilisk is not something he’s comfortable handling alone, and Theseus and Tina are both extraordinary wizards, and familiar enough with creatures, but they still lack the kind of specialized training that Argo himself has been absorbing since he was old enough to ask for it. With so few other options to bring in to help, having his grandson there might be necessary.

But he’s getting ahead of himself. He still has to get to Hogwarts and find the creature.

Tina is the one who has the forethought to send a letter to their daughter to let her know what’s happening at her son’s school, since Newt is admittedly too caught up in the idea of finding a basilisk to think much of things like that.

(Oh, the things his daughter has had to put up with because of him…)

But from there, it’s straight to Hogwarts.

It’s some journey to cross the ocean, but apparating to just outside Hogwarts wards from there is a simple matter. Regrettably, because of the travel time getting across the ocean and the prep work, researching basilisks and how they’ve been dealt with historically (invariably killed, which Newt would like to avoid, especially if this is Salazar Slytherin’s basilisk – think of what skilled parselmouth could learn from it!), contacting the parselmouths he’s still connected with, and looking into Salazar Slytherin, the Chamber of Secrets, and Hogwarts itself, Newt doesn’t manage to actually arrive until well after Christmas.

Thankfully, he’s still quick enough that the holiday break hasn’t ended so the students haven’t come back, but Newt feels just awful that Argo misses Christmas with his family this year. Rolf, too, back home where only his parents stay when he’s used to everyone being together.

Maybe they can do something late, if he can resolve this quickly.

Unfortunately, none of the parselmouths Newt contacts are able to come themselves. It would be much better to have one on hand, as Newt’s parseltongue is broken at best and realistically limited almost entirely to just a few key words.

Newt does ask one of his magizoologist friends, who admits to being hired to look into it himself earlier in the year, and learns everything that has already been tried, so he at least has a starting point.

He shakes himself off as he marches across the bridge towards the towering ramparts of Hogwarts. Strange, how he remembers the place being so much grander. It’s still impressive, of course, but it’s not everything like it once was.

Dumbledore greets them at the gates, alongside McGonagall, Argo, and the current Care of Magical Creatures professor, Kettleburn.

“Welcome, welcome,” Dumbledore says. “It has been too long since I’ve seen you three.”

“Too long indeed, Professor,” Theseus says, though Tina wears a face like it hasn’t been long enough. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a social visit. We’re here to solve the basilisk problem. Hopefully, before your students come back to school.”

Dumbledore nods graciously. “I cannot express my thanks for your assistance in this matter. I could only have dreamed to have experts so colored as yourselves come to our aid in our time of need. Please, come in. Hogwarts is, as it always has been, your home. And whatever you may need from myself or the rest of the staff, do not hesitate to ask. It will be provided for you. The students’ safety is of the utmost priority.”

They walk together to the front door as Dumbledore speaks. “Minerva will fill you in on everything we know. You will of course have free access to all areas of Hogwarts. I only ask that you try not to disturb the few remaining students if they are trying to study.”

McGonagall clears her throat decisively, and Argo grabs onto Newt’s hand. “Follow me, please,” McGonagall says, turning to walk briskly to a nearby office.

McGonagall takes her seat at the desk, and Kettleburn stands off to the side near her, leaving the four Scamanders to arrange themselves opposite them. “Feels like I’m in trouble,” Theseus mutters, only mostly joking.

“Never in my life,” Kettleburn says, “did I imagine I’d get the chance to meet Newt Scamander himself!”

McGonagall clicks her tongue and glares at Kettleburn, silently chastising him into obedience. She turns her gaze to the Scamanders. “You know why you’re here,” she says. Then, she summons a thin stack of parchment. “This is everything we know. Everything that has happened, all official and unofficial records, every legend with even the slightest shred of possible credibility about the Chamber of Secrets, and everything that happened fifty years ago when the chamber was opened before.”

“This isn’t the first time the chamber has been opened?” Argo asks immediately.

McGonagall takes a deep breath. “No. Here. This will explain everything that I know.”

Argo takes the stack from her and, with a skillful geminio charm, duplicates it so that Newt can look through it as well without everyone crowding over him. It isn’t much, really. Newt leans in close with Tina to look it over together while Theseus reads with Argo, but the two groups are much the same in practicality.

All the petrifications this year makes it fairly obvious that there’s a basilisk in the school, but it’s not until a ghost is petrified that they can write off the possibility of a false basilisk. Tina and Theseus immediately zero in on the case from fifty years ago, about the young girl who dies and the one who is supposed to have been responsible.

“Rubeus Hagrid?” Theseus asks. “Isn’t he your groundskeeper?”

“He is,” McGonagall says stiffly. “Dumbledore does not believe he was guilty of opening the chamber last time.”

“But he was guilty of raising an acromantula in the school?” Tina asks.

McGonagall purses her lips. “Yes.”

“That’s wonderful,” Newt and Argo say at the same time.

“Has he kept it?” Argo asks.

“Is it still in the area?” Newt questions.

McGonagall’s lips twitch, but none of the Scamanders can tell if it’s into a smile or a scowl. “Could this monster be an acromantula?” she asks.

“Well, no,” Newt admits. “But acromantulas are fascinating creatures, really. If there is a nest of them nearby, I’d love to-”

“Newt,” Theseus says warmly. “One deadly monster at a time.”

Newt coughs, ducking his head. “Ah… right, of course.”

“In any case,” Tina says, “we know it wasn’t Mr. Hagrid who killed this girl fifty years ago, no matter what this report concludes. According to the same report, her body was unharmed. If it was an acromantula that killed her, there would be bite marks. They were obviously fabricating anything they could so that they could say the issue was solved.”

“Hang on,” Argo says, frowning at the papers. “I know this name. Myrtle Warren… Moaning Myrtle?”

“You are acquainted with Ms. Warren, Mr. Scamander?” Something in McGonagall’s tone, and Argo’s face, tell the aurors in the room that Argo shoudn’t be.

“Not personally,” Argo says. “But she haunts the girl’s bathroom on the first floor, doesn’t she? No one ever goes in there because they find her too annoying to deal with. At least, that’s what Granger said.”

“The basilisk’s last victim is a ghost?” Theseus asks. “Have you asked her about what happened last time?”

“Of course, we have,” McGonagall says. “Myrtle Warren is… a uniquely difficult ghost to handle.”

Argo stands. “I’ve already seen everything else here,” he says, handing the stack of papers off to Theseus, “so I’m going to go find Myrtle and ask about last time. If what I’ve heard about her is true, it’s probably best if I go alone. If I have permission to enter the girl’s bathroom, Professor?”

McGonagall looks ready to protest, but when none of the older Scamanders object to it (talking to a ghost is not a dangerous job, and the ghost of a student is much closer in mental age to Argo than any of them, so he’ll likely be better at it, anyway), she nods assent. “For the time being,” she says, “you will be considered part of your family’s investigation and granted the same privileges. I trust you will not abuse them.”

Argo just nods and takes off.

When he finds Myrtle in her bathroom, right next to where the message is still written on the wall, she is… exceptionally unhelpful. The moment he asks her what she remembers, she accuses him of just wanting to make fun of her and flies, wailing, into a toilet.

So… that could have gone better.

Next plan, ask Potter and his crew. They’ve been brewing Polyjuice Potion in there and thus have been coming and going for a month now. If they don’t know more, then Myrtle is probably more comfortable around them at least.

“Oh, yeah,” Potter says when Argo bring it up. The Weasley twins stare, gaping at him, not recovered from their shock enough to ask outright how Argo manages to get into the Gryffindor Common Room. The Weasley girl, also present, Argo only gets a glimpse of before she’s barreling up a staircase that must lead to their dorms. Potter just looks uncomfortable. “She… I think she likes me? I don’t know. I can try to ask about it, if that’ll help.”

“Please,” Argo says. Only once they’re out of the common room and he’s sure the Weasley twins aren’t following, Argo leans a little closer and whispers, “And if this really is Slytherin’s chamber, there’s a chance we’ll need parseltongue. I haven’t told anyone yet, but…”

“If you need me,” Potter says, “just say so. I’m happy to help however I can. I don’t care who finds out if it means stopping these attacks before someone gets killed.”

“Good.”

They talk to Myrtle. She’s much more forthcoming with Potter, thankfully. “Ooooh, it was dreadful,” Myrtle says when Potter asks how she died, in a tone rather like he’d asked her about her greatest accomplishment. “It happened right here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then –” Myrtle swells importantly, her face shining. “I died.”

Wow. Lucky Granger used the second-floor bathroom to cry last year. Not that the troll is that much better. Is there a thing about the girls’ bathrooms at Hogwarts?

“How?” Potter asks.

“No idea,” says Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…” She looks dreamily at Potter. “And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she’d ever laughed at my glasses.”

Potter looks to Argo briefly, probably wondering about the eyes as Argo realizes he hasn’t actually told Potter what the monster is. “Where exactly did you see the eyes?” Potter asks, thankfully not interrogating Argo yet.

“Somewhere there,” says Myrtle, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front of her toilet.

Argo hurries to it, examining it carefully to find a tiny snake scratched into the side of one of the copper taps.

“That tap’s never worked,” Myrtle says brightly.

“What if I try parseltongue? The boy spoke a strange language – it’d make sense.” Potter says.

“No,” Argo says immediately, pulling Potter away. “Not yet, anyway. It’s too likely to work and we don’t know that opening it here won’t draw the monster’s attention. We’re going back to get my grandparents and Professor Kettleburn, and then we can try.”

Harry hesitates but agrees.

“Good job, Potter. Thank you, Myrtle.”

They rush back to the office Argo leaves the adults in, Argo explains what Potter needs to know on the way, and burst in. Granny Tina and Grandpa Theseus are ready with their wands drawn immediately. “What did you find?” Granny Tina asks.

“We found the entrance to the chamber,” Argo reports. “Myrtle wouldn’t talk to me, but she likes Potter, so I asked him to help. She told us that she saw the basilisk come out of the pipes in her bathroom. From what Myrtle told us, we suspect the entrance will open with parseltongue, but we haven’t tried since we don’t know if opening it will draw the basilisk out.”

“I’m a parselmouth,” Harry offers immediately and without prompting. “I can help in any way you need me to.”

“A parselmouth!” McGonagall and Kettleburn exclaim, but the Scamanders don’t do any more than examine Harry more closely.

“What do you think, Newt?” Theseus asks. “Will you be able to get it open, or should we keep Mr. Potter on hand?”

Newt absently twiddles with his wand. “I hate to involve another child, but… if the entrance requires any more than the most basic of speech – any sort of password, for instance – or if we need more parseltongue within the chamber itself, I’m nowhere near good enough to do. We should bring him at least to that bathroom, if he’s willing to help.”

“Understood,” Theseus says. “Good job, kids. Lead the way, but once we get to that bathroom, you stay behind us, you understand?”

“Yes, Grandpa Theseus,” Argo says immediately.

He nudges Harry, drawing a quiet, “Yes, Mr. Scamander,” from him.

Their run back to the bathroom is interrupted in the corridor just outside their destination, when they all freeze in shock at the new message that has appeared there. “That wasn’t there when we came here before,” Argo says, breath tight. “It must have just happened.”

“Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever,” Potter reads. “Whose?”

“Does it matter?” Tina asks. “This just turned into a rescue mission. Professor McGonagall, please shut down the school. Ensure all students are in their common rooms and do not permit them to leave until you get the all-clear from one of us. If you do not receive the message in three hours, assume we’re dead and begin evacuations. Professor Kettleburn, you’re coming with us. We’re going into the chamber. Now.”

Everyone does as they’re told when Argo’s granny gives orders. Even professors.

“Oh, and Professor McGonagall?”

McGonagall pauses. “Yes?”

“Do not under any circumstances, allow Dumbledore to follow us in. We will not tolerate a rogue agent in the chamber. If we wants to help, tell him to guard this entrance so that the basilisk can’t come out, but our team and our team alone will be exploring within. Do you understand?”

McGonagall nods, then takes off to get all the students in their common rooms. They’re already hearing her voice echoing magically through the halls when they enter the bathroom and Harry asks, “Why can’t Professor Dumbledore come?”

“He has a habit of… interfering,” Theseus says kindly. “As of now, this is a professional job and even if Dumbledore is a great wizard, he’s an extra factor that we can’t consider while we plan how we move through the chamber. Any independent agent, even one so powerful and on your side, is dangerous in a situation like this where we have to maintain control. Does that make sense, Mr. Potter?”

“I… suppose so. He might do something unexpected, and the surprise would be dangerous, even if it’s meant to help. Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly. Now, why don’t we get this chamber open? Wands at the ready. Argo, where are we looking at?”

Argo directs them to the proper sink, then steps back behind the line of adults while Newt attempts some strange hissing at it. After a moment of trying, he shakes his head. “I fear my pronunciation is off. Mr. Potter, if you would like to try?”

Harry hesitantly steps forward, but when he speaks, he just says, in English, “Open up.”

“In parseltongue, Mr. Potter. Have you ever tried to it on purpose before?”

Harry shakes his head no.

“Well, we don’t have time to practice if someone’s been taken,” Argo says. He points his wand into the bowl of the sink. “Serpensortia.” A small, thick hognose snake flops into the sink, then looks up at the people gathered. “Talk to the snake, Potter.”

Harry gulps, but looks at the snake and talks again, this time hissing rather than speaking English.

At once, the tap begins to glow brilliant white and spins. Argo only just manages to vanish the snake before the sink begins to move, sinking right out of sight to expose a large pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

The adults usher Harry and Argo behind them, wands ready, but when there’s no sign of the basilisk emerging, they begin to relax.

“I’ll go first,” Newt says. “Then an auror, then Professor Kettleburn, then the children, and the other one of you will come up behind us.”

“We are not taking the kids down there,” Theseus protests.

“We must,” Newt says, though he’s visibly pained to say it. “I sincerely doubt this sink is the last time we’ll need parseltongue, and I trust Argo to handle himself and keep his friend safe.”

Tina pauses, then huffs. “We need Mr. Potter, and no matter who he is, I’d rather have Argo there with him so we aren’t dealing with just an unknown child.”

“Argo does know how to work with us, and he can keep Mr. Potter caught up…” Theseus sighs.

Harry is vaguely offended that they don’t trust him to follow orders without Argo to babysit him, but he realizes just how serious the situation is and knows that he doesn’t have any familiarity with the kind of military organization these people seem to have. He’ll be thankful to have Argo there with him.

“Fine,” Theseus says. “Mr. Potter, Argo… I trust we don’t have to emphasize just how important it is that you follow every order we give you without hesitation.”

“Not at all, sir,” Harry says quickly.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Argo says. “Just maybe one of my most dangerous ones.”

One of? Harry shudders to think of what else compares. He knows there’s some kind of creature Argo is deathly afraid of, because of a bad encounter when he was younger. He’s learning an incredibly difficult charm specifically to counter it because of that. What can be worse than a basilisk, if what Harry is told about the thing is true?

“I’ll see you at the bottom,” Newt says with a shaky smile, then he steps into the pipe and falls.

Tina waits until Newt’s patronus appears, reporting that it’s a frightening, but relatively safe slide, and that he places cushioning charms at the bottom for the kids, before she jumps in without hesitation.

Professor Kettleburn goes next, then Argo (after making sure Jason, in his robes, is tightly secure), then Harry, then Theseus comes up behind them.

It’s a long slide, and it’s damp and dark and slimy the whole way, but they end up in a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in easily.

“We’re probably under the lake,” Professor Kettleburn says thoughtfully, examining the walls.

“Wands ready,” Tina warns. “No sign of anything yet, but any hint of movement and you close your eyes.”

Everyone lights their wands, and they set off into the dark tunnel.

They walk, hearing their own breath echoing off the walls, for a long time before they stumble across something interesting.

“Hold on, everyone,” Newt says, kneeling down before something in the gloom. “Argo, Professor, come take a look at this.”

Argo joins his grandfather next to a huge shed skin. “Look at the crown,” Argo says.

“No place for feathers to emerge,” Kettleburn hums. “We’re dealing with a female, then.”

“A positively ancient female,” Newt confirms. “Large enough to swallow any of us whole. Basilisks don’t grow very quickly, beyond their initial years, like most creatures. For her to have gotten to this size…”

“Have you gotten what you need?” Tina asks.

“Yes,” Newt says. “Based on the shed, the basilisk is clearly far too old to have been hidden here the last time the chamber was opened. She likely belonged originally to Salazar Slytherin himself. Harry.”

Harry starts. “Y-yes, sir?”

“We’re going to have to ask you to talk to her. Try to convince her to cooperate with us. We don’t know why she’s striking out at the students yet, but given she’s never emerged before except for that one time fifty years ago, she’s likely not acting alone. Someone, a parselmouth, is likely ordering her to attack the students. Tina, Theseus, your first priority, after ensuring we’re all safe, is to eliminate that influence on the basilisk. Harry, once that’s done, you’re to try to convince her that we’re not her enemies.

“Killing her would be such a terrible waste. Your own safety is most important, so of course, protect yourself if necessary, but basilisks are intelligent creatures. We must try reason first.”

Harry gulps. “I… I understand. I’ll do my best.”

Newt smiles reassuringly, then turns to continue through the tunnel.

They come soon enough upon a wall with two entwined serpents are carved into the stone, their eyes made of emeralds. “This is you, Harry,” Newt says quietly.

Harry hisses lowly once more, and the wall cracks open. The serpents move, separating, and the wall slide smoothly back.

The chamber beyond is lit, dimly, with a magical green gloom. At Tina’s order, all wands are extinguished. The whole group is tense as they make their way past enormous stone pillars with more carved serpents circling them. Every step echoes loudly off the shadowy walls.

When they pass the last of the pillars, a great statue appears against the far wall. Everyone has to crane their necks to get a look at the face, but what they see is unmistakable. Old and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard as long as Dumbledore’s falling over his sweeping robes.

Between Salazar Slytherin’s stone feet, however, facedown, lay three small, black-robed figures with flaming red hair.

“Ginny!” Harry gasps.

“Fred and George!” Argo starts. “What are they doing down here?”

Theseus keeps a firm hand on both Argo and Harry’s robes. “They must have followed their sister. Together across the room, now.”

They move in one tight bunch, backs to each other so there’s a wand in all directions, across the vast open space of the room to get to the three Weasleys.

Argo drops to his knees next to the Weasleys, wincing carefully at how Fred and George are wrapped protectively around their sister, and slowly pulls the twins back, checking on them each in turn.

Alive. Not petrified. Just knocked out. Spellwork, too, not force. Argo hasn’t ever used this spell practically before, but Auntie Lally says he’s got it fairly well. He points his wand at Fred and whispers, “Rennervate.”

Fred groans quietly, and stirs weakly, drawing a relieved sigh from Argo. Chest buzzing, he moves on to George, then Ginny.

All three wake up, though Ginny takes some more doing than the twins.

Ginny, seeing Harry and the adults there, almost immediately starts sobbing. The only thing remotely comprehensible from her is just muttered apologies. George wraps her up tight in his arms. Fred eyes the adults, but ultimately talks mostly to Argo.

“It was Ginny,” Fred says tightly. “She opened the chamber, she wrote those messages – but it’s not her fault! After you came by the common room asking for Harry, we were curious, so we checked… you know.” The map. “Ginny ran off to that bathroom right after you did. We thought she was just stalking Harry, but we knew something was going on so we followed to make sure she got back safe.”

