Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, Harry Potter or any of their affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Base/s: Bleach, Harry Potter

Title: Book Two: Avaritia

Summary: Second in the Purgatorio series. There are voices in the walls, and stalkers in the hallways. At least not everything is dire; things are getting interesting.

Music used for inspiration: I Am a Scientist – Dandy Worhols, Night of the Wolf – Nox Arcana, Black Blade, Corruption, He who Brings the Night, A Hole in the Sun, Master of Shadows, Sidanya, You Will Count Your Dead – Two Steps From Hell.

Szayel finds, much to his surprise, that he is enjoying his summer holidays like he never has before.

He realizes after some thought, that while his relatives treat him with the same nervous cordiality they have always done, he is enjoying things more. He thinks it has something to do with purpose. Before, he had been lost, stuck in a body that was less than his own and thrust into a world so very different from the one he knew. But now, oh yes, now he has a purpose. Something to focus on. Magic. He loves it. The very idea sends pleasant tingles down his spine and almost causes him to break out into peals of laughter. The reason he loves it so much, he knows for certain, is that he knows nothing about it. It's new. It's a whole world (in this case, literally) of knowledge that is just ready for the taking.

He sighs happily as he sits in the sun, outside on the lawn. The book in his hand a book on magic, but he has swapped the sleeve for one on the Swarzchild Phenomenon he finished a few years ago. He is not so foolish as to advertise the existence of such a fascinating petri dish.

He finds, to his mild surprise, that he is taking pleasure in being outside. From what he can remember of both his former lives, he distained to let the sun's rays touch him, preferring to seclude himself away indoors and continue with whatever knowledge furthering pursuit he was engaged in.

But not today. The sun is shining, the air tastes sweetly of heat and cut grass, and he is feeling rather comfortable.

The only fly in an otherwise pleasant jar of ointment is that Michael, who promised to write to him, has done no such thing. He does not mind much, but is slightly annoyed at being brushed off. Perhaps Lady Corner does not like the idea of her son associating with the boy-who-lived? It is certainly a possibility. He clears his thoughts, it doesn't matter. Not really.

He idly turns a page and pushes his glasses up from where they have slid down his nose.

His eyes skim across the words and his mind, ever sharp, stores them away.

Minutes slide by like the pages of a book left open.

He feels a slight displacement in the air and he jerks his head up. Almost instantaneously, he hears a loud crack and knows something is wrong. Or rather, different. The book falls from his fingers as he narrows his eyes and tenses his body. He scans the garden. His eyes catch something in the bushes.

He blinks.

The bushes, as impossible as it may seem, appear to be staring back at him.

"I would come out if I were you." He says knowingly and takes slight pleasure in the way the eyes widen.

The thing that appears before him gives him a welcome tingle that travels down his spine. He has no idea what it is. But he wants to find out.

It stares at him with wide, pale eyes what seemed too big for its face, and its large bat like ears flutter in the breeze.

Szayel wonders if it ever blinks. He thinks it is rather like Ulquiorra in that regard, and enjoys the fact the Cuatro is not there to reprimand him.

Dobby stares at the boy in front of him. It is odd, he decides, that the great Harry Potter is so calm. It is even odder, he thinks with some measure of awe, that the great Harry Potter had spotted him.

He finds the boy to be how he expected him to be, at least in looks. But there is something in the way his insipid eyes seemed rather... hungry, when he looks at the lowly House Elf in front of him that makes Dobby feel his stomach flutter unpleasantly.

The feeling goes away when he reminds himself that this is the great Harry Potter, and Dobby is actually talking to him.

"Harry Potter!" he says happily and sees the boy raise one eyebrow. Dobby wonders if he can do that one day.

The boy's smile does not dim. He feels elated, the great Harry Potter is smiling at him! He is happy to see such a lowly being!

"Hello," he says, "I must admit, you almost took me by surprise."

Dobby beams.

"So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir... Such an honour it is..." he trails off, not really knowing what to say next. Instead, he waits for the young wizard to respond to him.

The boy does not disappoint.

"An honour you say?" he says, apparently slightly amused. Dobby nods his head fast enough to make his ears hurt and the boy chuckles. Oddly enough, the sound that meets his ears is far from humorous. "It's been a long time since I've had that said to me."

Dobby wonders what he means. He doesn't say anything, it is not his place.

"If I may ask though, what exactly are you?"

Dobby is slightly surprised. The great Harry Potter doesn't know?

"Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf." He says promptly, with some pride.

The smile widens.

"Fascinating."

Dobby feels as though he has never been happier.

"I feel I must ask, on behalf of my curiosity, what is one such as you doing visiting one such as I?" the boy asks, and he cocks his head to one side slightly, as if trying to work out a puzzle.

"Oh yes sir," Dobby says, nodding his head vigorously. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir... it is difficult, sir... Dobby wonders where to begin..." he trails off, feeling embarrassed about presenting such a pitiful image to the great Harry Potter. He reflects that he should have probably rehearsed beforehand.

"Oh?" the boy prompts him to go on, interested. Dobby collects himself.

"Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts." Dobby says, serious.

The boy raises an eyebrow again and Dobby really wishes he could do that too.

"Now that," the boy starts, "I did not expect you to say. May I ask why you wish to prevent me from returning?"

There is something, and Dobby is hesitant about labelling it as such, dangerous in his expression. Not enough to really notice, but enough to send the tiniest shiver running down your spine and leave you wondering why.

"Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger." Dobby says, wringing his hands together.

"Go on." The boy seems amused by something he has said, Dobby tries to put his point across.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year!"

"A plot?" the boy repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching, "How... nefarious."

Dobby opens his mouth to try and reason with the great Harry Potter. So brave... but he is beaten to the punch.

"Danger is when the most interesting things are discovered. If no-one takes risks, why, nothing new would ever be learned. And I cannot have that, now can I?" he says, almost chidingly and Dobby feels to urge to feel guilty.

"Dobby had heard the great Harry Potter was in the house Ravenclaw, and that he is very smart. Harry Potter is great indeed!" he says, looking up into the green eyes that look down on him like a lord. "But it is because Harry Potter is so great that he cannot be lost! He must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Those eyes do not change but Dobby shivers anyway.

"Perhaps I would be more inclined to agree if I knew who it was who was plotting." He says, his eyes boring into Dobby's own.

Dobby wants to tell Harry Potter, he really does. But he can't, and he hates himself for it.

"I can't great Harry Potter sir. Dobby is sorry." He mumbles, looking away.

"You cannot tell me, or you will not?"

Dobby looks up. No! Harry Potter is thinking ill of him?

"I cannot sir, Dobby's family has forbidden it!" he protests and feels relief fill his little body when the boy nods.

"I see. And out if idle curiosity, who is your family?"

Dobby chews his lip. Then his eyes widen and he drops to the floor and beats his head against the flagstones. It hurts, it hurts so much but he can't stop, not until the magic is satisfied.

The boy does nothing to stop him until he sees the small smear of blood on the concrete, steadily growing larger. A deceptively strong hand grabs him by the back of his clothing and pulls him up.

Dobby sways, his head pounding and the wound bleeding freely. He heals it with a snap of his fingers but lets the pain linger. He will not skip his punishment.

Harry Potter is so very kind and good.

"Dobby is sorry sir." He mumbles, "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir... the wizard family Dobby serves. Dobby is a house elf - bound to serve one house and one family forever."

The boy leans forward, intrigued.

"Can you not just leave?" he asks and looks as though he wants to take notes. Dobby is being of use to the great Harry Potter! The thought makes Dobby almost forget the pain he's in.

"A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. Dobby will serve the family until he dies sir." He explains it as best he can, referring to himself in the third person, as is polite.

"Interesting." is the only comment.

"So Harry Potter will not return to Hogwarts?" he asks hopefully.

The boy chuckles, those vapid eyes dancing.

"I'm afraid Dobby, that Hogwarts is somewhere that I cannot just leave alone."

Dobby is getting desperate. He knows Harry Potter has no need of such a lowly creature to give him advice, but he feels that it is his duty.

"Does Harry Potter sir wish to see his friends again?" he hints, hating himself for stooping to such a level.

The boy looks faintly surprised.

"I suppose I could stand to see Michael again, why do you ask?"

Dobby fidgets.

"Harry Potter is going back to Hogwarts to see his friends. Friends who do not even write to Harry Potter?" he says slyly.

The boys smile grows sharp and humourless and Dobby takes a step back.

"Oh? And how would you know that?" he asks, in a tone that says he knows.

Dobby slowly reaches into his clothes and pulls out a few envelopes.

The house elf sees the smile drop for the first time since he has met Harry Potter. That scares him more than he would like to admit.

The boy stands, towering over the smaller creature with ease. He stretches out a hand.

