Professor Snape stood in the basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He held a mug of firewhiskey in his hand — a despicable one at that, and he looked at the slumped over form of Black at the head of the table. The man had sat down for but a moment before he had collapsed in sleep, and now Snape wondered what had gotten him so tired.

Surely it didn't have to do with...?

No, thought Snape. That doesn't make sense. It must be some side effect of...

Snape shook his head, taking a swig of the liquid. It burned down his throat — yet felt good as it did so. He'd never understood why.

"Black," he said roughly, intending the wake him. "Black!"

"Wha—" Black raised his head an inch or two, peering out from his arms. "Sleepy."

"Pull yourself together," said Snape. "You know you're not supposed to be asleep yet." He smirked. "Dumbledore's orders." He took another swig.

"I don't give a damn about Dumbledore's orders right now, Snivellus," said Black, and he rearranged himself in the chair, on the table, trying to get comfortable. He began to snore loudly.

"Fine," said Snape. "But you know I'm not about to defend you to Dumbledore." He smiled. "Now it'll probably be even longer before you get out of this place."

"I don't care," said Black, muffled through his arms. "Leave me alone. Go back to your dungeon, or something."

Snape took yet another swig. He was disappointed—he didn't feel the least bit tired, himself. Everything seemed off—now Black wasn't even willing to fight with him. What was the world coming to?

"Fine," said Snape. "I'll just go make conversation with your dear mother..."

Black's eyes snapped open. "You wouldn't dare! I'd never get to sleep, then!"

Snape smirked. "Exactly."

Black groaned. "God, Snape, why are you still here? Don't you have some children to torture or something?"

"I don't torture children," said Snape. "It's a common misconception." He paused.

Black snorted sleepily. "Yeah, right. I'd probably say something really..." he yawned "...witty, 'bout that, Snivellus, but I'm just too damn tired."

Snape looked at him, narrowing his eyes.

"When are you going to tell him, Black?"

Black groaned again. "Tell who? Tell him what?"

"You know who," said Snape.

"Why on earth would I tell him anything?" said Black. He still had not looked up from his arm/pillow, and it did not seem that he wanted to.

Snape rolled his eyes. "You know who I mean, Black. Your damn godson. He has to know. He's going to find out, even if you don't tell him."

Black finally lifted his head, frustrated. He stood, walked over, and put his finger in Snape's face. "He never has to find out. I don't want that on his mind."

"Don't stick your finger in my face," said Snape batting away Black's hand. He took another swig.

"I'll stick my finger wherever I want to stick my finger," said Black. "And let me tell you this, Snivellus. There are two secrets that I am never going to tell a soul." He put up two fingers. "Ever. Two things I'm going to take to my grave with me. The first is that Harry and Ginny are going out—"

"There goes that one," Snape cut in, smirking.

Black winced, cursing. "And the second one," he continued, his hand right in Snape's face once again, "is—"

"Sirius," said a familiar voice in a disapproving tone. "Severus. What have I told you two about fighting?"

Black closed his eyes, as if in pain. He lowered his hand and spun round, nodding. "Albus," he said.

"Professor Dumbledore," said Snape, "what brings you here at this hour of the morning?"

"There is someone that wishes to meet you, Severus," said Dumbledore. "It is a very important interview, if you understand."

Snape nodded. "Whom will I be speaking to?"

"A Professor Ripley Morgen," said Dumbledore. "He will be taking the place of Professor Umbridge as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, come new term at Hogwarts. Minerva has just appointed him."

Snape's lip curled. "I take it my application has been denied once again, sir?"

"I'm afraid so, Severus," said Dumbledore regretfully. "But look on the bright side; at least it wasn't me this year." He chuckled. Snape did not.

Black grinned wickedly. "You're never gonna get that job, Sniv—Severus," he said, at a look from Dumbledore. "Might as well stop trying."

Snape said nothing.

"You will be meeting him at this location," said Dumbledore, handing a piece of parchment to Snape, who took a look at it, and then tucked it away within his robes.

"Yes, sir," said Snape. He walked towards the stairs, leaving Dumbledore and Black alone. He heard Dumbledore speak as he went:

"Sirius, there is something I do need to speak with you about as well..."

"It's getting light out," said Ron as light began to shine through the sliding glass doors of the Lovegood's living room.