“And you saw her open the chamber.”

“Write the message, open the chamber, and jump in,” Fred confirms. “We only just got in behind her before the opening closed again.”

Argo shakes his head. Gryffindors. Following is the stupidest thing they can do in that situation.

“But you have to believe me, she wasn’t herself!” Fred insists. “She’s possessed or something! She doesn’t even know parseltongue! There’s no way she would have been able to find her way here alone!”

“Relax,” Argo says gently. “We believe you.” Fred shudders into a sigh. “What’s most important is getting everyone out safely. Are you able to move?”

Fred shakily nods and stumbles to his feet. “I think so. Not so sure about Ginny, though.”

Ginny, who is awake but is still collapsed into George’s chest sobbing her eyes out, doesn’t even attempt to stand. George does, though, and ends up basically carrying her when she continues to be unwilling or unable to move under her own power.

“If the girl is the one who opened the chamber,” Tina says, “who influenced her and how?”

“And where is the basilisk?” Theseus asks.

“Don’t worry,” says a soft voice, which draws the points of six different wands, “it will come.”

The source of the voice is a boy. A tall, attractive, black-haired boy leaning casually against the nearest pillar, watching. He’s strangely blurry around the edges, as though he’s seen only through mist, and though he’s solid, solid enough to hold what must be Ginny’s wand, he has a strange light shining about him like a ghost.

“That’s him,” Fred whispers lowly, just for their own group to hear. “He stunned us when we tried to drag Ginny out of here.”

“He must’ve taken our wands, too,” George whispers.

The boy stares impassively, but his voice is disproportionately dark. “You’ve really ruined my plans, you know. It was supposed to be slow. Subtle. But now you’ve barged in here where you don’t belong, and you’ve left me with no choice but to respond with force.”

“Who are you?” Theseus asks.

The boy laughs, a high, cold laugh that doesn’t suit his appearance. “In a few moments, you will all be dead, so it doesn’t much matter, does it? It is a shame, though. I wanted to speak with you, Harry Potter, but you’ve rushed my plans and some things… must be sacrificed, I suppose.”

Then the boy hisses. Harry gasps, glances up before he jolts and turns his gaze back downwards, and shouts. “The basilisk! From the statue’s mouth!”

“Children in the back!” Tina shouts. “Newt! Theseus!”

Argo and Harry, along with Fred, George, and Ginny, are forcefully shoved behind the four adults and the shimmering shield they conjure between them and the room. They hide there, between the statue’s feet, averting their eyes, until they hear a distinct thud of something huge hitting the chamber floor.

Argo doesn’t wait a second. He doesn’t even glance up to see the scales to confirm it’s the snake, doesn’t even open his eyes. “Fumos!”

The cold, high laugh of the boy echoes in the chamber. “Do you think a simple smokescreen will save you? It’s clever, I admit, to protect you from the basilisk’s gaze, but it can still find you, and its venom will still end you, and now, you are blind, as well!”

Argo finally dares to open his eyes, shuddering breath hitching when he sees only white smoke. Deep breath. He has a plan. The boy is a variable Argo doesn’t expect, but he can do this. “Appare Vestigium.”

Newt gasps when his grandson casts the spell, realizing immediately what a clever boy he is, then is impressed further when he sees how it actually plays out.

Golden dust pours out from Argo’s wand, over the adult’s shield, into the room beyond, congregating on and sticking to both the basilisk and the boy commanding it. By tracking the golden light through the smoke, they can tell easily where both the basilisk and the boy are, but as the tracking spell doesn’t land on them, neither of the two threats can so easily locate them within the smoke.

And Newt notices quickly that one thing shines more brightly than everything else. The boy’s wand. Argo can’t possibly intend… Newt reaches back to Argo, who pulls Jason the niffler out from his robes. Jason’s eyes fix immediately on the glow in the smoke, but Newt grabs him firmly and tucks him away, sternly whispering patience.

“Excellent work, Argo,” Tina says quietly.

“Mr. Potter,” Theseus says. “You know the basic shield charm?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You and Argo will protect the Weasleys. The rest of us will enter the smoke and take out the wizard. When we go, you move, too. He already knows where we are as we stand, so you have to move so he can’t find you.”

“That also means we won’t know where you are,” Tina says. “You will have to be on top of shielding in case a stray spell comes your way.”

“I can handle that,” Potter says.

“We’ll be fine,” Argo assures, adding his wand to the shield the adults are maintaining. “Go. Send blue sparks when you take down the wizard, so Potter knows to start trying to talk to the basilisk. We’ll be as silent as we can until then.”

Theseus grins. “My grandson is a genius.”

Newts makes an odd, squeaking noise. “He’s my grandson.”

“He calls us both grandpa,”

“Boys,” Tina hisses.

“Ah, to fight side by side with legends!” Kettleburn laughs. “I’ll treasure this day for the rest of my life!”

“Boys! – You got the shield, Argo? Good. – Now! Go!”

The four adults rush off into the murk, leaving Argo manning the shield alone, since Harry doesn’t know persistent shielding yet.

Argo takes a deep breath and glances back to the Weasleys and Potter. “You heard them, we have to move, too.” Ginny’s sobbing makes Argo wince. “George, can you shut her up?”

George looks helplessly at him for a moment, so Argo sucks in a breath, whispers for them all to duck, and passes George his wand.

Argo really needs to learn a silencing charm, but luckily it only takes George a matter of seconds, surprising everyone but Argo and Harry, who doesn’t know to be surprised, at just how easily it responds to him.

“That is a pretty wand,” George says, handing it back. “Almost works like my own.”

“It knows we’re in danger,” Argo explains. “But later. Now, keep quiet and stay close. Hold on to someone. We can’t be getting separated with only two wands between the five of us.”

Argo grabs Fred’s hand, who holds onto George, who is still carrying Ginny, while Harry grabs hold of George from the other side, wand ready in his free hand. All together, Argo leads them away from their shelter, avoiding the bright glow of the two dangers in the room, and careful of the flashes of magic criss-crossing the place. He’s torn on whether he should stay on the move or just find a new place to hole up, but when he finds one of the tall pillars decides that it’s about as defensible a position as he can get and Harry, while talented with defense, isn’t experienced enough to be out in the open.

He doesn’t think he is, either, to be honest.

Then they wait. Argo keeps his shield up, an exhausting affair, and at one point a purple curse jumps entirely unbidden from Argo’s wand, which he’s only somewhat prepared for – Wolfe, the wandmaker who crafts his wand for him, warns him that it might do that sometimes if he’s in danger, but it’s never happened before. Harry pulls his weight, too, shielding any time a spell comes towards his end of the pillar.

But they can’t falter. They can’t rest. Not until they see the blue sparks.

They watch the golden glows in the smoke. The bright wand moves rapidly, faster than they can track, as spell and curse is fired one after another in rapid succession. The basilisk roams the room, searching, and Argo tugs the others to another pillar and casts a scent-masking charm once when it gets too close to them. They even see what must be it striking at something a few times, but there’s not much they can do to help, and it’s better to hold position quietly than send attacks out and give away their location.

Argo has to stop Harry from doing just that multiple times.

Argo’s heart pounds in his chest. It’s his family that’s fighting right now. He’s more aware than anyone just how skilled they are, but he’s terrified that one of them will… not make it out.

But he must stay firm. Keep a stiff upper lip. Do not bend. He holds strong, has faith, and protects his friends. That’s what he can do.

It feels like hours before the spells slow. Argo doesn’t know what happens exactly, but the glowing wand jerks suddenly, like the one holding it stumbles, then it is wrested from his grasp entirely, clattering to the floor, and then it disappears. This has to happen, with variations, twice more before the spells cease and, after a long pause of just hissing and the glowing form of the basilisk lurking through the fog (Harry can understand the orders, but as the wizard commanding the basilisk doesn’t know exactly where anyone is, either, it’s mostly just variations of “find them!”), Argo finally sees tell-tale blue sparks.

He whispers the smokescreen spell again, ensuring the smoke doesn’t begin to dissipate, and taking Fred’s hand again, sends out green sparks.

He leads the group to a point well within the columns, between where he casts the sparks and where the adults do and waits for the adults to find them.

Newt finds them first, and hands Argo Jason, who proudly pulls three wands out of his pouch which are quickly distributed back to the Weasleys. When Kettleburn finds them as well, Newt goes with Harry to start trying to communicate with the basilisk while moving so that she can’t find them before they can convince her not to eat them.

“Hello?” Harry says nervously as he’s led by the hand by Newt Scamander. (Even he’s heard of Newt Scamander.) Thankfully, focusing on the giant golden snake moving through the thick smoke is enough for Harry to be speaking parseltongue, which was in question at first.

“Where is the Heir?” the basilisk asks, her voice deep and dark, “I cannot hear him anymore.”

“The Heir? You mean that boy? He was trying to hurt people, so they defended themselves.”

“He was defeated?”

“Yes.”

“…Weak. I should not have bothered listening to a weakling who would be defeated so easily. I will not the same mistake again.”

“You were attacking the students on his orders, weren’t you?”

“I chose to play along, as I am choosing to entertain you now.”

“You chose to? You didn’t follow him because he’s Slytherin’s Heir?”

A sharp, dangerous hissing fills the air, which doesn’t make words but gives the impression to Harry like a grunt of disgust. “Salazar was the one who protected me, not his Heir. I care not for any Heir. The only reason I didn’t eat him from the start is that Salazar asked me not to harm his line. You, though… you’re a Speaker, but you do not smell of Salazar’s magic. You are like the Proxy. Why should I not eat you, I wonder…?”

Harry, unsure of any reason he can give that will prevent the basilisk from eating him, hisses, “I don’t know. I’m a student of Hogwarts, of which Salazar was a founder, but personally, I don’t know.”

More hissing, but this time Harry gets the sense of laughter. “You do not beg for life? …Amusing. I am… interested. Enough, at least, to wonder why you are here. Answer.”

“I only want to stop the attacks on the school,” Harry says truthfully.

“And how do you mean to do such a thing, if I decide I am hungry?”

“None of us want to kill you, they-”

The hissing laughter grows. “Kill me? You think you are capable of such a thing?”

“Not alone,” Harry says, “but the people with me are strong, and clever, and I have no doubt that they are capable of it.”

His words surprise himself. He doesn’t honestly think he can rely on the adults, but, for perhaps the first time in Harry’s life, adults come in and made the situation better. They prove stronger than Harry can even fathom and take down the Heir without Harry ever having to fight himself.

He’s so used to having to do everything on his own. Even last year at Hogwarts he had to go through all those trials and take down Quirrell. That these people just… come because Argo asks is… unthinkable.

But it also inspires a great deal of faith. Harry thinks he can trust these people, and they say they are prepared to do what is necessary, so he believes they can, and that they’ll keep him safe.

“…Amusing. So amusing…” the basilisk hisses. “Dispel of this fog. I will listen to no weakling who hides and cowers. Show your face to me. Look me in the eyes. Let me taste of your magic. Then… we will see what I choose.”

“Your gaze is deadly,” Harry protests. “Looking you in the eyes would kill anyone.”

More laughter. “Are you one of Rowena’s?”

“No. I’m in Gryffindor. Although, another student here with me is in Ravenclaw.”

“Godric’s brat!” The sharp hiss of the laughter fills the room to the brim, sinking deep into Harry’s skin. “It’s a wonder you weren’t stupid enough to face me from the start! Must be the other’s influence… No matter… My eyes will not kill you, brat of Godric Gryffindor. If I choose to kill you, you will die by fang, trying in vain to defend yourself.”

Well, that doesn’t inspire confidence.

“The others won’t be harmed, either?”

“Not by looking. Since yours have conquered the Heir, I will grant you that.”

Harry gulps, then relays the conversation thus far to Newt and asks him to dispel the smoke.

Newt considers this for a moment, but ends up nodding and asking Argo to cancel the spell. Even so, Newt carefully places his hands over Harry’s eyes, preventing him from looking as the fog clears. Harry’s breath hitches, realizing that Newt intends to take the risk himself, and that if the basilisk is trying to trick them, Argo’s grandfather will…

“Oh? And who is this?” There’s a certain fondness in her voice that wasn’t present before, and a distance, like she’s recalling something from a very, very long time ago. “Who takes responsibility for the little Speaker?”

Newt tilts his head, listening intently, and answers without Harry having to say anything. “Newt Scamander,” he says. “At the moment, Harry is under my protection, so, naturally I would never allow him to take this kind of risk.”

Harry is wondering whether he should translate or not when the basilisk laughs again. Newt tenses, not yet able to tell clearly what mood the hisses indicate. “Another Speaker? No… the magic is lacking. Someone who has actually taken the time to learn… now that is interesting. I have missed much over these centuries in this chamber, it seems.”

Apparently satisfied that the basilisk isn’t hostile, Newt slowly releases his grip on Harry, allowing Harry to see the basilisk for the first time. It’s huge, monstrous, with bright, poisonous green scales and enormous, bulbous yellow eyes on a blunt head.

The wizard who attacked them is nowhere to be seen, though as he was never all there to begin with Harry assumes he just vanishes. Argo and the others are all by a nearby pillar, coming out into the open now that the basilisk is, mostly, pacified. Argo and Professor Kettleburn are practically drooling to get closer, quite obviously, but the Weasleys are all packed tightly behind them, gaping in horror. Tina and Theseus stand at the front, wands down but still ready, and seem equally prepared to attack the basilisk as Argo and the professor to keep the distance between them and the snake.

The basilisk hisses, almost a hum, and focuses intently on Harry. He gulps under her intense gaze, which makes his skin prickle and his muscles quake, leaving him wondering if it’s the power of her gaze or simply his own fear which causes it. “There you are, Speaker,” she says. “I did not expect you to be so… young. What is a child like you doing in a place like this… with a creature like me…?”

“I’m the only parselmouth available right now, so…” Harry gulps. “And if we couldn’t talk you down, given the recent events in the school, the only solution left would have been to kill you. We didn’t want…”

The basilisk stays there, swaying only slightly, enormous head level with Harry’s and the rest of her body curled up on the ground, staring at him. After a long, long time, she hisses, “I will taste of your magic, and you will show me your strength. I mean my words, little Speaker. I will not bother to listen to a weakling. Aim your wand. Temper my scales with your magic. And do not fret, your age is… considered.”

Harry gulps. “I’m sorry, I… you want me to attack you?”

“Anything will do, but you must put your all into it. If you do not, I will eat you all.”

Oh. Lovely. Harry, with little choice in the matter, checks to make sure Newt understands what’s happening, then raises his wand. He takes a deep breath, summons as much strength as he can, and casts a simple knockback jinx, hoping that it’s both enough and not too dangerous.

The basilisk slides maybe a centimeter along the slimy floor. She tilts her head, flicking her tongue. “So that’s how it is… Stay still.”

Harry does so, hardly daring to breathe, as she slithers closer, until her flicking tongue very nearly touches him. She investigates him for a moment, then stops and flicks at his forehead for nearly a full five minutes before she finally backs off.

“Tell me, child,” she says. “What do you propose happens next?”

That is… a very good question. One he shamelessly passes off to Newt, who knows much more about… well, everything, than he does.

“Ideally,” Newt says carefully, addressing the basilisk despite only speaking in English, “you would allow me to take you to a reserve where magical creatures such as yourself live in peace and are provided for. The fact is, now that these attacks have happened, it is unlikely that the Ministry of Magic would allow you to remain in the school, even if we tried to keep your presence secret, and I shudder to think how badly it would go for anyone attempting to remove you.”

“This chamber has been my home for a thousand years,” the basilisk says. “What if I do not wish to leave?”

When the question is clarified to him, Newt answers, “Well, while I have no doubt of your incredible power, you are in a school. Every family in Wizarding Britain will want your removal. Every one. You would surely slaughter a great number of people who try to remove you, but…”

“I would be making an enemy of all wizardkind,” she concludes. “Even I cannot hope to survive such a struggle.”

Harry’s heart is tight in his chest. He knows, at least a little, how the basilisk feels. He never wants to leave Hogwarts. Hogwarts is his home, just like it is hers. And they’re asking her to leave and never come back.

“I have chosen… not to kill you,” the basilisk hisses lowly. “But I cannot leave yet.”

“Why?” Harry asks. “Is there something you still need to do? Or…”

“…Something like that. A task that needs to be done. One I only realized exists when I tasted your magic.”

“I… what? What is it?”

The basilisk watches him for another long, quiet moment. “The Heir. He is not defeated. Not completely. The means by which he came to be here… that is what I need to destroy.”

“Destroy the Heir? I thought you didn’t want to harm Slytherin’s line.”

The basilisk sways a little, as if in thought. “I learned of something. Something Salazar detested. I believe… he would rather his line end.”

Harry stands, utterly frozen, as he attempts to comprehend the thought. “What is it? What could be so horrible?”

“…Nothing you need concern yourself with, child. You are still young. Enjoy your time learning, protected from monsters like me, and think no more of this. If you ask… I will not answer.”

With no other option, Harry gives up. He’s not about to argue with a basilisk, no matter how horrible he feels about the topic.

The basilisk looks over to the others by the pillar and hisses darkly, “Bring the Proxy to me.”

Harry follows her gaze to Ginny, who by now is recovering and sticking her chin out bravely, despite still trembling and clinging to George. “You won’t…”

“Kill her?” The snake’s hissing laughter fills the room once more. “I should. But… no. I have chosen a task to finish and you… all of you… may yet prove useful to me. The Proxy’s death here would not advance my goals. I will not kill her… not while she can still serve a greater purpose alive than dead.”

As mollified as he’s ever going to get, Harry concedes to call Ginny over.

Ginny, whose only comfort since she wakes up in this chamber, practically since she starts at Hogwarts, is that her big brothers are clinging to her protectively, proving beyond any doubt that they still care for her despite… what she’s done. Ginny, who is so tired that her bones feel hollow, who is so confused knowing she’s lost time again, that the last thing she remembers before being woken here in the dark is Scamander entering the Gryffindor common room asking after Harry, and learning that the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is in the castle looking for the monster, knows that she is loved. Ginny, who has been fooled so thoroughly and bewitched so cruelly, knows that she does not deserve to be.

She knows better. She’s still young, still a foolish little girl, but her father has always said that they should never trust something that can think for itself if they can’t see where it keeps its brain. She never has found where the diary even comes from. It just appears in her things after their trip to Diagon Alley for their school supplies. Ginny should have known better than to trust it from the start. All of this, the attacks, the petrified students, the fear, the danger… it’s all her fault.

When Harry calls to her, assuring her that the basilisk will not harm her, Ginny doesn’t entirely believe him. She wrests herself from her brother’s arms anyway. She’s a Gryffindor for a reason, and she understands what must be done. Tom Riddle’s diary is the crux behind this all. It uses her, but it’s still the source. Either the diary needs to be destroyed, or she does. Or maybe both. Ginny will face this as gracefully as she can for her brothers.

She can’t keep from shaking. Her breath and bones shudder without her consent, but she lifts her head and stares the basilisk in the eyes. Even when she thinks her body is seizing up, that the basilisk’s gaze will kill her, she clamps shut her jaw and refuses to look away or drop her head.

The basilisk slithers towards her. Its head lifts even with hers. It flicks it tongue, smelling her, investigating her, then hisses.

“She wants-” Harry says.

“I know what she wants,” Ginny says stiffly. She reaches into her robes, unsurprised to find the diary there, hidden, safe. Ginny’s skin crawls and she whimpers to touch it, but she grabs hold of it anyway to drag her greatest shame into the open.