"If you would?" It's not a request.

Dobby shakes his head, tensing. Harry Potter would never hurt him, Harry Potter is too good, too great-

Suddenly the boy is in front of him, squatting down and looking him in the eyes. Dobby hadn't even seen him move.

"My letters Dobby." He says pleasantly, although the smile is still not on his lips.

"Dobby can't." He says, his voice shaking. "Not unless Harry Potter will promise he will not return to Hogwarts!"

The boy pauses and Dobby silently begs him to accept, if only to spare Dobby having to hurt his hero.

"If I promise, will you give me my letters and stop spying on me?"

Dobby wrings his hands.

"Yes."

The smile is back on the boys face and Dobby almost breathes a sigh of relief. Although the smile, while expected, is nothing kind.

"Very well. I promise."

Dobby stretches out the hand holding the letters and they are taken from him, a feeling of empowerment going with them, leaving guilt in its crevice.

"Thank you Harry Potter, for taking Dobby's lowly advice." He says, bowing.

The boy looks amused and nods his head.

Dobby gives him a grin and disappears with a crack, only a smear of blood on the concrete, and a handful of letters ever telling that he was there.

Szayel is bemused as he stares at the spot where the creature vanishes. So naive. So very amusing. He admits, he almost lost his temper when it was revealed that the little being had been keeping his correspondence from him, after all, it was galling to be outwitted by such a pitiful thing.

But he had his letters, and more importantly...

Dropping the letters on his chair, he knelt down next to the smear of blood. His smile widening, he pulled a swab and small vial from one of his pockets, having learned that discoveries did not always wait for you to go and collect your equipment. He took a sample of the blood and stowed it away, vowing to examine it later.

How remarkable.

Idly dropping into the chair in front of his desk, Szayel opens the letters from Michael. Lazily skimming the words, he chuckles and reaches for some parchment to pen a reply. It is a pity, there is only a week or so before school starts, and no time to visit his friend. He feels rather put out, he had so many questions for Lady Corner.

Having no owl to send his letters with, he decides to wait until Michael sends him another one, from the dates written in small, sharp letters, he has been sending them regularly.

Such a curious boy.

Szayel stares impassively at the simpering blond monstrosity that is currently beaming, posing for a photo. He finds it reminds him vaguely of a bastardised cross between Findor and Luppi with the personality of Charlotte Cuulhorne. As it was, he was glad such a creature did not exist, and if it did, it would have been similar to the Antichrist.

"Bless my soul, it can't be! Harry Potter!"

His smile threatens to drop as he's jerked forward and into the spotlight, as it is, it just grows the tiniest bit sharp.

He can hear Michael protesting as a photographer knocks into him, trying to get a good shot of the two celebrities together.

Lockharts hand is still on his arm.

Reaching up, he forcefully disentangles himself from the man, his friendly, vapid smile growing slightly as he sees the blonde wince. Lockhart does not attempt to touch him again.

"Draco, why don't you speak with Harry and Michael? I have business with Lady Corner."

Szayel finds himself rather impressed by Lucius Malfoy. The man has power, both political and personal and charisma in spades. If there is anything Szayel can respect, and he admits that it's a short list, it is a worthy opponent. He feels calculating eyes on him and turns from his conversation with the Malfoy scion to look into the gray eyes of his father. He gives a saccharine smile, his eyes half lidded and receives nothing in return. The Malfoy patriarch narrows his eyes imperceptibly and Szayel's smile widens.

Later, he sees the fight between Lucius and the Weasley. The act is good, if a little out of character. Szayel approves, but knows he would have done things differently. He's amused by the whole charade.

His eyes dance as he spies the innocuous textbook in little Ginny Weasleys cauldron. Lord Malfoy has been wonderfully subtle.

There is a glimmer in that unnatural green as they follow the youngest Weasley out of the shop with disturbing focus.

Well played, he thinks. Very well played indeed.

As he looks into the mirror, studying his reflection, he allows a small frown to cross his face. It is curious, he thinks idly to himself while drawing away and flicking one last look towards the mirror, that the tiny fleck of poisonous yellow he finds in his right iris makes him feel so giddy.

As he boards the train and is sitting with a notepad on his lap and his forehead resting against the glass of the window, he thinks on that innocuous little book that has him so intrigued. He can sense that there is something off about it, and his use of his weak Pesquisa revealed nothing but a vague feeling of a bound soul.