"Yes, I see it is," sniffled London.

"Sun, sun, sun, here it comes," said the wireless.

Luna's father stood up then, and smiled down at the two teenagers. "How about some Pop Tarts for breakfast, eh?"

"Sure," said Ron, and London went off towards the kitchen. He switched off the wireless as he went.

"So," said Luna. "Are we...together now?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I reckon so."

They sat in silence for a while, Ron alternately glancing at Luna, glancing away, and Luna simply staring at Ron.

"So now what?" said Ron. "I mean…what do we do now?"

"We eat Pop Tarts, of course!" said London, and he seemed more cheerful now. More like his old self…but…still not quite there.

"Are you all right, Mr Lovegood?" Ron asked, taking a breakfast pastry from the tray in London's hands. Luna took one as well.

"I'm fine," said London. "It's just…that song is so…it's always makes me lose it, just never...like that." He looked longingly towards the wireless, and said: "It's my favourite, I think. But at the same time…it's so sad, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Luna. "Perhaps a bit too sad, for…this time of year."

Ron furrowed his brow. "What…this time of year? What does the time of year have to do with anything?"

"Six years," said London, wistfully gazing at the photographs across the room, on the mantel, and Ron remembered, and knew what they were speaking of. "It's been six years since…well, you know. But no—I'm fine. Yes…fine."

Silence, but for the sound of Luna nibbling the edges of her Pop Tart, never going all the way to the icing or the filling, just the outside part. Ron's was still too hot.

London sighed, sitting down between the two teenagers again. He put the tray on the coffee table, and rested his cheek on his palm.

"I do miss her…oh, yes, I miss her…" London's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be remembering times long past.

Luna felt a strong urge to tell her father everything…about the mirror, and the other life, and about her mother, the things he didn't remember. But she didn't. She wanted to tell him that it would be all right, that everything had been worse with her mother alive, that it had been Cynthia herself that had put everything right.

But she didn't. She couldn't. Not now. Not yet.

And so they sat, eating their Pop Tarts in relative silence.

"Mrs Weasley," said Harry, sitting down at the kitchen table of the Burrow, "where's Ron?"

"Ron?" said Mrs Weasley, cracking an egg into a frying-pan, and Harry almost thought she was to say Ron who?, but she didn't. "Oh, he's…bound to be home soon."

Ginny smirked at Harry, who pouted slightly. He shook his head, uncomprehending.

"Why is it that no one seems worried about Ron, when he's been gone more than a day? Voldemort could have him, for all we know!"

Mrs Weasley winced, and she looked up at the clock. "No, he's fine. And it's not more than a day yet. It'll be a day at six o'clock."

Harry looked at the clock warily, not sure if it was to be believed. How, after all, did it know that Ron was "Eating"? And where was he eating?

"But shouldn't it say he's asleep, not eating?" said Harry. "Ron never gets up this early."

"He must be awake, then," said Ginny, obviously.

Mrs Weasley served their eggs, and Harry stabbed his yolk -- perhaps a bit too roughly -- with his fork. It splattered all about his plate.

"Honestly, Harry," said Ginny. "Why don't you just take our words for it?"

"Why don't you just tell me where my best mate is?"

"Eat up," said Mrs Weasley, pointing to Harry's eggs. "Now that you've properly punctured it, it'll be a bit messy, but if that's how you like it…"

"So, Luna," said London after a while. "What'd you dream about tonight?"

Luna thought for a moment. "Mum," she answered, which obviously wasn't a lie.

"Again?" said London sadly. "Yes, I dreamt of her too."

"What else did you dream about?" Luna asked him, and Ron wondered how they had gotten into a conversation about dreams.

"I dreamt about…" began London, squinting, as if trying to remember. "Well, I dreamt about your mother, as always. And I dreamt something else, something strange…"

"What?" asked Ron.

"It was this…cage," said London. "It was this big cage, and Cynthia—Luna's mother, of course—" he clarified towards Ron, "was there, and this man was there as well. And he was torturing us. Me, especially. I don't…" He shook his head. "I didn't like that dream. Don't you hate nightmares?"

"Very much so," said Luna. "Especially double-dreams." She shivered, and then looked at Ron. "What did you dream about, Ronald?"