The snake strikes.

For a heart-stopping moment, Ginny thinks that’s it for her. She flinches violently, even drops the diary, expecting the blade-like teeth of the basilisk to sink into her flesh, to feel the world’s worst venom course through her veins, but after that moment, clarity returns. Ginny opens her eyes, gasping when she sees the basilisk with Tom’s diary in her mouth. There’s a horrible screaming, like something’s dying, and a black vapor wafts from the pierced pages, but both vanish in a moment.

“What… what was that?” Ginny asks when the basilisk drops the diary unceremoniously onto the slimy floor.

Newt Scamander, pale, glancing quickly just a little too obviously at Tina and Theseus, sweeps forward to scoop up the diary and tuck it inside his own robes. “That…” Newt says carefully, “is something that you children do not need to worry about anymore. You just focus on your studies and moving on from this, and let us adults make sure this never happens again, yes?”

Ginny, whose barely even understands who these people are, but knows that they’ve saved her, reluctantly nods her head.

Their trip into the Chamber of Secrets leaves many questions unanswered, and very little chance to find those answers in the hubbub that follows.

Newt brings the basilisk out in a special box enlarged on the inside to provide a suitable temporary habitat for her while they get through the school and out of the country. Dumbledore meets them all at the exit to the chamber, but Newt, Tina, and Theseus brush him off, telling him he can get his report from Kettleburn and that the basilisk is their current priority so they’ll just have to talk later if it’s that important.

“The basilisk is alive?” Dumbledore asks, sounding surprised.

“Well, we weren’t going to kill her,” hisses Argo, with far more venom than anyone present, even his grandparents, have heard the boy use towards an adult. “Why? Did you want us to?”

Dumbledore blinks at the little boy with hair so much like Lily’s, and a temperament to match, it seems, and carefully smiles. “My boy, all I wish is for the students of this school to be safe.”

“That’s why you didn’t ask my grandpa for help from the start, is it? Because you wanted us to be safe?”

Ah, Dumbledore realizes suddenly. That is why. The boy knows something of Dumbledore’s history with the older generation of Scamanders and has been taught their mistrust of him. That… is a terrible shame, but Dumbledore understands completely, and cannot manage to feel at all offended.

Especially if he knows about Grindelwald. Dumbledore still cannot forgive himself for that, so he can hardly expect the boy to do so.

The truth, however, is that Dumbledore assumes too much. Newt and the others want Argo to make his own opinion of the headmaster, and so tell him very little but some bare facts. Argo knows only that Dumbledore chooses this year to manage and cover symptoms, despite being informed early on just what is happening, and having connections to people more than competent enough to handle it. And he knows that it is him, the student, who has to step in to protect Dumbledore’s school.

Argo simply sees a headmaster so incompetent that he cannot even call the right people to handle the right jobs. Snape as a teacher, both of his Defense teachers, the troll, Hagrid’s dragon, the Sorcerer’s Stone, the basilisk… even Fluffy, really, who, though a sweetheart, should never have been in a school for children unequipped to respect him properly. The mistakes that he, as the headmaster of the school, never manages to keep away from the students just keep piling up. Argo is used to depending on the adults in his life, but has finally found one that he feels he cannot hope to rely on for anything at all.

In Argo’s mind, it is unforgivable.

Dumbledore doesn’t expect forgiveness. But he does expect answers, and is very surprised when Professor Kettleburn and the children, in his office later that day, come to an unspoken agreement that whatever happened in the Chamber of Secrets is to stay there and all he’s apprised of is the bare minimum.

Kettleburn sings Argo’s praises, telling Dumbledore, and McGonagall, of Argo’s quick and clever use of the smokescreen and tracking spells to protect everyone from the basilisk’s gaze without losing track of the beast.

After some careful prodding, Dumbledore gets the name Tom Riddle from Miss Weasley, answering, at least, the question of who opened the chamber, though everyone clamps up spectacularly on the how.

Well, Kettleburn just cheerfully admits to having no idea, and doesn’t elaborate further, but they all obviously know some hints, if not the exact means.

Dumbledore ends up dismissing them all from his office distinctly unsatisfied with the many questions still swimming in his head, and only just enough reason to give points and Special Awards for Services to the School to Harry and Argo for assisting in the relocation of the basilisk, and perhaps points the Weasley twins as well for their bravery in attempting to protect their sister when she was taken, all of which he is sure to follow through on.

Yet… how, exactly, is Voldemort infiltrating the school? Last year was far more obvious. The name, Tom Riddle… Dumbledore does not believe he would use it to go undercover, even if he had the means. He is too prideful, and too hateful of his muggle father’s name. So how would Ginny Weasley learn the name at all?

Curious. Very curious. Dumbledore turns to his pensieve immediately, drawing out the memory of the conversation with his wand. He can foresee many, many long nights examining this evening over and over again. But the clues are in front of him, if only he can piece them together.

For the children, Harry fills them all in, including Ron and Hermione, on the whole thing, as he understands it, and everything the basilisk tells him, and Ginny chimes in quietly to give more context to the diary, but no one can figure out just what the adults are so shaken by, or what the diary really is.

Argo, the only one with regular contact with the adults in question, and he supposes the basilisk herself now, too, asks his grandfather about it later.

Newt sighs tiredly, pulls Argo onto his lap and very carefully explains, “Your grandmother wouldn’t want me to tell you anything, you know.” He ducks his head. “Now, Argo, you must understand that I can’t tell you everything. There is a lot I’m still unsure about, that your grandmother and I are looking into, but there is also some that… that I would simply prefer you don’t concern yourself with.” He bounces Argo gently. “What do you think? Can you trust us to handle anything that needs to be done?”

“Of course,” Argo says without hesitation. His parents and grandparents have always been true and fair, and have never given him any reason at all not to believe them. If Grandpa Newt says that they’ll handle it, then Argo believes him.

Newt hums. “Good. Now, all I can tell you about the diary is that it is a very, very dark artifact, created, we think, by You-Know-Who. Tom Riddle, according to Theseus, who is looking into it for us, is the name of a half-blood orphan who attended Hogwarts when the Chamber of Secrets was opened before. Theseus suspects that Tom later adopted the name Voldemort, but… we don’t have conclusive evidence yet.”

“So that boy… that was You-Know-Who?”

“A memory of him,” Newt answers with a nod. “From when he was still a student. We don’t know whether he’d chosen the name by then, but if he made that diary, he was undoubtedly already a very powerful dark wizard. Now, you understand why this must be kept secret.”

“The same reason the basilisk had to be secret, even though everyone knew there was some kind of monster attacking people,” Argo says dutifully. “Putting a name to it makes it real. Incites panic. And You-Know-Who… if people hear he’s stirring again, the panic would be terrible.”

Newt nods, proud as ever of his grandson. Such a smart boy.

“I’m telling Potter,” Argo says after a moment of thought. “No one else, but this is the second time You-Know-Who has tried to kill him in as many years, and he said in the chamber that he had wanted to talk to Potter… he’s a target; he should know that it was You-Know-Who in that chamber.”

“You know,” Newt says quietly, “I quite agree. But him and no one else. The fewer people know, the better. Oh, and… how are things going with Harry? I hear you’re friends now.”

Argo makes a face. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, still obstinate in avoiding the erumpent in the room.

Newt just chuckles and kisses his grandson’s hair. Even if Argo says that… Newt has a feeling it won’t be long until their family is one member bigger. “Well,” Newt says, “if you decide you want to anyone over during the summer…”

“Not a chance,” Argo yowls immediately.

Newt just continues to laugh. “Just a thought.”

The school is abuzz after the holidays when the students return to the news that the famed Newt Scamander had come to visit and managed to safely remove Slytherin’s monster from Hogwarts. Professor Kettleburn somehow manages not to tell everyone the whole story, but is open enough with his fellow professors, omitting only Riddle and the diary and Harry’s parseltongue (which means largely fabricating most of the actual fight, but he still concludes with Newt subduing the basilisk and taking it away).

Gilderoy Lockhart, watching the school fawn over Scamander and Potter, who both receive Special Awards and two hundred points for their houses, all but assuring either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw’s victory in the house cup, smells a story.

Oh, it will be hard work to manage it, but gathering new stories is always hard work. He’s thinking… Bimbling with Basilisks. Or perhaps he’ll even be gracious enough to keep Harry involved, though at the moment he has no idea how the boy contributes to the whole ordeal. Herping with Harry, perhaps. It pains Lockhart to admit it, but privately he can admit it, but Harry is more famous than him. Using Harry’s fame to bolster his own may be wise. It will require some careful memory work, though. Much more careful and difficult than normal. But it may just be worth it.

The thing Lockhart just can’t wrap his head around, though, is how both boys balk at the attention. It becomes nearly impossible to catch them to ask about their time in the chamber because they actively dodge just about everyone. And since they both now no longer attend his classes (Lockhart’s classroom attendance is pitiful now, which incites a fury in him he’s rather unused to, which he directs squarely on Scamander, for walking out first and encouraging all the others.) he can’t even hold them there.

Difficult, very difficult… but never let it be said that Gilderoy Lockhart is unwilling to get his hands dirty. Still… he rather likes Harry more than that Scamander child. If it becomes necessary to do something a little… rougher on the mind, perhaps he should prioritize Scamander.

If he can’t corner the boy, though, he’ll have to resort to more… complicated measures. Gilderoy isn’t the most skilled with it, but seeing the use he takes time to learn. It’s one of the few pursuits which is limited by his skill rather than his willingness to practice, but Gilderoy is secretly passable with it.

If only he can find an opportunity…

Argo, once he returns to the school after spending the last few days of the holidays with his family at the reserve getting the basilisk settled in, gets fed up almost immediately.

He retreats to his study room, or the secret club room, and continues his studies as undisturbed as he can manage, but he still has to pass through the halls to classes.

He really should get started on learning the disillusionment charm.

With all the attention on him, he gets more and more uneasy. He hides away even more than before. He manages to conjure an eagle rather than the house wrens, and gets the next black feather for his transfiguration project, but is too distracted by the anxious fluttering in his gut to make much more progress.

Thinking maybe practice with the patronus charm may help his nerves, he tries that and it works, some, but once he’s back in the halls his skin crawls once more and he cannot help but feel as if the walls are watching him.

He’s getting paranoid, and he has no idea what might be causing it.

Argo takes some deep breaths in the safety of his dorm and pulls his copy of Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimency from his trunk. He means to work on this for Grandma Queenie anyway, and honestly for the wampus as well, though Argo thinks Scottie rather likes that he can see Argo’s intentions so easily.

He’ll… probably continue to let Scottie in. He likes Scottie, and doesn’t think he’ll ever have any thoughts he’ll be truly embarrassed to have a wampus see, not even when he’s older. It’s completely different from his grandmother. Still, it might be good to have the ability to block that, if he ever needs to.

It’s only then, well after the hype dies down and Argo knows his paranoia isn’t being caused simply by the increased attention on him, and he takes the time to renew his occlumency training, that he realizes what’s happening.

He’s rushing through the hall one day, heading promptly to his next class, when he feels a prickling. It’s slow and careful and if he weren’t already thinking about his occlumency he likely wouldn’t notice, but it nudges at his shields, almost tickles them, and backs off.

Argo’s occlumency shields are still rudimentary at best. He knows full well that any legilimens with any amount of skill can easily break through them. But they wouldn’t be able to break through undetected. And that, Argo suspects, is the key. That, or perhaps the legilimens who is after him is simply trying to make him paranoid. Brushing up against protections like that repeatedly is asking for anxiety, like setting off an alarm over and over again. Without those protections, he wouldn’t notice at all, and probably wouldn’t be getting anxious, either.

Not knowing who is trying to access his mind is worrying, but knowing finally what is happening is a huge relief to Argo. Legilimency he can deal with. Random paranoia with no obvious cause? Less so.

His confidence that he can figure out more with time doesn’t stop him from immediately sending a letter to his granny, or reporting it to Professors Flitwick and McGonagall.

“A legilimens, you say?” Flitwick asks, concerned.

“Yes, sir,” Argo says. “I’m sure of it.” He produces his book on legilimency and occlumency to prove to the professors that he’s been reading about it. “My grandaunt is a legilimens – the natural-born kind. She can barely control it even at her age, so all of us in the family learn occlumency young. My grandmother has been teaching me and encouraging me to study since before I came to Hogwarts, though I only truly started in earnest last year. My occlumency isn’t that good yet, but it’s enough for me to at least detect an intrusion if not stop it. Someone tried to get in my mind, and I think they’ve been trying for a while now. Since the holidays at least.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips press into a thin line. “This is a very serious accusation, Mr. Scamander.”

Argo smiles wryly. “I’m aware.” While legilimency isn’t illegal or anything, using it on someone unwilling is highly frowned upon. But Hogwarts takes it a little more seriously than the British Ministry, and forbids its use without permission from the teachers, which is only a little excessive because Hogwarts doesn’t teach legilimency in the first place. Hogwarts also lists very strict and severe punishments for teachers using unauthorized legilimency on students, which may be necessary if what Argo hears about Professors Snape and Dumbledore are true.

“Rest assured, Mr. Scamander,” Flitwick says, “we will investigate this incident thoroughly.” His face falls to share the next bit. “Although… with no idea as to who this legilimens may be, I’m afraid the likelihood of catching them is quite low.”

“I understand,” Argo says. “I didn’t really expect that you’d be able to do anything without more information. I just thought I should make you aware of the situation before anything escalates; if it does.”

“Do you plan on escalating the situation, Mr. Scamander?” McGonagall asks.

“I plan on improving my occlumency,” Argo says honestly. “And setting up new defenses. I have some ideas I’m not quite skilled enough for, but once I figure out how to implement them, any unwanted intrusions will be… unpleasant. Nothing harmful or permanent, just something to make it obvious who the culprit is.”

The professors look at each other. On one hand, their student is effectively issuing a threat. On the other… someone is trying to get into his mind without his consent. He has a perfectly reasonable justification for diving into a rather obscure branch of magic, but occlumency often involves suppression and, if not careful, repression of emotions, especially in its more basic form. It sounds like he already has a basic standing shield rather than relying purely on controlling his emotions, but… he’s still just twelve.

McGonagall makes her decision first. “We understand, Mr. Scamander. So long as you cause no harm, consider this permission from the school to root out the legilimens targeting you.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Argo stands. “That’s all that I needed to speak with you about. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my studies.”

“Mr. Scamander,” McGonagall can’t help but call after him. He stops in the doorway to look over his shoulder. “I am sorry. Sincerely. After everything with the basilisk, and now this… Hogwarts has failed you. But I promise you we will assist you with this in any way we can.”

Argo stops short, not expecting anything like that. His gut hurts with the thought, and his eyes water as he bows his head. It’s true. The reason Argo takes the whole situation with the basilisk into his own hands is that the school proves too incompetent. Dumbledore, the headmaster, is the worst offender. And now Argo is effectively being attacked in the school. And he’s not even the first to be attacked, just the most recent, and the most subtly.

Hogwarts fails badly.

But Argo never expects his professors to apologize for that.

“I don’t blame you, professors,” Argo stammers. He mostly blames Dumbledore, it being his school and all. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall have gone out of their way to help Argo at almost every turn. “But thank you.”

“Legilimency,” Argo says to the frankly absurd gathering of students he’s managed to gather for his Defense lessons. Now it isn’t only his group of Gryffindors and select few from other houses, but what must be nearly half his year, including some of the meaner Slytherins like Malfoy he never expects to put up with him, as well as a great number of older students, mostly fourth or third year, but there is a strange surge of fifth-years as well, who seem to be very stressed, just generally. “Legilimency is, in simple terms, mind-reading. But the mind is not a book to be cracked open and read. Master legilimens actually spend more time learning to interpret minds rather than detecting them.

“But legilimency is not the topic I want to focus on today.” There’s a surprising grumble of disappointment – Argo doesn’t expect so many of his crowd would be interested in legilimency. “But rather, it’s counter. Does anyone know what I’m referring to?”

A fifth-year Hufflepuff raises her hand – Argo recognizes her because the twins point her out to him, and he often catches her looking his way if they’re in the same room together, which is admittedly rare with her being so much older. “Occlumency is the counter to legilimency,” Beatrice Haywood answers. “It involves protecting one’s mind from intrusion. May I ask, why are we delving into such an obscure branch of magic? I thought this was a defense club?”

Argo nods. “Exactly right, thank you Beatrice. And to answer your question, this isn’t actually meant to be a defense club, as I started merely tutoring a few students in my year and the rest of you just showed up.” There’s a hesitant, awkward giggle from the crowd, but Argo rolls his eyes to let them know he’s not actually that bothered. “The original point of this group,” he says, “is not to replace Lockhart’s abysmal teaching for our exams, but to practice real defense which can be used in a practical way. Legilimency and occlumency are indeed obscure branches of magic, but who do you suppose stand a great deal to gain from using them? Especially legilimency?” He lets that sink in. “Anyone who wishes to know your secrets, who is suitably talented in the art of legilimency, can penetrate your mind and look for whatever they wish to know. Granted, the number of talented legilimens known at the moment are few… who can name one?”

“Professor Dumbledore!” Anthony shouts. “I remember someone talking about it before. He’s apparently a skilled occlumens, too!”

There’s a murmuring from the crowd, unsurprised that Dumbledore has mastered such obscure magic. Then Potter raises his hand. “This is just a guess,” he says, “but I don’t suppose V- Er… You-Know-Who?”

The room hushes instantly.

“Correct, Potter,” Argo says firmly, pressing the seriousness into his audience.

“How would you know?” someone in the crowd shouts.

“My grandmother and granduncle are aurors,” Argo says. “You already know that. That’s why I know as much defensive magic as I do as a second year. They both followed the war with You-Know-Who closely. He reportedly delighted in invading the minds of his victims, driving them to insanity. It’s one of a few reasons why they insisted that my brother and I learn occlumency from such a young age. The other reasons being that my grandaunt is a natural-born legilimens and we have a wampus on our reserve.”

“I’m sorry,” a Hufflepuff fourth-year, Cedric Diggory, another student the twins point out to Argo, says. “A wampus?”

“Yes,” Argo says simply. “Wampus are legilimens. If you look into their eyes, they can hypnotize you and read your mind. They’re one of a few species of magical creature with the ability.”

“I know,” Cedric says. “My father works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – sorry about the trouble he always causes your family, by the way,” Argo snorts, rolling his eyes, knowing exactly who Amos Diggory is, “but aren’t wampus dangerous? The Ministry rates them five Xs.”

“Oh, incredibly so,” Argo says. “Faster than arrows, incredibly strong, and again hypnosis and legilimency… wampus are some of the deadliest creatures in North America. But Scottie is a sweetheart, and one advantage of the creature being able to use legilimency is that so long as you let him, he can tell you don’t mean him any harm. Scottie is actually quite protective of me, and I’ve been trained on how to recognize his signals, and so he’s perfectly safe. For me. But do keep in mind, this is a relationship built specifically between us, which developed over a long time. None of you should ever try to approach a wampus you’re unfamiliar with, even one like Scottie who likes certain people. They’re still wild animals.

“Ah, but we’ve gotten sidetracked,” Argo says. “The topic for today’s meeting is occlumency, the counter to legilimency. Keep in mind that some are much more suited to the art than others, and actually blocking out powerful legilimens is an incredibly difficult endeavor. That said, even novice occlumens aren’t helpless against skilled legilimens. For one, your very first goal in the study of occlumency, no matter what any textbooks tell you, should be to build a rudimentary standing shield. This shield is magical in nature – if you’ve practiced the sustained shield charm we covered a few weeks ago, many of the principles are actually the same.

“But almost any occlumency book will recommend meditation and controlling your emotions as a first step. Can anyone tell me why?”

Argo is frankly surprised that Granger doesn’t raise her hand. In fact, the only one that does is Beatrice. Since they’re talking about a rather obscure branch of magic, Argo isn’t surprised that most students don’t know much about it, but he does wonder why Beatrice does. Is there a legilimens in the Circle of Khanna?

Beatrice answers. “Controlling your thoughts and emotions is the first step to fooling a legilimens,” she says, “which is a far easier feat than blocking them out entirely. A shield can be broken through, but muddling the message the legilimens sees is both much easier than maintaining a shield, and usually more effective in keeping your thoughts safe.”

“Right again, Beatrice.” Argo nods. She offers him a secretive smile. “If you’re trying to protect your secrets, its much faster and more reliable to practice controlling your thoughts and emotions rather than rely on shielding. So why would I recommend setting up a rudimentary shield first?”

Beatrice elects not to answer this one, so when no one else does Cedric hesitantly raises his hand. “Is it because… a shield, even if it couldn’t block anyone out, would… alert you to an intrusion?”

Argo grins. “That’s exactly right. There is another reason, though, specifically on why we shouldn’t focus too much on that aspect of occlumency so young. Anyone?”

Surprising probably everyone, it’s Malfoy who answers. “Maintaining control of one’s emotions, especially as a child, can easily lead to repression instead.”

Argo nods. “Yes. It’s not recommended for anyone to learn occlumency before they’re adults largely because many of the techniques used to control one’s mind are too easily taken too far by someone without the proper experience or control, and can lead to repression of one’s emotions, which can be devastating for anyone, but especially children, who are also more prone to making that mistake. A shield, while more difficult for many, especially those younger and newer to magic, is much safer for people our age, and typically the alert that it will provide that someone has invaded your mind is quite useful in itself, even if it doesn’t protect you from intent attack.

“If nothing else, it will provide you warning that you should avoid someone, or let you know that you should find someone you trust who is more capable of dealing with a threat. Do keep in mind, however, that the legilimens will know that you have the shield in place and will therefore know that you are aware of the attempted intrusion.

“Personally, I maintain a rudimentary standing shield. As my main goal for learning occlumency initially is to keep my grandaunt out and she’s never actively trying to invade my mind, a rudimentary shield is really all I need. But my grandmother has also taught me to organize my mind, which is a separate branch of occlumency which can help with memory recall and reaction time. I’m still developing that, and I’m working also on another occlumency project which is still in its early stages, but those are the only two things I feel at all able to teach you.

“As with all mind-magics, if you have any intention of studying them further, I must recommend finding a teacher or other adult to assist you, as they can be dangerous if done wrong.”

There’s an excited chatter from the crowd, who don’t expect, coming to a second-year defense tutoring group, that they’ll learn something entirely new and relatively obscure, especially not something that sounds as useful as improved memory recall and reaction times does. Will occlumency help with their studies? Their dueling?

Argo smiles wearily, happy that he’s gotten everyone interested but equally exacerbated that he’s essentially an all-year Defense teacher now. Do they know how much time and stress he puts into organizing these lessons every week? It’s ridiculous. Honestly, most of the reason he’s teaching them about occlumency right now isn’t that he’s concerned the legilimens targeting him is going into their minds, too, but just that he’s been studying the subject so much lately that he doesn’t have time to study what’s in his original plan to the level of being able to teach it. Turning it into a lesson is just a way to stop him from having a third subject of intensive study, in addition to his transfiguration project.

Oh, well. It’s his life, now. Best get started.

The twins kidnap Argo again. Frankly, he expects this sooner.

What surprises Argo is that they don’t immediately jump into talking about the Chamber of Secrets. Rather, George pulls out his wand, flips it around, and presents it to Argo.

Argo just stares at it, confused.

“Go on,” George says. Hesitantly, Argo takes hold of George’s wand. “Sycamore,” he says, “and phoenix feather.”

Argo holding the wand like it might explode, just looks uncertainly to George. “And,” he says, “uh… why?”

“I’m curious,” George says with a mischievous grin. “When I used your wand in the chamber, it felt as almost as right as mine. Even Fred’s puts up a fight sometimes. I want to know if you’re suited to mine.”

Argo sighs and shakes his head. Rather than attempt to use George’s wand, which he can already feel is reasonably possible, but will never be right for him like his own wand is, Argo slips his own wand out and hands it to George. “Redwood and thunderbird feather.”

Fred whistles. “I’ve seen it before, but I haven’t really looked. This carving is something else.” It’s true, Argo’s wand is intricately carved with all manner of beasts from end to end. The bold red color makes it stand out even more. It’s a very pretty, and distinct, wand.

“Weird,” George mutters. “Now it feels a lot more like one of the family wands. It’s still good, probably one of the best I’ve held that’s not my own, but it’s not like in the chamber.”

“It listened to you because I was in danger,” Argo explains. “You know much about wandlore?”

Both twins shake their heads. Which is fair enough. Argo doesn’t, either. He really just knows his own from what Wolfe told him and his research into his own wand. Most wizards look up their own wand components, if only out of curiosity.

“Redwood is attracted to people who are lucky, apparently,” Argo says, “people who have a tendency to fall on their feet. Given my experience with creatures as a small child… that’s probably accurate. I mean, education obviously plays a big part, but we shouldn’t dismiss luck.

“And thunderbird feather… I understand Ollivander doesn’t use thunderbird feather cores?”

“I’ve never heard of that being used before,” Fred says. “You didn’t get your wand from Ollivander? Everyone goes to Ollivander.”

Argo snorts. “I was in America at the time, so I got my wand from Shikoba Wolfe. They crafted it specifically for me. Their wands are famous for that intricate carving, that’s why you don’t see anything like it here where Ollivander has a monopoly.”

“So, what does having a thunderbird feather core mean?” George asks, still closely examining the wand.

“Thunderbirds can sense danger, and wands made with their feathers as the core have a similar ability. When we decided on it, Wolfe told me that wands with that core have a tendency to cast curses of their own accord, to protect their owner from danger. I don’t know if you noticed, but it actually did that once in the chamber. I think the basilisk got too close and it reacted. Wolfe’s wands are also supposed to be very powerful and good for transfiguration. A bit hard to master, though, which I can attest to. My wand seems to like me, but it can be finicky. It’s usually right, though, I’ve found, if I just pay attention to what it wants to do instead of what I’m trying to do.”

“Really?”

Argo chuckles. “Once, when it was wrong, it got kind of sad? I don’t know how to describe it. Anyway, it listened to me perfectly for like a whole week after that before it started acting up again. Not going to lie, I kind of missed it. It’s creative. But if I’m in danger, or even just dueling, usually, it’s like a whole different wand. Fast, responsive, I barely have to think of a spell before it’s right there, and apparently, it’s even willing to listen to other people if it means protecting me.”

“Huh,” Fred says. “Your wand sounds fun.”

“I don’t even want to think about how much ‘fun’ your wands must be.”

George laughs. “Mine likes new things. If I use it more than a few times in a row on something boring, it’ll get hissy with me. I read up a little on sycamore wood. Apparently, it’s even been known to burst into flames if its wizard gets too boring. But for exploring new spells and learning new skills? That’s where it shines.

Fred grins wide. “Fair’s fair. It’s rude to ask about others’ wands without disclosing one’s own.” He dramatically presents his own wand, offering it to Argo to hold. “Spruce and dragon heartstring. It tends to have its own ideas, which it sounds like you know something about, but from what you said I think your wand might be… smarter? Mine just likes when interesting things happen, even if that thing isn’t particularly, er… good. But if you’re firm with it and don’t hesitate, it won’t ever give you problems. It hasn’t for me, anyway.”

Just holding Fred’s wand feels a bit like holding a firework. Argo quickly passes it back, surprised at just how different the twins’ wands feel. George’s suits him just fine. Not a match, but it probably wouldn’t ever give him problems. Fred’s, though… Argo might accidentally blow something up with that thing.

“I expected your wands to be more similar,” Argo admits.

“Honestly, so did we,” George says.

“They’re not that different,” Fred says, “and we use each other’s wand all the time and they respond well to us, but yeah, we expected at least one part of it to be shared. Even the length and firmness are different.”

“Close,” George says, “but different. I half expected us to get brother cores when we walked into that shop. Imagine our surprise.”

“Can I?” Fred asks, reaching to George’s hand for Argo’s wand. When Argo nods, George hands it over. Fred jumps, then settles with an odd expression on his face, and hands it off back to Argo. “Wow, that, uh… yeah, that one doesn’t suit me.”

Argo chuckles. “I’m not surprised. Yours feels like I’m holding a firework. It makes sense that you wouldn’t suit mine, either.”

“Honestly, yours made me feel like mum was scolding me.”

George snickers, “What? Are you serious?”

“I swear! It sort of jolted me at first and then I just got this feeling in my stomach like ‘how dare you Fred Weasley’ like when mum was chewing us out for rescuing Harry over the summer.”

George winces. “Admittedly not one of our best ideas, even if Harry really did need it.”

“Do I want to ask?” Argo says.

“You can, but we really shouldn’t say anything about it unless Harry says we can,” George says. “It’s his business.”

Fair enough. Argo won’t pry, then. “I like your wand, though, George,” Argo says. “It’s curious.”

“And you’re right about yours. It’s creative.”

“And aren’t I a third wheel here?” Fred says suddenly, which brings red to George’s cheeks.

“Anyway,” George says, “sorry for getting all handsy with your wand.”

Fred snickers, “Be a little more subtle, Georgie.” George glares at him.

“I was only curious,” George continues, satisfied that his brother is done teasing him. For now.

“It’s alright,” Argo says, electing to ignore whatever Fred’s got into his head. “I’m not one of those wizards that thinks wands are all super private or anything. My brother and I did pretty much the same thing when I got mine.”

Fred and George share a look, which Argo can’t quite interpret, and then Fred says, “Well, believe it or not, we didn’t bring you here just to fondle your wand.” George punches Fred’s shoulder, getting a startled yelp, but Argo still has no idea what they’re thinking.

“We wanted to thank you,” George says. “This is the second time in as many years you’ve saved one of our little siblings, and this time you can’t even pretend you didn’t do any of the work.”

“And not just Ginny,” Fred says, “but us, too. Seriously mate, I hate to think what would’ve happened in that chamber if you hadn’t been so quick to find us.”

Argo sighs. “Really? You both know you don’t need to-” All at once, he’s wrapped up in the arms of both twins.

“We do, though,” George murmurs.

“You know,” Fred says, “our parents have seven children.”

“Mum really wanted a girl.”

“And without you… there’s a good chance they’d only have three. You have no idea how much our family owes you.”

“I don’t think even mum and dad really understand,” George says. “Even Ginny, and she was in the chamber with us.”

Argo doesn’t know what to say. He just cuddles in, accepting their affection and the familiar warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest.

“Percy does, though,” George adds. “We made sure of it.”

“So, you know,” Fred says with a grin, “if the perfect prefect ever catches you doing something you ought not be doing, just remind him of that debt. We’d consider it a personal favor.”

“You should probably also expect letters from Bill and Charlie.”

Argo does get letters from both of the oldest Weasley brothers, thanking him for his role in saving their siblings. Both seem to have some understanding of just how ludicrously dangerous a basilisk can be, without even considering the young version of Voldemort thrown into the mix.

Argo takes the time to write back to both of them mostly out of curiosity. According to the twins, Bill is a curse-breaker and Argo already knows about Charlie at the dragon reserve in Romania. It takes practically no time at all for him to be writing back and forth with Charlie about managing a magical creature reserve, and about the differing and varied care requirements of dragons, wyverns, drakes, and serpents.

Bill is equally friendly and willing to write, but Argo does feel much more like he’s just bothering the man. Mostly because much of their letters is just Bill answering questions Argo asks about the magic involved in curse-breaking, defensive techniques, and strangely, what classes he should take next year.

Argo is naturally going to be taking Care of Magical Creatures. He’s not sure Professor Kettleburn will ever forgive him if he doesn’t, and he just wants to take the class. He’s also firm on Ancient Runes, which is one of the bigger reasons why Argo chooses to come to Hogwarts in the first place.

But what he’s not sure about is taking a third elective. It’s true that he won’t have his transfiguration extracurricular to keep him busy, as he’ll hopefully be well underway with the process of becoming an animagus by then, but he’s already very busy this year and he has no intention of abandoning his Defense self-study, nor the study group if it’s at all needed.

Divination is too temperamental for Argo – not reliable enough to choose as an area of devoted study. He has no gift for the sight, or at least hasn’t shown any yet, so he thinks his effort is better spent elsewhere. Muggle Studies will definitely be useful, but like Creatures, Argo has a lot of experience already due to all the travelling he does. He’s not muggle-raised, but he’s about as good as a magical-raised child can get with blending in with the no-maj. But unlike Creatures, he’s not particularly interested in the subject past what’s necessary to pass through the no-maj world without raising alarms or breaking the Statute of Secrecy.

Arithmancy, however… oh the possibilities! That would be worth putting the effort into learning. Argo just isn’t sure he has the effort left to put in. It might be something he’s better off investigating on his own time rather than taking a course for it.

Bill says he should absolutely go for it if he’s interested in taking the subject. It’s not like he’s taking all of them. (Which makes Argo immediately think of Granger, whom he has no doubt will attempt to do just that) Argo isn’t wholly convinced, but they don’t need to decide until the Easter holidays, so he still has some time.

Percy and Penelope are happy to help him, too, in the meantime, talking him carefully through his options and even future career paths based on the subjects he’s interested in, despite everyone, including Argo, already taking for granted that he’s going to continue to work on his family’s creature reserve.

Argo is not a particularly ambitious person. He’s perfectly happy with a career at home, with the people he’s familiar with. And he loves the creatures, so he hardly even considers anything else.

More immediately, however, is Lockhart’s grand idea to annoy absolutely everyone in the castle on Valentine’s Day.

Argo enters the Great Hall, stops short, mentally recalculates just what day it is, and warily continues on into the lurid pink mess to the Ravenclaw table.

“I didn’t just…” he says slowly when he sees Anthony, “miss this happening last year, did I?”

Anthony snorts, Padma giggles like the whole thing is hilarious. “No,” Anthony says. “Would be kind of hard to miss – or forget – wouldn’t it? This is all Lockhart’s idea. He made an announcement a little before you got here. See the dwarfs? They’re going to be delivering valentines throughout the day.”

“In classes?” Argo asks, aghast. “Would it be terribly rude to ward the doors?”

“If we could,” Padma says, “I suspect the other teachers would be on top of it already. Look.”

She’s right. The whole of the staff table present, save Lockhart himself, wear carefully-controlled faces that nonetheless seem vaguely like they’re sucking on lemons.

Watching the staff table, Argo feels another brush against his occlumency shields, but as it continues to not attempt to push further and he hasn’t quite implemented a trap yet, there’s nothing he can do for now. He has managed to set up a message for whoever is trying legilimency on him, one that probably means nothing to whoever is peering into his mind, but nonetheless, after this happening for some time now, Argo is getting suspicions. His message is crafted because one of those suspicions might, in fact, understand.

Argo groans. “This is going to be very annoying, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s funny,” Padma says. “We’ll just study extra tomorrow to make up for it. It’s fine to have one day that’s just silly.”

Anthony makes a disgruntled sort of noise in his throat. “I see your point. On the other hand, it’s Lockhart’s project, isn’t it?”

“Just because he’s a horrible teacher doesn’t mean he isn’t charismatic. He’s actually pretty hilarious if you start treating him like a joke instead of a person.”

“Huh… I don’t know if I can do that,” Anthony says. “But I guess, just for today, I don’t have much choice but to just take whatever comes, do I?”

“That’s the spirit! You too, Argo.”

“Don’t worry,” Argo says. “I can roll with it. It’s still going to be annoying, but you’re right. If it’s happening regardless, we may as well have fun with it.”

Padma suddenly leans intently over the table, eyeing Argo carefully. “Oh? Are you planning something?”

Argo grins wickedly. He looks over his shoulder, seeing the Gryffindor table and a certain set of twins there, and winks to them. They both share his grin and turn to each other, whispering. Argo looks back to his Ravenclaw friends. “Do either of you know anything about love poems?”

“Uh, no,” Anthony says.

“Perfect. Because this needs to be absolutely terrible.”

Padma cackles.

The following school day is spent alternating between plotting the most absurd, most ridiculous, and most cliché lines and fending off the surly dwarfs who intrude in their classes to loudly sing even worse poetry.

It starts out between Argo and the twins, with Anthony and Padma helping Argo, but it quickly devolves when Padma decides to send one to her own sister, who retaliates swiftly and mercilessly, and once Parvati brings the other Gryffindor girls into it, it’s not even lunchtime before it becomes a sort of school-wide Gryffindor/Ravenclaw war.

As such, since most of the messages are anonymous anyway, many of the poorly crafted, but serious, valentines to students in either house are completely missed. Harry is suitably embarrassed when he receives Ginny’s valentine, but already hearing several much worse ones from the Ravenclaws thinks it’s just another prank and laughs it off much more successfully than he would manage if he knew where it comes from.

(Ginny is furious with Fred and George for this, and is not at all appeased by their defense that they don’t ever send Harry anything.)

Likewise, the opposite is true. The abysmal valentines throughout the day make the ones with actual care and thought put into them stand out all the more, as Argo learns when one grim-faced dwarf walks up to him in History class, places a single red flower on his desk, and walks away without a word.

That legitimately makes his stomach flip, and he tries very hard not to think about who sends it, all things considered.

Penelope Clearwater is another Ravenclaw who receives a valentine above the new standard, which touches her and her friends, but unlike Argo, she knows perfectly well who sends it. She is secretly happy that this whole annoying ordeal starts, because otherwise she fears Percy would be too nervous about someone (his little brothers, mostly) finding out about them to send even this anonymous valentine.

Argo, while happy enough to take advantage of the day’s merriment, nonetheless remains petty enough to be sure to ask every dwarf he sends messages with to make sure they don’t ever deliver the valentines in Defense Against the Dark Arts, or otherwise within sight of Lockhart. Lockhart obviously knows the school is embracing his plan, but Argo doesn’t have to have any hand in making that obvious to the man.

Without fail, the dwarfs he talks to seem amused enough about the request to follow through, despite the horribly embarrassing and just plain stupid things Argo makes them sing. They’re good folks, honestly. Very sporting to put up with all this.

Lockhart, meanwhile, wonders just why his class doesn’t seem to ever be interrupted, even though the students are talking about his Valentine’s Day surprise like it’s a smash hit.

It’s very, very concerning, but even so Lockhart has something even bigger to concern himself with. That damn brat knows what Lockhart’s up to! He even is so brazen as to leave Lockhart a message! The nerve of this child!

But what in the world does it mean? A capital “K” within a circle. Lockhart can’t help but feel as if he’s seen the mark before, not all that long ago…

Oh. Oh no. It can’t be… If Scamander is associated with them, then… then he knows.

Scrap the new book. Gilderoy needs to get out of this castle. Some well-placed memory charms and some quick packing and he may just get away scot-free.