Ron blinked, unsure. Why had she asked him? She had said¾said before, that she and her father discussed their dreams all the time, but him? He never talked about his dreams. He didn't know what to say.

"I didn't dream tonight," said Ron finally, and London looked disappointed, as did Luna.

"Not one?" London asked.

"No," said Ron. "But…I have been having this other dream, or I had, at least."

"Tell us about it!"

Ron opened his mouth to speak, to tell of the dream he had been thinking of, but he found that he couldn't. What dream was it again? He couldn't…remember. And it had been right there, only a moment ago…what was it?

"I can't," said Ron, eyes widening slightly. "Sorry, I just…lost it."

"Don't you hate it when that happens?" said London, and Luna nodded. "I hate it when that happens."

"I'd better be going, soon," said Ron, but he made no move to move. He had finished his Pop Tart and for some reason began watching Luna eat hers. There was something funny about the way Luna ate, but he couldn't place it.

"Oh, not this early, for sure!" said London. He was even more himself now he had gotten some food in his belly. "You simply must wait a bit longer. It's hardly half five."

"But I've been gone since six yesterday," said Ron. "They're bound to be worried…"

"Go ahead, Ronald," said Luna. "Don't mind Daddy. You have been gone an awful long time, and your mum's sure to be having a fit. Let me walk you to the door."

Ron blinked. "I...I know where the door is¾"

"Let me walk you to the door, Ronald," said Luna again, and so she stood and took Ron by the elbow and dragged him out to the front hall, by the door. As soon as they were out of her father's sight (or perhaps a bit before?) she pulled him down to her, kissing him on the lips once again.

"Take this," she said, and she somehow had gotten the her lion hat, and was holding it out to him. "To remember me by."

Ron blinked. "Luna, it's not like I'm going anywhere…just up to the Burrow. I'll see you soon."

"So?" she said. "That doesn't mean you can't take something to remember me by."

"All right then," said Ron awkwardly, and he took the lion hat. He leaned down again and kissed Luna briefly, though he really didn't think it was the proper way to kiss someone. And it didn't really feel real. Not the kiss, no, the...the past…how long had it really been? A day? Two? It didn't feel as if it had happened.

Ron reached for the doorknob, but Luna held him back.

"You're going to wear it, aren't you?" she said, and took the hat from his hand and reached up to put it on his head. It roared.

"I am?" Ron asked.

"Of course you are," said Luna, and she squeezed the lion's nose for good luck. He roared, and with that Ron took a step out the door. She watched him all the way down the garden path, and then leaned out the door to watch as he walked down the street. Several times, he looked back over his shoulder, and she smiled each time he did. Finally he was too far off, and all she could see was a bit of bright red beneath the hat, but she watched still until that was gone as well.

Letting out a breath, Luna leaned back into her home, closing her front door, and her eyes as well. She breathed in, and he was still in the air. But not really him, of course, just his spirit. For in reality — that dreadful place Luna tried so desperately to avoid — he had gone.

"...you be quiet, George? You'll wake the ghoul!"

"I'm not going to wake anyone, no, that's your job, with all your yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling!" A pause. Softer: "I'm not yelling. And it's not just this damn ghoul I'm worried about..."

"Yes, I know that, Fred. Since when are you in—"

The twins came bustling into the kitchen to find all eyes — those of Harry, Ginny, and their mother — focused on them. Between the two of them was a large cage, and within it was something Harry had only ever heard about before — the Weasley's ghoul.

Mrs Weasley faced her sons, hands on her hips.

"—trouble?" she finished her son's sentence. "Oh, I'd say just about now." She smiled thinly. "And this time I even know which is which..."

"Oh, damn it all," muttered Fred, and yes, they knew it was Fred, for once.

"Language, Fred," said Mrs Weasley. "And just what in...what on earth are you doing with the ghoul?"

The ghoul was, in a word, ugly. In two, very ugly. Harry didn't know if he'd ever seen an uglier creature, though surely one of Hagrid's projects must have been just as bad; Harry couldn't remember at the moment. It was asleep, of course, and very slimy, buck-toothed, and resembled a small ogre. Harry, who had never seen a live ogre either, reckoned that they were probably just as ugly in real life.

"Oh, just taking it for a walk," said George. "The attic is really very cramped, you know—someone should clean it."