“So, I think it’s time you heard about one of my old adventures,” Argo’s journal reads after adding the newest page. “You’ve probably deduced by now that I’m not too fond of Gilderoy Lockhart. Honestly, if he were hired to teach while I was still a student, I’m not sure I can be held responsible for what would have happened to him.

But you’ve been very patient and very determined, and you’ve proven your skill a number of times now. I hope you’ve enjoyed all those spells I’ve sprinkled in for you. McGonagall is a brilliant teacher but she no doubt would have kept strictly to what you ‘need to know’ to become an animagus and not taught you awesome things like I hope I have. That said, this is my penultimate gift for you. Your second-last side mission, if you will, as this time it really is more a gift to me than anything else, though I’m sure if you’re half as intelligent as I’ve heard, you’ll consider it a gift to yourself as well.

But I’m waffling. The story of how I know Gilderoy Lockhart. It started on Valentine’s Day during my fifth year. We had a bunch of themed lessons throughout the day, but it culminated in Lockhart’s visit to the school. The official reason was that he was nearby on his book tour and decided to stop by as a treat.

He was his usual self, I’m sure you’re exceedingly familiar with what I mean by now, but at the end of his rant about himself, he told us all that he’d be choosing a few random students to receive tickets to a book signing. I was one of those students, along with many of my friends. But when we went to the book signing, we found out that we’d been signed on as Lockhart’s ‘apprentices’. Frankly, I still don’t know what he actually expected us to do since he only talked about himself and abandoned us in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop.

Regardless of what he actually expected of us, we threw a valentine’s party for him. It wasn’t long before we found out our selection wasn’t random at all. Sir Cadogan is a good portrait, by the way. He’s worth listening to, even if he can be a bit odd. He overheard Lockhart muttering to himself and let us know.

We only learned all the details later, some of them much later, because of something I’ll get to, but we’d actually been chosen by Lockhart himself for having extraordinary talents and experiences. He wanted to learn about us so he could use our stories in his books. When we figured out his plan, he used a memory charm on us. We only pieced everything back together because it was such shoddy work, but I’m still missing bits and pieces of that day.

So, that’s the story. It’s not really complicated, but Lockhart is a fraud who plays far too fast and loose with memory charms and very well could have hurt one of us permanently doing what he did.

I know this is a lot longer than you’re used to, but I thought you deserve to know just why the Circle of Khanna hates him so much.

Now, more directly to business. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to get rid of Lockhart? Drive him out of the school? You know his worst secret now, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to do with it what you will.

I’d consider it a personal favor if you make it particularly embarrassing.”

Argo sits back and huffs out a huge breath. Wow. That… explains a lot, actually. It’s kind of obvious in hindsight. But what is he going to do about it?

After much deliberation, Argo decides to bide his time. The note in his journal convinces Argo that the one using legilimency on him is Lockhart, probably to figure out what happened in the Chamber of Secrets – Potter says Lockhart talks to him about it once.

Which means that Argo can continue his original plan to out the legilimens using his occlumency as a trap. Knowing more about the situation, Argo doubles down on his studies until he’s confident he has something that will work. Then, all he has to do is wait.

It’s a deceptively simple little bit of magic. A shield, some careful organization, and another shield atop it. Argo thinks this organization technique might even be useful in conjuring a patronus, but Argo has much less… happy plans for it for now.

But first, he has to deal with signing up for his electives next year. He ends up in a meeting with Professors Flitwick and McGonagall again to talk about it and mentions both his interest in arithmancy and his doubts about the workload considering his extracurricular studies.

“The thing is, Professors,” Argo admits, “I feel like I took on too much this year. With my transfiguration project – which I love, by the way, I feel so much more prepared than I ever was before – my defense studies, which I honestly don’t have much choice but to keep up with with Lockhart as a teacher, and the defense study group, which… I just feel bad telling them no with, again, Lockhart as their teacher. I can barely keep on top of everything as is. I know the transfiguration study won’t continue next year, but it’s still three extra classes in its place. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

McGonagall sighs. “Most of the time, when I hear a student complain that they don’t have time to handle all their work, it is because they simply do not want to do it. With you, however, Mr. Scamander…”

“I’d like to encourage you to take Arithmancy,” Flitwick says. “You have such a gift for it. You’re one of very few students I’ve had who have paid any attention at all to spell formulas, much less actually improved your spells with them. You would go very far with proper Arithmancy instruction. But I understand why you are prioritizing Creatures and Runes.”

They sit there for a while, pondering the question.

Finally, Flitwick asks, “Have you asked the other students for assistance with your Defense group? Mr. Potter, perhaps? Or an older student?”

Argo frowns. “The older students help in the meetings if they can. They usually say that teaching helps them understand a subject better anyway, so it’s good practice for them. But they don’t manage the lesson plan, no.”

“Perhaps your workload would be easier if you were to ask for assistance with it,” Flitwick says. “In fact, I think it’s about time we acknowledged your group as a proper club. I imagine many of you will be joining the Dragon Club next year, but there’s nothing wrong with another more specialized Dueling and Defense Club. Let me see here,” he rummages in his desk and pulls out a sheet of parchment, “ah! Yes. If you fill this out and bring it back to one of us, we can set you up officially.”

Argo takes the paper, but still frowns. “Okay? But how does that help my workload?”

“All official student-led Hogwarts clubs,” McGonagall says, “are managed by a Circle, which reports directly to a member of staff.”

“Which would be me,” Flitwick chirps. “Professor McGonagall’s defensive magic is impressive, but my history in the dueling ring will hopefully inspire your club members to try even harder. I can even visit for the occasional lesson from time to time.”

“Your Circle must be at least three students in number,” McGonagall says, “to keep the workload from overwhelming any one student, and for the sake of things continuing to run smoothly, we recommend no more than five as in-fighting tends to break out with different ideas for the club’s direction.”

“We will need an official club name!” Flitwick says. “And your Circle can either share its name with the club itself, or you can choose a name independently. It’s entirely up to your Circle.”

Oh. Oh, wow. Argo stares at the official form in his hands. The last thing he expects when he agrees to teach Potter defensive magic is this.

“Okay,” Argo breathes. “Thank you? I’ll… have to talk to the others about this.”

“Of course,” McGonagall says. “You cannot sign anyone up without their permission. Once you have your Circle sorted and a name chosen, have everyone sign that form and bring it back to us. In the meantime,” she fixes him with a firm, conspiratorial look, “do sign up for Arithmancy. It will do you a great deal of good.”

“Yeah, sure,” Argo says, still not fully wrapping his head around what’s happening. “I mean- yes ma’am. Thank you.”

Both his teachers chuckle and dismiss him for now.

Argo leaves, still carefully examining the club form. He needs to figure out who is going to be in his Circle.

He considers first asking Penelope, but she’s a prefect and she’ll be taking her N.E.W.T.s next year, so he doesn’t think she’ll have much time at all. Then he thinks that maybe it will be good to make this club an explicitly inter-house one. Having a member of the Circle from each house will make a good statement, he thinks. The problem is who.

Gryffindor is easy enough. Argo can just ask the Weasley twins, or maybe Potter or Granger. Hufflepuff and Slytherin are much more difficult, since Argo doesn’t know the people of those houses very well.

Maybe Beatrice or Cedric would be willing? But that still leaves Slytherin. The only person in Slytherin that Argo has ever really spoken to outside of the defense group itself is Daphne Greengrass, and that is mostly just her asking him about his transfiguration project.

Well, she is a member of the group. Maybe she’ll like the chance to determine some of what they learn?

Argo starts with the Gryffindors since they’re easiest for him to find and approach. He just drops down at the Gryffindor table during lunch that day and starts by asking what electives they’re planning on taking next year.

Granger proudly announces that she’s already signed up for all of them, which Argo isn’t certain McGonagall will allow on account of it being really unhealthy – it’s literally his problem but two classes worse, but he’s not about to be the one to break it to her.

Potter and Ron Weasley just pick at their food and mutter something about which classes will be easiest.

Argo can’t stop laughing when he hears their plans.

“What?” Ron puffs up indignantly. “What’s so funny?”

Argo, wheezing, manages to express, “You think Care of Magical Creatures will be an easy mark? I should probably be offended, but that’s just hilarious!”

Apparently, a Scamander laughing so raucously at the thought of Care being an easy class makes everyone, including more than a few Gryffindors further down the table, reconsider their options.

“Is it really that difficult?” Granger asks, fretting.

Argo shakes his head slowly. “Think of it this way. In all your classes, you learn facts and theory. Even the practical spellcasting is predictable. That’s because you’re dealing with hard things. Numbers, formulas, wand movements, incantations, power… all those variables you can control.”

To make it obvious what he means, Argo pulls Jason out of his robes, allowing him to view the shiny silverware on the table.

“Creatures,” Argo says, “are living beings. They may not be as intelligent as us, although that varies, too, and you’ll likely meet some who are vastly more intelligent than you, but they’re creative. They find ways around things. There are no hard rules because they all have personalities, preferences, pride, even. There are generalizations you can make. I’ve never met a niffler who doesn’t like shiny things, for instance. But some are much more insistent on gathering every bit they see, quantity over quality, some are escape artists, and some, like Jason, have different preferences for what kind of shiny things they like. He’ll even ignore some things if something better is in sight. A quality over quantity approach.”

Argo lets Jason loose, demonstrating how he immediately goes for a silver goblet rather than a golden one, then summons him back before he can really run wild.

“Caring for creatures is about building relationships with the individuals,” Argo explains. “Not learning facts. If you go in there expecting to just pet a few crups and pass, you’re going to have really bad time.”

Ron slumps, his plans apparently beaten. Granger is practically on top of Argo, already trying to ask questions. But interestingly, Potter just frowns at him, quietly considering.

It’s Potter who asks. “And what classes are you taking, then?”

Argo smiles. “Care of Magical Creatures, of course. But also, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. I’ve wanted to learn more about Runes since I was little, so I was always going to take that, but Professors Flitwick and McGonagall convinced me to take Arithmancy.”

“What about Divination?”

Argo shrugs. “If you don’t have the Sight, there’s not much point, is there? I mean, it’s still offered to everyone because interpreting that stuff is something anyone can do, but I’ve never shown any ability for Divination and I’m already busy with the classes I have. I just don’t think it’s worth the time.”

Potter frowns into his plate for a moment. “I think I’ll take Creatures and Runes. Runes is like another form of spellcasting, isn’t it?”

“Sort of,” Argo shrugs again. “It can be used that way. They’re mostly used for things that are meant to last a long time. Wards, fixtures in houses, that kind of thing. I was always fascinated with the runic wards around the reserve back home. I want to learn how to improve them, and even develop something new. But it’s a very academic study, much more so than your usual spellcasting classes. Closer to Transfigurations than Charms. And probably closer to Arithmancy than Transfigurations.”

Potter grimaces. “I don’t think I’m smart enough for Arithmancy. But Divination sounds a bit… well, and I don’t think I really need Muggle Studies, being muggle-raised, so…”

“Wha-?” Ron gurgles. “We agreed to take our classes together! If Creatures really is that hard, I’ll replace it with Muggle Studies. There’s no way I’m taking Runes! If you take Creatures and Runes, we won’t have any electives together!”

“Then maybe,” Granger huffs, “you should take classes that will actually help your future instead of just choosing whichever you think will be easiest. I think you’re making the right choice, Harry. Creatures and Runes will give you a wide foundation. Though I wish you’d consider taking Arithmancy too. You’re much smarter than you think you are, if only you’d apply yourself.”

Between Ron’s huffing reproach and Hermione’s glowing approval, Harry is conflicted. He doesn’t want to abandon Ron. Ron’s his best friend! And of course, Harry would like to have his electives with his best friend. He just… doesn’t think Divination and Muggle Studies are really worth taking. Scamander is right about Divination. Harry hasn’t ever had reason to think he may be able to predict the future, so taking a whole class on it will probably be useless. And he spends the first eleven years of his life, and his summers to this day, in the muggle world. While he’s sure to learn something in Muggle Studies, he’s quite confident he won’t have any problems blending in, which seems to be what wizards are mostly concerned about, and which, from what he’s seen, wizards tend to be rather bad at anyway.

And Creatures… The way Scamander describes it makes it sound more difficult, yes, but also… nice. It’s like a class about making friends and taking care of creatures who appreciate that. Harry isn’t sure if he’s interpreting it right, but his gut tugs, yearning for it.

But he still needs a second elective, and Runes seems to be the most active of the remaining options. Having more ways to do magic can’t ever be a bad thing, right?

“Actually,” Argo asks, “if you’re only planning to take two electives anyway, maybe you could help me with something.”

Harry lifts his head, watching his… friend? He’s still not sure he’s allowed to call Scamander a friend, considering how strictly the other boy keeps to a last name basis for them all (except Ron, sometimes, but that’s just to avoid confusion with the twins, who are his friends).

Argo pulls out the club form and slides it across the table to Harry. “You’re good at defense,” he says, “and I need members for the Circle which will lead the study group. How do you feel about taking a more active role in the lesson planning?”

Harry gapes, not expecting anything at all like this.

“You should do it, Harry!” Hermione insists. “You’re great at defensive magic. You help us all the time in the study group already.”

“What’s a Circle?” Harry asks.

“It’s just a name for a group of wizards,” Ron says, still grumbling. “An official one.”

“Like the idea of a coven of witches,” Hermione says, “originally. But now it mostly just refers to any group of witches and wizards working together towards a mutual goal. Like, the Hogwarts Board of Governors is an officially recognized Circle.”

“In this case,” Scamander says, “student-led clubs need to be run by a Circle of three or more students. I’m thinking of asking someone from each house.”

“Not Slytherin!” Ron protests.

“Even Slytherin,” Scamander rolls his eyes. “If you can’t handle working with Slytherins, then don’t agree to be part of it. I’m just offering. I’ll ask someone else if you don’t want to do it.”

“No!” Harry says quickly. “I’ll do it! I’d be happy to.” The defense group is the best thing that happens to him this year. If he can help keep it going, he’s going to. He’s quick to sign up as a member of the Circle, and is told to start thinking of a name for the club, and the Circle, while Argo looks for other members.

When he leaves the Great Hall, Harry mostly whispers with Hermione and Ron about what to call the new, old, club.

Beatrice and Cedric turn Argo down. He understands why. Cedric has O.W.L.s next year, and Beatrice is starting on her N.E.W.T. level classes. They both promise they’ll be by as much as they can, to assist however he needs it, but they can’t take on the responsibility of having the club hanging on them.

Which leaves Argo at a bit of a loss, at least until the next meeting.

He scans the crowd, looking for any options, and then he has to resist the urge to smack himself for missing something so obvious.

“Hey, Susan,” Argo rushes to catch up with her before she leaves. With her aunt, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement here in Britain, teaching her, Susan is one of the best in their year with defensive magic. The only reason Argo believes he edges her out is because he has more practical experience with unpredictable creatures, while she only trains.

When he offers her the position, she grins almost ferally and accepts immediately. “My aunt will be so proud of me,” she says. “And I’ll ask her for some recommendations, as well. Hopefully we’ll get better classroom instruction next year, so we can spend more time focusing on real defense.”

They can dream. But Argo thinks Lockhart is close to breaking, anyway. He’s more and more nervous as the days pass, and some of the few students who remain in his classes report that much of the classroom has already been packed up. He’s clearly planning on going somewhere.

With three second-years as the Circle members, and not knowing many other people in Slytherin, Argo doesn’t have many other options but to ask Daphne Greengrass if he wants a full house set.

She seems amused, but agrees under the condition that he finally tell her what his transfiguration project is about.

Argo just sighs and relents. “I’m studying to become an animagus,” he admits. “My grandfather has access to the process, and I’m going to be tested when I turn thirteen to see if my body is developed enough to do it. I want to do it as soon as I can, so I asked Professor McGonagall to help me with some extra transfiguration studies working towards that goal.”

Daphne eyes him critically. “You turn thirteen this summer, don’t you?”

“Towards the end, yes,” Argo says. “Because of how the potion needs to be prepared, I’ll probably have to do it at Hogwarts if I don’t want to wait until the next summer, but Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape are already aware of my plans, and I’ve already given them a permission slip from my parents to allow the process.”

Daphne hums, revealing none of her thoughts on her face. “Alright. I’ll join your little Circle. Your defense group is the best thing that’s happened for the subject in this school, so why not?”

Argo grins. Excellent. He tells her to start thinking of names, then asks for her schedule so they can plan a meeting before the end of the year to get everything ready and official before summer.

Lockhart resists valiantly the urge to take what he needs from Scamander’s mind, obliviate him into the Janus Thickey Ward of St. Mungos, and disappear from this horrid school.

Only just.

Instead, he prepares. He packs all his things, readies his next destination, everything he can do without arousing too much attention. When Mr. Scamander and that damned Circle don’t make any moves, though, Lockhart starts thinking that maybe he’ll be fine after all.

Maybe it was just a fluke, he thinks. After all, what second-year is a skilled enough occlumens to deliberately send a legilimens messages? Yes, Lockhart thinks, it must be a simple fluke. Scamander isn’t part of that Circle at all, but merely stumbles across the symbol at some point and happens to be pondering it when Lockhart attempts his legilimency. That must be it.

Which means… just one more try can’t hurt, can it? Maybe he’ll push a bit harder this time, break through that damned ward the kid keeps up. He probably won’t even notice – he almost definitely doesn’t put that up himself. There’s no way he’s skilled enough for it. Not in such a specialized and obscure branch of magic.

Yes, yes, that’s it. Lockhart waits until he has Scamander in his sights. Unfortunately, because Scamander avoids him like the plague, he has no other choice but to do it in public, but that should be fine. No one will be able to trace anything back to him regardless, will they?

No. No, this is Lockhart’s chance to discover the rest of the story behind what happens in that chamber.

From his perch high up on the staff table, overlooking the students, Lockhart carefully aims his wand, with only the tip emerging from his ruffled sleeves, and breathes as quietly as he can, “Legilimens.”

Argo, sitting with Anthony and Padma, feels the brush of legilimency on his shields, ducks his head so as not to look explicitly at the staff table, and smiles.

Lockhart feels the very familiar shield and loathes it. It’s so flimsy, but Lockhart has been so careful thus far because even a flimsy shield like this can be used as an alarm. That ugly old Armenian warlock used a similar tactic and very nearly got the jump on Lockhart because of it. But what can a second-year do? No, Lockhart is just getting too paranoid. Even if it does alert Scamander, Lockhart can just make him forget anything ever happened.

Like he did with that ugly old Armenian warlock.

And so Lockhart finds a little tear in the shield and whips it away like he’s flourishing his cape.

And that’s when things start getting odd.

Lockhart is swimming in the boy’s mind, trying to make sense of the jumble, when suddenly he feels very cold. A terror wells up in his chest that threatens to rip a shout from his throat, and he swears the Great Hall darkens into night.

The firelight from the sconces on the wall makes the shadows grow and change, and when Dumbledore smiles at him Lockhart wants to scream because there is something behind his chair. Something just out of sight, which he cannot see.

There. Lockhart’s breath comes quickly. Movement in the tables. Slinking through the shadows, some of the students are watching him. Fur sprouts from their faces, morphing into something dog-like as they prowl through the paths between the tables, eyes never leaving Lockhart.

Werewolves?!

“Gilderoy?” A grinding voice from beside him. “Are you alright?”

Lockhart hardly dares to look, but when he turns he sees slimy, sagging flesh and yelps. The ghoul reaches out to him, groaning, but he jumps from his seat to dance out of reach.

But he’s turned his back on the chair. Oh, no, it’s going to-

The growling of the wolves finally tears that scream from him. “Werewolves!” He shouts in terror, before diving under the staff table, unable to face any of the myriad creatures intent on hunting him.

There’s a sort of uproar, but it mostly sounds like Lockhart’s blood rushing through his ears, and then… then everything goes cold, quiet. And he sees it.

Like crawling shadow, the malevolence in the air is tangible. It glides along the ground, perfectly forming to every surface it passes as it slides towards him like pitch black water spreading across the floor.

There is only one thing this thing, like a shadowy cloak, can be.

A lethifold.

Lockhart faints on the spot.

When Lockhart jumps from his chair and shouts about werewolves, Argo wonders if something has gone very wrong. He’s never actually seen a transformed werewolf before, so he can hardly show Lockhart memories of one.

It takes a moment of puzzling, long enough for Lockhart to dive under the staff table and faint, for Argo to place it. “Oh,” he says. “The rougarou.” Argo snorts. He didn’t think Lockhart would mistake rougarou for werewolves.

Padma and Anthony fix him with twin, sharp gazes, and Argo realizes he’s spoken aloud. Oh, well, it’s not like he’s keeping any of this secret, anyway. He smiles to the two of them, then stands and heads up to the staff table, perfectly aware how everyone is watching him.

“You recall our conversation just after the holidays, Professors?” Argo asks Flitwick and McGonagall.

They both nod. “What exactly did you do to him?” Madam Pomfrey asks, already examining the unconscious teacher.

“I only gave him a fright,” Argo says with a shrug. “I only wanted to startle him into showing some outward sign that he’d tried to invade my mind with legilimency. I didn’t expect he’d be such a coward that he’d actually faint.”

Professor Snape scowls, but nonetheless wears something on his face that may be something akin to respect. “Explain,” he says. “The process, and what you showed him.”

“Well,” Argo says, “It’s just a simple double barrier and careful organization, really. I set up the occlumency shield around some frightening memories, so that when he broke through, he’d be neck deep in them. I only showed him a hide-behind, some rougarou, a ghoul, and a lethifold. I think it was the lethifold that did it. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone that far.”

“Mr. Scamander is correct,” Madam Pomfrey says. “He merely fainted with terror. He’ll be fine when he wakes up.”

Argo grins. “As promised, Professors,” he says to Flitwick and McGonagall. “Nothing harmful or permanent. Just a fright. But you know this means that one of the teaching staff used unauthorized legilimency on an unaware student.” Argo fixes his glare on Dumbledore specifically. “I want to know how you intend to punish him for this.”

“I want to know,” Professor Snape says sinisterly, “how a second-year managed to knock out a fully grown man with only occlumency.”

“I just told you, sir, I only frightened him. I assume you’re a legilimens, and probably an occlumens too, since you seem to know more about it?”

Snape holds his whole body tightly, but nods.

“Then you know that the process I described isn’t very complicated, and is perfectly feasible for someone as young as I with some dedication. But if you don’t believe I didn’t do anything else, you’re welcome to take a look for yourself. Note, however, that I only consent to observation of the surface defenses, and not a look into my mind proper.”

Snape, who is equally impressed and unconvinced, hesitates only a moment before checking for himself.

Argo watches, amused, as Professor Snape goes stiff for just a moment, then relaxes. Someone knows how to deal with fear, then, or perhaps he’s just as unafraid of creatures as Argo is. Admittedly the lethifold terrifies him, but the other memories aren’t selected because he’s afraid of them. The ghoul is actually supposed to be ironic, if it does turn out to be Lockhart.

Honestly that pack of rougarou were quite friendly once they made peace, and the hide-behind was well-fed and was only playing at the time Argo met it. His parents would never allow him to be in any actual danger, even when they do take him out into the field.

(The lethifold is an outlier and should not be counted.)

“The boy speaks the truth,” Snape says. “It’s simply a childish nightmare.” Despite his dismissive words, though, Snape can’t help but look at the boy more closely. What twelve-year-old devises such terrifyingly effective defenses of their mind? Snape knows that no occlumency book teaches what Argo does, although he’s right that the technique itself is simple. In terms of sheer ability, it’s far more surprising that Lockhart of all people practices legilimency than that the child, as adept as Snape knows him to be, can set up such defenses.

So long as one has true horrors in their memories that they don’t mind showing off to potential invaders, it’s a deceptively simple, but delightfully merciless defensive measure. Especially if the invader isn’t expecting it. Though he’s careful not to show any hint of approval, Snape privately reexamines his own shields, and wonders if he can use such a technique to improve them.

(It takes all he has not to probe deeper when Snape looks at those defenses. Scamander just keeps reminding him of Lily in the most unexpected of ways. Even his patient, savage, and seemingly effortless takedown of Lockhart reminds Snape of Lily standing up to bullies when they were children. But he can’t. The boy obviously knows enough about occlumency to notice if he tries, and that… would not end well.)

Snape meets eyes with Argo, and for a moment it feels as if the boy is using legilimency of his own, for how he seems to see through Snape. “I was taught,” Argo says, “that my greatest defense, and greatest weapon, isn’t the range of magic that I’m capable of, but the creativity with which I can use what I know.”

“Incredibly wise words,” Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling as he smiles at Argo. “And not to worry, dear boy, Professor Lockhart will be punished to the full extent of his crimes. But I suppose that means we must learn what the full extent is, do we not? If he was willing to use legilimency on a student, who knows what else he may have done. Professor Snape… do you still keep in your office a prepared dose of veritaserum?”

Snape doesn’t bother hiding his vindictive smile. Finally, an excuse to administer it. He’s wanted to dose the fool with it since the first day of the school year, but Dumbledore kept telling him to be patient. He should give Scamander house points for this.

Professor Kettleburn, at the edge of the staff table, who finally processes the story of what just happens, starts laughing raucously and does not stop for a good five minutes.

That breaks the tension over the gathered students and sets off intensive whispering throughout the hall.

Because of Argo’s defense club lesson earlier in the year about occlumency, nearly everyone understands what exactly Lockhart tries to do, even if they don’t understand exactly what Argo does to fend him off. All they know is that Lockhart looks into Argo’s mind and faints in terror. And that Argo looks entirely unaffected by the affair, and in fact talks to the professors as if he plans to do this to Lockhart for some time now.

Those who aren’t terrified of Argo find a whole new level of respect for him. Even those who understand better what Argo does are impressed, because Argo will have had to live through the memories in the first place to show them to Lockhart, and Lockhart, a fully grown wizard, faints on the spot, and Argo is only twelve.

What kind of horrifying things has he seen?

Unbeknownst to Argo at the time, the school would later settle on two theories. The first is that he is some kind of child prodigy, actually doing all the things that Lockhart’s books claim he does. The second is that Argo is actually a kind of eldritch abomination not to be perceived by mortals.

(Susan Bones, who is taught occlumency by her aunt, quickly figures out the truth and laughs right alongside Professor Kettleburn. She then proceeds to find out what an eldritch abomination is from one of her muggleborn friends and perpetuates that rumor with a vengeance. She’ll later jokingly call it a Circle-warming present, welcoming him to the defense club Circle she’s honored to be a part of.)

Madam Pomfrey rouses Lockhart, Snape gives him the veritaserum right there in front of the students, and Dumbledore asks, “Did you attempt to invade the mind of young Mr. Argo Scamander without approval from the student?”

It surprises no one when Lockhart confirms it.

Dumbledore asks a few more questions about what happened, whether Lockhart has used legilimency on any other students (only Harry Potter, who pales and finds something very interesting on his plate). It doesn’t take long, but Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eyes as he looks at Argo over his half-moon glasses, asks, “Is there anything I’ve missed, Mr. Scamander?”

Argo, thinking about the request to make Lockhart’s takedown particularly embarrassing, asks, “May I ask him something, sir? I don’t know the protocol for veritaserum.”

“If this were a ministry trial, of course not, but as this is an investigation conducted by Hogwarts staff, I trust you will only ask questions related to Lockhart’s crimes.”

Related to his crimes. Not related to this crime. Dumbledore is practically begging for this.

Argo rolls his eyes and approaches Lockhart, who somehow still manages to look like a self-important dunderhead when he’s glaring. “Right, Lockhart.” Argo fixes the professor in his sights. “What did you hope to find when you tried to invade my mind?”

“I wanted to know what happened in the Chamber of Secrets,” Lockhart growls.

“For what purpose?”

“To write about it, of course! I would have sold thousands!”

“So, you intended to steal my memories and use them to write one of your autobiographies? Claiming that you subdued the basilisk in the chamber?”

“Of course! My books wouldn’t sell half as well if people didn’t think I’d done all those things!”

“In how many of your other books have you claimed the accomplishments of other witches and wizards?”

“All of them.”

“And how do you prevent those witches and wizards from claiming their rightful achievements?”

Lockhart grins, seeing his opportunity, and leaps to his feet, wand in hand. “Oblivia-”

Argo, who is honestly half-expecting this, flicks his wand and utters the first curse that comes to mind. “Reducto!”

Lockhart jumps, a few others do as well at the curse that is hurled at a person, but it doesn’t strike Lockhart, but his wand. The wand in Lockhart’s hand, before he can finish casting his hasty memory charm, crumbles to dust.

(Argo is pretty sure his wand does most of the aiming for that on its own and swallows thickly, reflecting on his newly apparent desperate need to train in less extreme reactions. The last thing he needs is to hit a person with the reductor curse, even if that person is Lockhart.)

The Great Hall is silent.

Until Lockhart stammers, “You destroyed my wand!”

“You tried to obliviate us!” Argo pouts.

The teachers, torn between awarding points to Argo for protecting them all and taking points away for pointing such a dangerous curse at a human being, eventually settle on just not mentioning it.

(This does not help the rumors that circulate about Argo after this incident.)

With Lockhart sacked and his fraudulence revealed, Argo has better things to do than ever think about that man again. Ever.

First and foremost, the conclusion of his transfiguration scavenger hunt. With the journal saying he’s found his second-last “extra” he knows he has to be on the final step, or second-last step, before he’s at the end.

When he untransfigures his current black feather, he finds a book and a note, which isn’t entirely surprising given how everything else has gone. What is a little surprising is what he reads in the note.

“Mr. Argo Scamander,

Congratulations on completing your advanced transfiguration trials. I’ve arranged for you to receive fifty points for Ravenclaw should you reach this before the end of year, for outstanding performance in transfiguration far beyond the second-year level. You have worked hard and learned all I have to teach you before you begin your animagus studies, and you did it entirely of your own accord.

The book you hold now is written by and for animagi, documenting how the animal within has influenced the witch or wizard, and how individuals’ magic has changed in response. It is a select edition available only to those with special permissions and contains more thorough and detailed information on the individuals’ lives than the public version. I myself wrote my story for it, though I ask you not to share personal information with others – there is a reason why special permissions are required to read it, after all.

I hope you enjoy reading the accounts of your forebears in this unique talent and look forward to your bright future in the world of transfiguration.

I am so proud to be your teacher,

Minerva McGonagall”

Aw. Argo sniffs, quickly wiping at his eyes, overwhelmed by the note and gift from his stoic and stern teacher.

He flips the letter over, noticing that the back has writing in a different, just as familiar, hand.

“You did it! Finally at the end. You’ve probably guessed by now that Professor McGonagall and I have been changing things around and setting up new things throughout the year, so this letter is actually written much later than last summer.

I have to say, I almost feel as if I know you, despite you never communicating with me directly like I am with you through these letters. But the members of the Circle of Khanna who remain at Hogwarts have been telling me about you, and of course Professor McGonagall has kept me updated on your progress. I feel like I’m right there with you, taking on that adventure by your side. Did you really find the Chamber of Secrets, by the way? The twins say you saved their lives, and their little sister.

Well, that inspired this last gift I have for you. The original plan was for that journal of mine you have to be used just to give you notes and a place to refer back to them, and you’d return it when the challenge ends, but I’ve decided to let you keep it. It has a secret, though, and my gift to you will be this last challenge.

Touch your wand to the cover of the journal and say my name. When you do, you can officially consider yourself a member of the Circle of Khanna if you’d like, and you will find you have access to our Circle’s collected spellbook. Every one of us has and will continue to contribute to that wondrous book, and I hope you will be no different. We each have a copy, which we update with our own notes and which automatically updates any other copies with them as well. So do be careful what you put in there, as any member of the Circle can see it.

Use it wisely and use it well. I sincerely hope we will have the chance to meet personally soon. Maybe, if your form allows, we can even play in our animagus forms. I used to play with Fang all the time.”

Argo can scarcely breathe. The Circle of Khanna’s spellbook! What could be contained in such a thing?

He rushes to get the forest green journal out of his bag, takes one last long look at the inside cover, where it reads only “Property of” with no name to identify it, and presses the tip of his wand to the cover.

It’s really not hard to figure out who’s been writing to him. It’s not like he was actively trying to keep it a secret, what with all the stories and the explicit names of some of his friends. Argo figures out the man’s name a long time ago.

He’s a Slytherin, and largely considered responsible for Slytherin’s winning streak of the House Cup. He graduates just the year before Argo starts Hogwarts. He’s responsible for the discovery and opening of the cursed vaults in the castle. He was prefect and Head Boy when he attended.

Argo says, “Reynard Gage,” then opens the journal.

What he finds is magical.

(The inside cover, incidentally, now reads, “Property of Argo Scamander.”)

“Okay!” Argo says. “Thanks for coming guys. I know you must be busy, so I appreciate you all helping me with this.”

“Are you kidding?” Susan Bones asks. “I learned more in one meeting of your defense club than I did in two years of proper classes. And my aunt is ecstatic that we’re learning practical defense rather than structured dueling.”

“Not to mention how being a founding member of a club Circle will look on our applications once we’re looking for work,” Daphne says.

Oh. Argo is pretty sure, based on that and what Daphne says before, that she always plans to join and making him tell her about his animagus project was entirely manipulation.

Freaking Slytherins.

Oh, well. It’s not like Argo minds. While he doesn’t plan on registering with the British Ministry, he is going to register with MACUSA and the ICW, the latter of which supercedes the Ministry and makes registering with them unnecessary, due to Argo’s very specific circumstances. (Animagus must register with their local ministry, and the ICW when traveling internationally. Technically they do not need to register with any government they happen to be under at the time.) So it’s not as if he’s trying to keep his future animagus abilities secret.

Part of the reason there are so few is because it’s such a difficult process for what, for most wizards, is very little reward. What practical purpose does transforming into an animal serve the average person, after all? It’s mostly useful in covert purposes where one needs to sneak around unseen, but the registration with the Ministry negates that almost entirely. For wizards that are just curious about being an animal for a while, normal human transfiguration is typically easier and gives the wizard a choice of what they end up as.

But Argo isn’t becoming an animagus for any reason like that. He’s doing it to be closer to the creatures. He doesn’t care who knows, and honestly, if he’s allowed (which really depends on what he turns into), will probably regularly be found around the castle transformed anyway.

“Well,” Argo says, “all the same, I appreciate it. Having people to share the work on this with will really make my life easier.”

“I didn’t know you were struggling with it,” Susan says with a frown. “I would’ve helped earlier if you’d have asked.”

“It’s my own fault, really,” Argo says. “Between the club and all my extracurricular studies, I was probably spending more time working outside of class than in it.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, should we get right to business?”

“May as well,” Daphne says. “What’s on the agenda in the first meeting of our Circle?”

“Establishment, for one.” Argo produces the form for the formation of a student-led club. “We need a name, and we’re allowed a separate name for the Circle if we want. We’ll all have to sign as the founders. Then I was thinking we should put together notices. I know it’s the end of the year, but most people already know at least about us. We should let everyone know that we’re becoming an official club and… if you all are alright with it, I was thinking we can ask everyone what they’d like to learn. They can think about it over the summer, then when we come back, we’ll have to arrange for an official sign-up and anyone who joins can put forward ideas for things to focus on.”

“I thought we were focusing on practical defense?” Susan asks.

“We wouldn’t do every idea,” Argo says. “But we can pick a few, maybe some of the more common ideas, or anything particularly fun, and we can sprinkle in days where we focus on that and just get creative in using it to defend ourselves. They’ll be exercises more in getting people comfortable with using spells they wouldn’t normally consider defensive in defensive contexts. Encourage that versatility.”

Susan taps her chin for a moment, then concedes. “You know? That actually does sound fun.”

“Besides,” Argo says, “I’m sure most people will be thinking of defensive spells rather than something completely random.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Daphne says. “We’ll draft the notice after we have our official name. You put us together, Scamander. Any ideas?”

“None at all,” Argo says. “I hadn’t considered that it would turn into something this big.”

“What about you, Potter? You’ve been quiet, so far.”

Harry starts a little at being addressed so suddenly, and by a Slytherin no less. “Er, well… My friends and I have just been calling it the defense club.”

“Same here, but we can make it sound a little more official,” Susan says. “Like… Defense Association. The Hogwarts Student Defense Association. But I don’t see why it would need to be any more complicated than that.”

“I like it,” Daphne says. “Simple, and it won��t leave anyone wondering what we’re even doing in the club like the three school clubs.”

“Good enough,” Argo says. “There’s no reason to make it more complicated than it needs to be. Speaking of; the name of the Circle.”

“Just leave it the same,” Daphne says, rolling her eyes. “The Circle of the Hogwarts Student Defense Association works just as well as any more esoteric name.”

“That’s fine with me, too,” Harry says. “Susan?”

Susan sighs. “It’s a little boring, but I suppose I asked for it with the club name in the first place. Besides, if we do come up with something better, there’s no reason we can’t change it, even if only informally.”

“Right, then.” Argo carefully fills in the proper lines on the form. “We just need to sign and the professors will handle the rest. Professor Flitwick is our sponsor, by the way. A club like this would normally be under the Defense professor but…”

Daphne snorts. “Professor Flitwick is a far more… stable option. Good on you for arranging that.”

“Right, so, everyone just needs to sign, and I’ll get this to Professor Flitwick, and he’ll handle the rest.”

Argo signs first, followed quickly by Susan, then Harry and Daphne.

The moment he has the form back in his bag, Susan leans imperiously on the table. “Now, about these fliers.”

With his transfiguration project done and the Defense Association squared away, as much as it can be, the only thing left is exams.

Argo can feel Granger’s eyes on him when he walks into the Great Hall for lunch after the grades are in, but honestly, what does she expect? Between his usual love for Potions, his extra Transfigurations guided study, and him literally teaching her nearly everything she learns outside of a book this year in Defense, how is it at all surprising that he’s ranked first in those subjects?

(He certainly bloody hopes he’s first among the second-years, considering how much time and effort he puts into it all this year.)

Unlike last year, he’s perfectly happy with his scores this time, though that may be because he’s already thinking ahead to his animagus ritual and both Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes next year and honestly doesn’t give this year’s performance much thought beyond making sure he’s ready for the ritual after the summer.

The House Cup competition isn’t rigged this time, or at least not so blatantly. With the frankly absurd number of points Harry and Argo get from the whole Chamber of Secrets episode, there is never any chance for Slytherin or Hufflepuff to win. The race is really between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and of the two Argo supposes Headmaster Dumbledore can’t find sufficient reason to hand out points like candy to Gryffindor without also giving them to Ravenclaw on account of not much really happening in the second term of the year.