"Oh, don't worry," said Mrs Weasley. "Someone will—in fact, I don't think the two of you are very busy, the rest of the summer? You're just the boys for the job."

The twins winced, having hoped very much to not be caught this time.

"Now sit down and let me make you some eggs," said Mrs Weasley. The twins set the ghoul on the kitchen floor, and grudgingly sat opposite Harry and Ginny.

"What were you really planning on doing with that thing?" Harry asked of George quietly.

"That is need-to-know information," said Fred. "And you don't."

Harry let the matter drop — he wasn't very interested in the thing anyway.

"You're not planning on leaving that there, are you?" said Ginny, indicating the ghoul on the kitchen floor.

"Of course not," said George.

"Then you're going to bring him back to the attic?"

"Of course not," said George.

"Not after all the work we went through to get him," said Fred.

Harry furrowed his brow. "But I thought all ghouls did was...growl, and throw things."

"Oh, they do," said George. "But they also are notoriously difficult to get into cages."

"All slimy and unpleasant."

Mrs Weasley served the twins their eggs, and Harry wondered if she planned to ever sit down for herself. She walked from one end of the kitchen to another, either looking for something or trying to put something somewhere.

"Are you all right?" he asked her finally, and he had to say it again for Mrs Weasley to realise he was talking to her. "Are you all right?"

"Me?" she said, turning to him. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? I'm perfectly fine." And she bustled off again.

"We've been trying to get her to slow down for years, Harry," said one of the twins—Damn it! Harry had forgotten which was which. Or had they switched places? He didn't know.

"Not least so she wouldn't catch us so much," said the other.

Eventually the twins each picked up a handle on one side of the cage and trudged it out of the kitchen, towards the stairs. Harry doubted they were going to the attic

"So," said Mrs Weasley, turning to Harry and Ginny, "why couldn't you two sleep this morning?"

"I just couldn't," said Ginny. "Not after I woke up."

"Me neither," said Harry, and Mrs Weasley looked at the two of them shrewdly. She said nothing more, and suddenly there was a strong gust of wind, blowing, blowing through the window—but wasn't the window closed?— a wind so very strong that it knocked Ginny's chair backwards, and she fell, her head contacting the kitchen floor and Harry rushed to her side, panicked. Ginny however, could see nothing—the world had gone black, and she was gone.

Cold. Very, very cold. Freezing. Stone. Hard stone. Cold, hard stone.

Her eyes opened. Had they been closed? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

Ginny looked round—no, no, no, no, no, no, not now. Not again.

Everywhere she looked, there was the cold—the cold, tall, stone pillars that were the very pillars that held her up and forced her downwards again.

An enormous statue rose at the back, she knew, and she did not have to actually look to see it was there. It was there. She knew it was there. Just where it always was, at the back of the chamber.

The Chamber.

The Chamber of Secrets.

"Do you want to play hide and seek?" came a familiar voice, so familiar that it was sickening. It was her self—not herself, but her self—the self that belonged to her.

"Hello, Ginevra," said the smooth voice, the one she couldn't see, but of course she couldn't see it, it was a voice, after all.

"Do you? Do you?" said the other, and Ginny felt her vision clearing. Had it been blurred? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

Ginny saw her selves, the selves that belonged to her, the selves that she had created, the selves just before her eyes—the selves with her eyes...

"Why am I here?" Ginny asked finally. "Again? Why am I here again?"

"You hit your head hard, Ginny," said the boy, the image of Tom Riddle, the evil inside. "Very hard. In fact—"

"Who cares about that?" said the girl, the eleven-year-old Ginny, the picture of innocence. "Let's play hide and seek!"

"Will you shut up?" said the boy. "This is no time for games." His expression changed slightly, to a small smirk. "Or is it? Is not this whole thing a game? A struggle between opposing forces? Now is the time for games, but not for children's games—for the most important game of all."

"What are you on about?" said Ginny, and her head was hurting. Aching. When had it started aching? She couldn't remember. Something felt odd.

"Don't you see it, Ginny?" said the boy. "Don't you feel it?"

"Feel what?" said Ginny, and she did feel something, she did feel the unbearable silence of the Chamber, she felt an ache in her head, and she felt precisely what words her self was going to say next:

"It is...beginning."

Finis