There’s the new club Circle, but Argo is a part of that. No one gets any points for revealing Lockhart’s crimes, which may honestly be partly due to the fact that Argo casts a very dangerous curse at the man. (In self-defense!)

Otherwise, there isn’t much of note. Even so it’s a close race, according to Anthony. So close, in fact, that Argo’s points for finishing his transfiguration scavenger hunt seems to be what pushes Ravenclaw into the lead and wins the Cup for them.

He receives a lot of congratulations and praise, despite it literally taking him until he’s sat down at the Ravenclaw table and about two whole minutes of putting up with his housemates to even realize what all the commotion is about. (And he still doesn’t care.)

And that’s it. Argo is quite eager to leave, as a matter of fact. He misses his family terribly, and is quite frankly tired and overworked and really just wants to spend the summer surrounded by family and creatures, with some time to spare going through the Circle of Khanna’s spellbook.

And in short order, he is.

#write #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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hongism · 3 years

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touch of the devil - k.hongjoong 18+

↣ pairing: hongjoong x fem!reader | ao3 version (mxm seongjoong) ↣ genre: angst, fluff if you SQUINT, nsfw, fantasy, supernatural, demon!hongjoong, emo rocker!hongjoong, there do be plot tho. ↣ wc: 9.0k ↣ summary: you came to make a deal with a devil sure, but this is the last thing you were expecting out of a night in a dingy bar. ↣ warnings: explicit smut, mention of death, demons, it’s actually really heavy on plot and angst and less focused on the smut ↣ a/n: again i know it’s my birthday but this is my present to you guys, i am a person who prefers to give rather than receive on my birthday and this was the first thing i wanted to work on during my hiatus!! i’ve got so much inspo and motivation rn that it’s crazy and i can’t wait to have everything all set out for you guys when im back :3

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Everything about the air around you is heady and thick in a way that chokes you as you step through the fogged bar. This isn’t your sort of scene – not one you would typically find yourself frequenting on a Friday evening without even so much as the company of a friend – and yet here you stand with hands pressed into the pockets of your black leather jacket. There remains a dull thrum in the atmosphere of the club, a steady rhythm of bass and vibrations that makes your ears ring but you do your best to ignore it in favor of reaching the bartender.

“Just a rum and coke please,” you murmur, hand sneaking out of your pocket to lay a few bills flat against the wood counter. You tug your ID card out as well and flash it in the man’s direction when he raises an eyebrow at you, but upon seeing it, he relents and steps away from you to get the drink.

The question remains of why exactly you are in such a dismal and hopeless scene full of people too drunk off their rockers to even fumble around the bar with some sense of dignity. You, who is neither dismal or hopeless yourself nor are you drunk in the slightest (at least not yet).

The answer is simple. This is a breeding ground, a festering cesspool of desires and greed, and it is the prime place to find what you are looking for in terms of deals with the devil. Maybe not one specific devil, but certainly whatever demon you can get your hands on tonight. And you have quite the lot to choose from it seems, because as you glance around the neon-lit building, you can spot many pairs of red eyes glinting under the lights. You know you have no right to be picky — any and all of them will get the job done — but you can’t help but to note that none of them are as appealing as you imagined they would be. When your friend said that these demons thrived off of lust and appeal, you figured that meant they would purposefully up the ante in terms of physical appearances.

The disdain must show on your features as the bartender begins to speak again as he sets your drink down before you on the counter.

“None of them are for you,” he utters, and you twist back to look him in the eye.

“What do you mean?” You inquire, chin tilting to the side in question, and the man huffs out a small laugh.

“They have their prey already. Picked ‘em the second they walked through the door. All it takes is one look to figure out what these needy people crave from them, what appearances they need to take, what voices to use, what outfits to wear. For people like you, though, something more is required before the real games begin.” He points a single bony finger at your face, staring you down over the length of his digit like it’s the barrel of a gun, and that has you shifting in your seat a bit.

“Something… more?”

“One must have a particular level of certainty before coming to make a deal with a demon, ma’am. But you — you don’t seem to truly know what it is you want. And for that reason, the King will see you with no ruses or deception.”

On the contrary, I wouldn’t have dared set foot in here if I didn’t know what it is I wanted, you want to say. However, your attention is held rapt by his final sentence, the one that held unspoken promise to it.

“And by that you mean physical alterations?”

“You catch on quickly, Miss.” The man leans forward, tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip, and you glance over the motion only once before pushing away from the counter. He notes the slight annoyance in your features a moment later. “The King will like you quite a bit.”

“When can I expect for this ‘King’ to present himself?” You prop an elbow up on the counter and give one last forlorn glance around the bar in the hopes that someone will come over your way, but it’s to no avail.

“Patience, human. The show hasn’t even begun yet.” He motions towards the middle of the bar, the starkly empty space with a glossy stage set in the center with only a microphone held delicately in its stand and nothing else. You had been hoping to make this a speedy trip — a quick in and out with your deal made and nothing else — but it seems you won’t be having that luxury. And it is a bit frustrating, honestly, to come to this place with the expectation of having a demon cater to you and your wants only to be told that you aren’t certain enough for these supernatural beings, so you’ll have to wait on a demon who won’t cater to you or come to you immediately.

You take a quick swig of your alcohol with the desperate hope that perhaps drinking will make you more certain of what you want, although you already know it won’t. The bartender offers a shrug in response to your annoyance then pulls away to tend to other customers, and you take it as an invitation to swivel in your stool and face the stage. It’s still fucking empty, but at least it gives you a better view than the old wood of the counter that now sits under your elbows.

“Leave it to men to make me wait on them, demon or not,” you mutter under your breath, breath fogging the side of your glass a bit.

You nearly choke on the liquid inside in your next breath because the swirling red neon lights come to a halt on the center of the stage, and the suddenness of the shifting lights startles you so much that you have to sit up straight and inhale deeply to keep from coughing on the alcohol in your mouth. The hazed mist hovering above the floor of the bar seems to swirl towards the stage under the beams of light. You watch the movements as though in a trance, slowly leaning forward until your elbows come to rest on your knees. Out of everyone in the bar, you seem to be the only one interested in what’s going on at the center of the room. Mind you, everyone else is preoccupied: demons with their humans, and humans with the mask-wearing demons who cater to their desires. And while you have no reason to be so intrigued by the scene before you, you truly cannot bring yourself to look away, especially as the dull thrum of music in the bar heightens and gains momentum.

There is no way of describing the sounds rumbling around you. Perhaps if you were fully in your senses, you would be able to distinguish the instruments and beats of the song, but the bass clogs your mind and leaves you squinting at the hazy stage. It could be poetic, the way a lone figure pushes his way through the crowds of the bar like he holds all the power in the universe, studded black leather jacket slung around his shoulders. And as the red lights come over him, you can see his features better. Dusty brown hair that shines a bit, one side exposed and cut shorter than the other, which has bangs that hang loose over the side of his face. Metal bars line both ears, another near the end of his left brow, and a final more intricate one that loops around the middle of his lip and connects to two long metal chains. You follow the path of those chains with your eyes, watching them trail downwards until they loop around his chest and disappear behind his jacket. It’s just a black turtleneck that he wears underneath the dramatic leather regalia and chains but somehow he makes the garment look expensive. You dare glance a bit lower, just enough to make out the frayed and distressed jeans that cling to his skin like a vice, leaving hints of enticing skin underneath to peek through. You can’t see his feet thanks to the fog, but you can practically hear his footsteps drumming in your ears with the rise and fall of his shoes.

Simply put, you are entranced by the sight of this man — if he can even be called that, because you wouldn’t find yourself at all surprised should he reveal himself to be a demon on the tail end of this encounter. He barely looks up from the floor on his trek to the stage, only stopping when he comes before the mic stand and exhales against it in a way that sends shivers down your spine. It’s hardly reasonable for any creature to hold your attention in the palm of his hand the way this one does, but there is no chance of you looking away now, especially as his voice begins to drawl through the microphone and coat your ears like honey. There are words, you recognize enough in the music to know that it should be a song you’re familiar with, but none of them truly process in your daze.

It’s all you can do to just sit there and watch his performance. Between the gentle sways of his shoulders and hips, the teasing drag of his tongue over his lower lip whenever there is a break in his lyrics, and the overall intoxicating nature his aura exudes, you are hooked on every breath he takes. You don’t realize how relaxed your body has become under his spell until it’s too late, and that happens to be the last note of the song as well. It is accentuated with the drop of the glass in your hand and a sharp shatter of the cup against the floor. And just as you inhale a startled gasp and break out of your reverie, his deep crimson eyes flicker over to find yours across the bar. Those twisting lips churn something ugly in your gut. You can’t find the strength in your body to move.

“Mine.”

Your heart leaps in your chest as the word leaves his lips, and while you can’t hear it grate against your ears, you can clearly read his lips enough to know what he’s saying.

His eyes glint a bit in the darkness. It shouldn’t leave you wanting more, but that bitter taste of curiosity is nipping at the back of your throat, and you are far too intrigued to turn back now. You just want more. If he seems to understand that at all from the gleam in your eyes, he makes good on it, stepping off the stage and letting his hand drag over the mic in a way that is almost tantalizing. Step after step, he comes closer to you with his lips still curled into a smirk, and the way the lights hit him makes him seem to glisten and glow in the darkness. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he breaches your personal space and you release a shaky exhale that seems to fog in the air between you. He stretches a hand out to close the space between your bodies and curls his index finger under your chin. The touch is simultaneously hot and cold — your whole body seems to light on fire under it, yet at the same time, the chill in your bones deepens to an alarming degree.

“What is it you desire above all other things?” You can hear him now, loud and clear, and whilst you heard his singing beforehand, the simple rasp and lilt to his regular tone is something that has you unashamedly weak in the knees. “I can give you everything,” he whispers as he presses closer to you. Your knees brush against his form but he keeps on pushing forward until he’s slotted himself between them. The chain hanging from his lips rattles like a chime, singing its unknown song like church bells in the night, although you are far from God and heaven now. “All you need to do is ask.”

You cling to some semblance of reason while you can, knowing full well that it will all leave you soon enough, but for now, it lets you choke out a single statement that has the demon before you laughing under his breath.

“That’s not how it works.”

“And who are you to tell me how it works?” His finger curls a bit harder at your chin, and you can feel the blunt of his nail scraping over your skin. Your eyes are glued to his, so enamored and consumed that you can’t even think to look anywhere else.

In that moment, it is as though the universe is nothing but a speck of dust in the corner of your vision. Something so raw and whole like the man standing before you is all-powerful and vigilant in a way that has every nerve in your body at full attention, ready for whatever his next step might be. And that turns out to be quite the curveball as it seems because he leans closer to you, breath intermingling with yours, and you subconsciously curve your back into his touch to reach him closer. Still, even though you physically show how ready and desperate for the touch you are, he waits and glances over your features.

“What is it you desire from me, human?”

You have to vehemently restrain yourself from simply saying ‘you’ and getting on with it.

“Your name.”

“Is that all you would have from me?” As a demon, it is his life’s work to know the inner-workings of the festering desires of humans. You have no doubt in your mind that he knows exactly what is it you want, even if you are not sure of it yourself, and you do not doubt that he won’t use that to his advantage either. But that’s what you asked for in coming here, and that is exactly what you both expected and wanted out of this.

Perhaps it is shameful, but just for once, you wanted to surrender control. Too often are you asked to have everything set out and planned and under control, and too often do you find yourself wanting someone to just tell you what it is you should do. That could be why the bartender labeled you as ‘uncertain’ because even in this moment of vulnerability, there is still the thinnest thread of thought tethering you to that control. And as of now, you want nothing more than for this demon before you to break that thread.

“I would have your name before I asked for anything else from you. Calling you demon over and over would certainly wear out its welcome, no?”

“That all depends on the context, my dear. But… you can call me Hongjoong, if that’s suitable to your tongue.”

“Hongjoong,” you try, testing the way the name rolls off your tongue in such a delicate manner that the demon before you flutters his lashes a bit.

“Sounds so pretty coming from lips so innocent.” He tilts his head to the side, and the movement flashes the pretty expanse of skin below his jaw. You aren’t shy in the way you let your gaze slip over it before trailing back up to meet his eyes again. “Would you close your eyes for me, doll?” He doesn’t have to ask. He could just make you do so with no resistance but still, he asks as though you could say no if you wanted to. You don’t though, and as such, your eyelids fall shut and your vision turns to black for the time being. “Do you know who I am?”

“Th-The bartender called you the King.”

“And do you understand what that means? Truly understand with every fiber of your being?” The question is heavy on your bones, and it is one that you feel like you should know the answer to yet you can’t find any response to his inquiry. Perhaps he means to confuse you because you hear the soft huff of a laugh fall from his lips. “King of the Underworld, Lord of the Dead. Some would call me Pluto, others Hades, it varies from religion to religion and in every culture. Sometimes I pick up rather banal and common names, other times I find myself seeking something extravagant and luxurious. Now… Hongjoong will be a good middle-ground for us.”

You should be falling to the floor in absolute shock due to his words, but the steady finger under your chin keeps you steady. That and the growing fear in your gut as you come to realize that this man holds so much power in just his pinky finger and could absolutely crush you under his heel whenever he wishes. What are you to a god besides an insignificant fleck of dust on the pavement?

“And what of your appearance? Is that… manifested as well?” You dare to ask.

“I have many faces, yes, but this one is one I wear boldly and frequently. You could say it is my natural form. After so many millennia of fantastical myths and legends, however, I’m sure that would seem odd to you.”

“Are you truly a demon then?”

“King of demons, yes. Whether I am truly a demon myself is something that could be ambiguous, I suppose, but if they are all part of my creations, then would that not make me one myself? Though you could say they are all fragments of my own being, making them all mythical gods. It’s all a matter of perspective; however, I doubt that you came searching this place for a lesson on perspectives.”

“No, I came for…” You trail off, and that blossoming uncertainty from before presents itself again.

“There are two things your heart wants right now. One, I can give you with ease and grace, only if you would allow it. That desire is a fleeting one, however, and I do not think it is what you are truly after in being here. The second… that is a wish I cannot deliver, and I think you are more than aware of that. The reason everyone left you to me is because of what you want. It is a domain only I could ever touch.”

You blink your eyes open in haste, searching his deep crimson gaze for some sort of confirmation of the words. The demon dares to look forlorn and lets his stare drop to the floor rather than looking you directly in the eye. Confusion blossoms in your gut. Yes, you figured there was a slim chance that your wish could not be granted, but still you clung to the desperate hope that maybe there was just a small window of opportunity for such a wish to be granted.

“Death is irreversible,” the demon, Hongjoong as he wishes to be called, says in a quiet tone. “I cannot give that which you want more than anything else.”

“Then what can you give?” You ask, squeezing your eyes shut as tight as possible to keep your emotions from slipping out the corners.

“One of two things: I can give you time to speak with him once more or I can make you forget the pain.”

“And if I choose the latter?”

“It would make you forget everything about him and leave you with no memory of him at all.” Hongjoong exhales a small sigh, the bouncing rhythms of the bass rumbling against your ears along with the sounds of his breaths. “You need not decide right this instant. The payment will be the same either way, so we can settle that first if you’d like.”

“W-Wait,” you stammer. You dare to open your eyes once more. “How would I be able to speak to him if you can’t bring him back?”

“I cannot bring him back the way you want. He… he is gone, and though I am the King of the Dead, there are powers even I do not have. Bringing him back to life is impossible, but I can create a doorway for the two of you to speak through for a short period of time. I have no control over how long it would be, just a forewarning. That is all up to him and his willingness to see you.”

“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t want to see me,” you murmur, but the pang in your chest tells you otherwise.

“Sometimes, death and the underworld change fundamental parts of people. They are no longer alive, after all, and as such, those human vices and personality traits dissipate. How you knew him in life could be vastly different than the spirit who now resides in my domain. It is all a matter of weighing risks, my dear. What matters most to you? Remembering him or him remembering you?”

“So if I ask to see him, I would remember him but there’s a chance that he would have no recollection of me? And should I ask to forget, there will be no way of knowing whether he remembers me in the afterlife or not?”

“Precisely.”

That is a hefty bargain to weigh. It is almost too much for your shoulders just to think about it. One is starkly more selfish than the other, but if he’s dead, what good will selflessness do you? It won’t bring him back, that’s for sure. Either you are left with the painful realization that he does not have any memory of you in the afterlife, or you forget it all to avoid that pain. Maybe thinking about the payment before deciding would be a good idea after all.

“As for the payment? How many years do I owe you?” Demons have no use for human currency or trinkets that could be traded for favors. You can barter the only thing you have — years of life. Whether it shortens your lifespan or turns you into a personal slave for a certain amount of time, that is a price you must be willing to pay for such services. You are more than prepared to barter it all off right now if need be.

“None,” Hongjoong answers coolly, and you quirk a brow upwards at the nonchalance in his tone. “I do not deal in years of life. Not often, at least. My abilities are bound in… passion. Lovemaking, fornication, sex, fucking – whatever you wish to call it. Of course, it wouldn’t have to be that exactly, should you not desire that. The other option is a blood pact, a ritual that would take hours to complete, although both could take quite some time depending on your stamina.” There’s a breath of silence that allows Hongjoong’s lips to twist into a suggestive grin, and heat brushes the base of your neck as you fight off waves of embarrassment. “I cannot guarantee that the blood pact would be painless. With sex, I could at least provide some comfort that the pain would only be temporary; however, the choice is yours. Both are binding and would mean that you could never make a deal with another demon again, and you would be marked as mine for eternity.”

“What does being yours entail?”

“Nothing diabolical or unsavory, I promise. Just… when the time comes for you to pass on and join the Underworld, you would take a place at my side.”

“How many people have you laid claim to? Did they all agree to the same terms? How can I trust your word?” The questions tumble from your lips without relent.

“For what you desire, the cost is far less than what I would usually ask for. Those lucky enough to deal with me in the past paid less for their debts. The blood pact… the fornication… both are binding elements. The real cost is your service. Most have agreed to give me their servitude in the afterlife, all with their own places in my domain. That is what you would be offering as well. You will live just as long as you would without making this deal but make up for it after your death.”

“And that’s it?”

Hongjoong’s eyes twinkle a bit under the lights above your heads.

“What did you expect from me, doll? Savagery? Unfairness? Everyone deserves a fair price for what they want, regardless of station in life or status in society.”

“Deal,” you utter without any more hesitation, blinking up into Hongjoong’s dark orbs. There lies a lingering sense of regret in your gut, one that you cannot chase away no matter how hard you try, but you do not need to dwell on it any longer.

“And how would you like to bind our deal, my dear? Neither can be handled immediately. The blood pact requires special preparations for the ritual, but the other — I would not have you in such a place as dirty as this.”

“I-I, um, sex will work just fine,” you bite out, the skin of your cheek caught between your teeth.

“Then when the time comes that you are ready with your decision on what it is you truly want, all you need to do is take this—” Hongjoong retracts his hand from where it rests gently against the column of your throat and digs into one of his pockets. He pulls out a gilded card, one that is black and gold with flecks of red across the surface, but there are no other adornments to the material. “Tear it in half and it will bring you to our meeting place, and I will join you there to seal the deal. Should you decide that you do not want this after all, then all you need to do is burn the card. The decision lies in your hands, and yours alone.” He has to lift one of your limp hands and forcefully place the card into your waiting palm, closing his fingers around yours to make you cling to the item.

“I – th-thank you,” you stammer as you blink from your closed hand to Hongjoong’s features.

“The pleasure is all mine, doll.”

Those are the last words you hear from the demon before he slips away from you, the dense fog lingering in the air swirling up around his body, and within moments, his shadowy form disappears entirely from sight. The air grows cold around you once more. You are left with only the fleeting desire for that warmth to return, for you to feel less alone than you are in that moment, and even if it’s the briefest visit ever you just want one last chance to tell your lost lover how you feel without mistakes this time.

///

The night, as per usual, is cold and unforgiving. It allows for too many opportunities to be alone with lost feelings and thoughts. It has been weeks (if not months) since you visited that dingy club and your fateful meeting with none other than the King of the Dead. Yet you are still here, wallowing in the memories that you’ve been left to suffer with alone, and the gilded black card sits in your nightstand untouched. You open the drawer just to stare at it from time to time, when the nights are particularly rough, and it already had begun collecting a thin layer of dust the last few times you looked at it.

It isn’t that you haven’t made your decision about what you want from your deal with Hongjoong. The more terrifying fact is that you are fully aware of what it is you want, and you simply cannot rectify the guilt that comes along with the pure selfishness of your decision. The feeling is so potent that it swarms your every thought. You know it wouldn’t be an issue once you meet with Hongjoong; the demon will take it all away and leave you with nothing. You won’t even know enough to be guilty any longer, but the pain of committing to the decision is strong enough to make you sick to your stomach.

Wooyoung — the one who suggested you go to the club and make the deal in the first place — will not shut up about how worried he is about you. You won’t recall the deal or why you made it, so what’s holding you back? A temporary guilt that won’t exist longer than a few seconds once you’re actually in Hongjoong’s presence? As he said, you just need to swallow the feeling and get on with it. Prolonging the regrets any longer won’t do you any good.

You huff out a quiet laugh in the silence of your darkened room. The black gilded card taunts you again now, gleaming up at you through the shadows with its faint hints of gold and red. Maybe Wooyoung is right and the only way to get rid of missed opportunities is to forget about them entirely. Yeosang was but a chapter in your life, one that is past and gone now, and as Hongjoong said, there is no reversing death. Seeing him one last time won’t give you anything but pain.

You stretch a shaky hand towards the card in the drawer. It’s cold to the touch, dust billowing up with even the slightest touch of your fingers. You have to dig your nail under the material to pull it up, and once it’s safely set in your palm, you drag your thumb over the surface to brush the dirt away. No words on the surface, no sign that it has been touched by a demon, and not even a hint as to what it could possibly be for.

It is surprisingly flexible, at least moreso than you would have imagined, and you give it a few testing bends to see how easy it would be to break. Hongjoong simply gave you the instruction to tear it in half and that was all. You don’t expect him to suddenly materialize before you on a whim, but surely such a creation is bound by some sort of magic on his part. It is hard enough to believe that demons are real living creatures, but magic as well? Maybe you’ve passed on and just don’t realize it yet. Still, you exhale one last huff of air into the darkness before letting your eyes flutter shut. Taking the card between your hands, you begin to slowly rip the material until it separates with the force, torn in two mismatched pieces.

Nothing fantastical happens.

That fact alone is so overwhelmingly disappointing that you really think for a moment that Hongjoong was just some goth rocker in a stoner bar who pulled an elaborate trick on you. It can’t be too difficult to get your hands on some weird red-toned contacts and weave some elaborate story about being the King of Hell. You could do that yourself. Why did you think he was incapable of such a charade?

Because he knew what you wanted without you having to say it.

Yes, well, Wooyoung claimed that your regrets and grief were evident in your features every time he looked at you. Maybe Hongjoong could see it as well.

You fall back onto your bed, flattening your back against the mattress with a small shout of frustration. The urge to cry is strong; if you’ve spent all these weeks uselessly worrying over something that could all be a farce, you don’t even know how you would react. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, blinking away the tears that blossom in the corners there as best you can. The rolling emotions in your system distract you from the sudden shift in temperature, and before you know it heat washes over you and fills the void of cold in your body. You jerk but refuse to sit up quite yet, eyes flying open in your shock only to choke on air as a bright golden light fills your vision and swarms you with warmth. The cushion under your body doesn’t feel the same either; it is not your bed, it’s too plush and soft, too warm under you, and you feel like you are absolutely drowning in the sensation.

Gold flickers above you, twinkling lights that glisten like small stars above you, and the ceiling is so dark that you nearly think it’s just an opening to the night sky. You sit up in a mad panic. The gold and red decorations littering the far too lavish room barely process in your vision as you look for a way out, and you don’t even see the figure coming up along your side until he’s upon you. A hand stretches out to brush over your forehead. You nearly shriek in your state of terror, but the sound is all but stolen from your lungs instead.

“It’s only me, doll. You’re safe.”

Hongjoong. Ah, Hongjoong. Then… he was telling the truth. It wasn’t a farce or a deception meant to be a game. He claimed to be the Devil Incarnate, and here he stands before you in a room too rich and exquisite for words. You can’t find it in you to think he’s lying now.

You dare to glance up and meet his gaze, finding it so soft on your face that you have the audacity to blush under his stare despite the things you’ll be doing with him soon enough.

“Have you made your decision then?” He asks, tone soft and light. It isn’t one that demands an immediate answer. You know he could ask what took you so long to decide, complain about your hesitance, say that you kept him waiting for far too long — instead, he exudes patience with you, hand slowly combing over your forehead down to your cheek and brushing over the skin there with a touch so featherlight that you almost don’t realize it’s there at all.

“I-I have,” you whisper like the two of you aren’t the only ones in the room and it’s a secret meant only for your ears.

“What would you have from me first then? As I told you before, the payment is the same regardless of your decision, and as such, we can bind the deal first if you’d rather.”

You swallow around nothing. There is no harm in going through with the decision now, but your nerves are so frazzled and out of sorts that you almost desire the sex simply as a means of stress relief. Hongjoong steps in front of you, fully coming into view, and you are shocked at how… mundane he looks. You blink fervently at the man — demon, rather — and take in the gentle part of his hair, the soft glow of his skin that makes him look simply ethereal under this light. He hardly looks like a demon to you; his features are too smooth and perfect for that, from the curves of his lips to the even line of his nose. Although you suppose that’s all he wants you to see, yet it still seems oddly intimate to a certain degree.

“You aren’t worried that I’ll try to run away after my wish is fulfilled?” You ask. Hongjoong arches his brows at you, and his neutral expression slips into one of momentary shock.

“Where are you going to go, my dear? I brought you to this place, and you will need me to send you back once we’re done here.”

It sinks in at that moment how you are completely at his mercy right now. Not that you had any plans of running away, but the question was moreso just to test the waters, see if he is truly as merciful as his features make him out to be. The underlying danger in his tone proves your point and sends a chill down your spine.

“Is that something I ought to be worried about, doll? Should I claim you now to make sure you keep your end of the bargain?” The question sits on your ear like warm honey. It chokes you, fills your senses with Hongjoong’s scent, and you almost find yourself leaning into his curling lips before catching yourself. That seems to pique his interest in the very least, and his smile twists a bit more. “The decision is in your hands as always. I won’t do anything you don’t give me explicit permission to do.”

“Permission granted,” you mutter before catching a hand on Hongjoong’s collar. “Do it all.” You aren’t too worried about damaging his clothes as he’s not wearing anything drastically fancy or expensive-looking, and thus you twist your fist into a ball around the fabric of his black tee and yank him down to your height. He bends at the waist, hands catching on the mattress before his forehead can smack hard against yours. There’s a bit of tension in his neck, and that keeps him far enough back so that he doesn’t kiss you quite yet. It’s almost as though he is waiting for something else, eyes carefully tracing your features with great care before he settles on your lips, and a sharp inhale of breath follows before that thin line in his composure snaps.

His lips hit yours with a surprising amount of force, and the kiss isn’t at all what you were expecting — well, to be more accurate, you aren’t quite sure what you were expecting in the first place. It’s much more pleasant than you could have imagined though, and Hongjoong isn’t shy with the touch at all. His tongue is quick to swipe over your lower lip, hands darting upwards to brush over your sides before reaching your face, and he brings a knee down on the mattress to support his weight as he leans over you. You follow the motion when he pushes forward and lean back until you have no choice but to scoot back on the bed. Hongjoong moves with you with the same amount of fervor, still pressed to your lips without relent, and you don’t even think to stop as he completely drapes himself over your body, knees still up and supporting his weight. The cushion of the mattress dips by your head, a telltale sign that he’s placed his hands there, and you use that as your opportunity to stop for air. Hongjoong surely has no need to breathe like you do since he is undead, but he still pants above you, chest heaving as a pretty flush rises to his cheeks.

“Putting that much power in a demon’s hands is dangerous, is it not?” He mutters. You let your lashes flutter shut as he moves back to your lips, hot breath ghosting over your skin. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I’ll tell you if it’s something I don’t like,” you murmur, opening an eye to peek at him. He meets your gaze with a soft laugh, but your answer seems to please him enough to bring his attention back to your lips. You inhale as his tongue breaches your mouth and pushes into the wet cavern inside. There’s no chance for you to fight back for any sort of dominance because he only thrusts deeper and coats the inside of your mouth with his taste until you can feel his tongue brushing over your palate. A quiet moan reverberates through your throat and against his lips. You feel the barest hint of a smile in the kiss, then his lips are suddenly gone from yours. You gasp for air with the freedom. Heat pools in the depths of your gut, a pleasant one that leaves you wanting more, and you aren’t sure if it’s simply been so long since you last had sex or if Hongjoong truly has that effect on you.

He returns to touching your body a moment later, hands trailing to the row of buttons on your nightshirt, and one by one, he pulls them apart until the material is barely clinging to your skin. His lips replace his fingers then. First at your jaw placing a wet trail of kisses and soft nips that leave you with goosebumps. Then he reaches the midpoint of your sternum and rests the flat of his tongue there, tasting and teasing your skin until you can do nothing but writhe under him because he is taking so damn long. Your impatience is laughable to him, as evidenced by the quiet huff of air that leaves him next.

“I want to taste every inch of you,” he mumbles against the skin of your stomach, hands pulling your nightshirt away to expose more of the skin underneath. He makes good on his words, and that damn tongue traces lower and lower until he reaches the band of your pants and underwear. You instinctively dart a hand down to tangle in his hair. “F-Fuck.” The curse slips out when you give an accidental tug to the hair close to his nape, and you nearly think that you’ve hurt him in some manner until you catch sight of the blissed-out expression on his features.

“D-Do you — can I…?”

“Do it harder while I eat you out,” he growls. His fingers close hard around the remainders of your close, and you don’t even have time to nod before he’s yanking both your pants and underwear down in one fell swoop. It leaves you more than a little exposed — you’re suddenly nearly nude before the demon who is still fully clothed, and that realization draws your thighs tight together in a sudden rush of embarrassment. You swallow hard around nothing, eyes darting away from Hongjoong’s prying gaze.

All of a sudden, he shrugs your hand off his hair and sits back on his heels. You don’t understand what his reasoning is until you settle your eyes back on his body. He’s leaned back to start stripping layers of clothes off in a rush, hands fumbling and struggling to pull them away in an orderly manner. There is no composure to his actions, only a hastened fervor that has him tossing his shoes far from the bed along with random articles of clothes until he’s laid fully bare before you. You really try your hardest not to glance down at his… you know, but the urge is overwhelming. Before you can even catch a glimpse, however, Hongjoong is on you again, hands latched around your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed as he kneels before you on the floor. The sudden movement has you squealing in surprise, and that noise is broken off into a startled moan when Hongjoong’s lips brush through your folds without warning.

“O-Oh god,” you gasp out. Hongjoong’s tongue gives a long and dragging pull through your heat, teasing some of the juices out of you with little restraint.

“Far from it actually,” he replies against your clit. A cheeky grin eats away at his features, but it quickly disappears as he returns his focus to your cunt. Your hand finds its way back down to his hair once more and tugs hard at the strands. Each tweak of his tongue through your folds has your legs jerking a bit, and he has to tighten his grip on your thighs to keep you from moving so much under his touch.

“I’m not — I w-won’t last, pl-please, I–” You can’t even finish the sentence as Hongjoong flicks the tip of his tongue right over your clit and cuts you off. He repeats that same motion, again and again, brings you right to the precipice of an orgasm only to tear you back down from it with soft kisses pressed to the outside of your folds. You can’t keep track of how many times he repeats that process, but it is more than enough to have you shaking from exhaustion and desperation even though you haven’t even been able to come yet.

“Are you going to beg for it, doll?” Hongjoong hums after what feels like hours of pleasurable torture. “I promised to make you feel good, did I not? You just have to tell me what you want.” His words are so taunting that it burns you with embarrassment. The need for that orgasm hangs on every nerve ending of your body, and you could cry just out of the need to come.

“Please,” you whisper in a tone broken from constant moans and cries.

“Be more specific.” It’s so cruel. He dangles the promise of pleasure before your eyes again, this time nipping ever so gently at your bud, and you really do cry this time, fingers digging harshly on his scalp. That draws a prolonged growl from his lips, and it reverberates against you so nicely that you could come from that. Hongjoong pulls his head back too soon though and the sensation is dashed away.

“N-No, no, please. P-Please, Hongjoong, I — please let me come. I need it, I need it so badly. Shit, just – just please let me come,” you wail as tears slip out the corners of your eyes and spill onto the sheets under you. That’s the breaking point for him as well, or so it would seem, because the next time his mouth brushes through your cunt, he doesn’t relent. You come undone on his tongue, riding out the waves of your intense orgasm as he fucks his wet muscle into your heat. He won’t stop chuckling either — a low noise that just prolongs the pleasure and makes you quiver from overstimulation. He doesn’t let up until a dry and choked sob pushes past your lips.

Suddenly he is back up on the bed, bent over your body to be eye to eye with you. His fingers trace over your wet cheeks then clasp hard around your jaw.

“Too much?”

“N-No,” you stammer through the wet cries. “So good. So so good.”

“Mm, can you take my cock too, doll?” He all but purrs the words against your skin. His soft and trailing kisses return to your skin, peppering the line of your jaw just past his fingers.

“Yes, please, I c-can. Please. I want i-it all.” You never thought you could sound so overwhelmingly desperate, but the tumbling sensation that swerves through your stomach as Hongjoong’s demeanor shifts has you falling into absolute shambles. He shifts your position, pushing you up higher to rest against the pillows, and you start to drape your legs around his waist. That must not be the position he had in mind though, because his hand clamps down hard on one of your calves and pushes it to the top of his shoulder. Before you can even blink, he does the same with your other leg, effectively folding you in half and into a position you weren’t even aware that your body was capable of. That shock is momentary as you feel the tip of what must his cock rubbing over your pulsating hole. You can’t do anything but ball your fists around the sheets under you and cling to them like a vice. It’s the only thing that can prepare you for his girth; the stretch may not be as much as you thought it would be, but it still stings like a bitch even after he bottoms out in you. That pain must be showing on your features – in the way your brows are tightly knit together and your eyes are screwed shut so that excess tears from earlier slip out.

The soft caress of lips touches your forehead. It’s so gentle and delicate that you nearly miss it in your efforts to grow used to the sensation between your legs, but Hongjoong repeats it time and time again until your breathing steadies and your chest stops heaving as much. It’s only then that he dares to resituate his hips. You crack an eye open to look at him, and it’s abundantly clear that he’s trying his hardest to hold back and keep from fucking into you with reckless abandon.

“I’m okay now,” you whisper, pulling a hand off the bedsheets to brush some loose strands of hair out of Hongjoong’s vision. “Please fuck me as hard as you’d like.” You snake the same hand around the back of his neck. When he still doesn’t move, you offer a sharp tug to the hair that falls over his sweat-slick nape, and that spurs him into action. His hips snap roughly against yours, pushing your back further into the crude curve it’s already in. Now that the dull throbbing pain has dissolved into a sensation of pleasure, you drown yourself in the drag of his member inside you. It’s quite possibly the best feeling you’ve had all night with the way his tip rubs over your bundle of nerves at just the right angle.

Hongjoong drops his elbows to the pillow under your head, and you greet him with a kiss that is mostly just an awkward clash of teeth for the most part. He gains enough composure to shift the angle to one that’s easier for both of you, hips still working hard as he rocks into you with the same force and speed as before. You are so lost in the euphoria that you can’t even feel your next orgasm sneaking up on you, but when it does, it pulls a noiseless scream from your lips. Hongjoong mouths at the corner of your lips as you ride it out. He still seems far off from his own high, even as he slows the pulses of his thrusts. You claw your way back from the high of your orgasm to grip his hair tighter and pull him closer to you.

“In me. I need you to come in me or not at all,” you demand through a huffed out sigh. It’s a moment of throwing caution to the wind, one that is quite worth it thanks to the expression of hunger and lust that fills Hongjoong’s face.

“You can’t just say things like that, doll,” he growls into the shell of your ear. You try to laugh but he interrupts you with a thrust harsher than any of the ones before. Every sound that falls from your lips now is stuttered and broken at the seams, and you let him fuck you with that same level of passion until he finally seems to tire and lose his rhythm. The only warning you have that he’s about to orgasm is the slight whine to his tone when he moans next. You push what strength you have left into clenching hard around his cock, and that is ultimately what tips him over the edge and pulls a delightful moan from his lips as he spills into your tight heat. He releases his hold on your legs, letting them slip away from his shoulders and back into a more comfortable position on the bed, but he refuses to move off your body.

You aren’t sure how long the two of you stay like that: with Hongjoong continually mouthing small kisses to the underside of your jaw and you just staring blankly at the glittering ceiling with a mind nearly empty. However much time passes doesn’t quite matter because once you recover your senses enough to be coherent again, you recall what is supposed to come next. Shaky hands find their way to Hongjoong’s arms and trail up to rest atop his back.

“Take it all away,” you exhale through a pant, hands clinging desperately to the milky skin of Hongjoong’s shoulders. “I don’t want to remember him anymore.” His chest heaves against yours, and a few loose strands of dark hair fall forward to stick to his sweat-slick forehead. This time when he kisses you, it is hot and searing, a brand against your lips, one that burns the inside of your mouth and sets your tongue alight. The sensation slips down the back of your throat, fills your gut, burns you from the inside out, and all your thoughts go hazy under the touch of his lips. With that one kiss, Hongjoong takes it all away. He gives into your desires, heeds your wishes, and grants you the ultimate peace and serenity you so deeply craved. He continues to cling to you like he’s never held something so desperately or lost in his infinite existence. You return the embrace in full while you can, strength already leaving you in the afterglow of your fornication, and you rake your nails down over his back if only to leave him with some sort of trophy to leave with. He is already leaving with your memories though, a trophy to hold close to his heart should there ever be a time when you ask for them to be returned to you. Perhaps in your afterlife, you’ll ask for them back, and Hongjoong would gladly give them should it be what you desire.

That is what he is, after all. As much as he takes, the Demon King of the Underworld gives in return, where he can with what he can. His duty, his bond, the sole purpose for his existence is to maintain that balance between giving and taking. But if it’s for you — a creature so lost, dismal, and hopeless — perhaps he can tip the scales a bit further in your direction.

At least, that’s what he thinks as you curve your body into his and press your lips with more fervor than before. That maybe, just maybe, endless years of his own hopelessness and confusion were all meant to lead him to finding this: a purpose in his undying life.

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