He had looked for the small red headed girl when he had made his way onto the platform, but saw nothing of her or her family. No matter, he would find a way to wrest it from her possession at some point.

He shifts in his seat and entertains thought of thievery that drag up long forgotten feelings from a lifetime or two ago.

"Harry?"

He turns languidly, a small upturn of the lips his only reaction to the call of his name.

Michael is in the doorway, looking delightfully outraged. Szayel's smile widens and he waves an indolent hand.

"Michael." He greets, "care to join me?"

The normalness of his request puts the other boy off slightly and he allows himself to be led by his own legs to sit of the seat across from his friend.

Szayel sits up straighter and crosses his legs, the notebook on his lap held steady by a single hand, an expectant, amused look in his eyes.

Michael looks as though he is going to burst, and Szayel decides, in an odd moment of benevolence, to ease his tension.

"My apologies for not answering your letters, they were… withheld, from me."

Seeing the others anger abate slightly, to be partially replaced by confusion, he continues. Michael has a much better understanding of the politics of the wizarding world than he did, much to his displeasure. There was no concise guide to all the ins and outs of the magical world. Yet.

But as in all places, knowledge was power. And he would know everything.

Szayel allows himself to relax slightly once he sits at the Ravenclaw table and lets the conversation wash over him. The hum and babble of voices is somewhat soothing, and Szayel looks out from under hooded eyelids at the rest of the hall.

Helping himself to potatoes, he wonders idly when he found his liking for the western food. It had to have been sometime last year, when he had permitted himself a meal. Surviving on meagre reiatsu alone was not pleasant and not even the scarce… luxuries, he allowed himself during his tenure at the Dursleys were enough to truly sate him. So he'd weaned himself back onto human food, and was glad he had.

He tunes in when Michael begins taking to him about something or other and he catches a few words on the subject of his mother and someone called 'Lord Nott'. Apparently, Lady Corner is on the prowl once again.

Szayel still wants to meet her.

He frowns as he walks down the corridor to his Transfiguration lesson, the loud, chattering crowd attempting to pull him into its flow.

He is being followed, he is sure of it.

He brushes it off, it's nothing serious and he has better things to do with his time than waste energy.

Severus Snape is a man who likes routine. He likes things to be the same as they always had, unless he is dissatisfied with them.

Pulling the door to his office shut, he sets off down the hallways of the dungeon to his classroom. It is the same route he has been walking for eleven years now, ever since he took up the position of teaching potions. The same cold, unforgiving stone walls. The same pallid, dank air. The same dip in the stone beneath his feet, telling of many years of use.

Home.

His mood sours the closer he gets to his destination. If there is one thing he hates, it is children. He feels his mouth thin at the thought and finds it darkly amusing that the one place he feels most as home in is a school. He isn't modest enough to deny that he was a genius in the field of potions. As a child, he had been labelled a prodigy. He also knows that those labelled as genii are some of the worst possible people to be in a teaching position. He really doesn't care.

As he wrenches the door to his faithful classroom open, he ignores the yelps and muffled shrieks his entrance inevitably inspires and scans the room.

And there he was.

Severus almost finds it funny that his thoughts always seem to return to one particular figure over any other.

Almost.

Harry Potter, he admits, is a brilliant child. Even for a Ravenclaw. Clever- no. Not clever, a genius.

His colleagues are unnerved by the boy and Severus can see where they are coming from. But he isn't worried about the young boys somewhat unsettling demeanour (although a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers that he really should be). Not that he would worry about the progeny of James Potter anyway, he assures himself.

No, because Severus recognises a tiny something in the midst of the mystery behind those vapid, half lidded eyes. Boredom. Tediousness. Ennui.

The feeling that everything is going just a little too slowly. That feeling of being out of touch with your peers. The dislike of a system that caters to the mundane, the average.

Severus knows, because he's seen that look in his own dark eyes far more often that he would have liked.

Sitting comfortably in the library, secluded away from his peers, Szayel cocks his head to one side.

The feeling is back again. He furrows his brow, thinking. He's being watched, but the sensation is… different. He isn't sure why.

He turns the page of his book with an almost caress, and lowers his eyes once again to the neat print.

It annoys him.

He doesn't like the feeling of being the bug under microscope.

He would rather be the one on the other side of the lens.

He sits, listening to Michael talk about some incident with their new Defence teacher.

"And then -the fool- he let a full cage or Cornish Pixies loose on the Gryffindor/Slytherin class! With no instruction on how to combat them, not even a suggested book." Michael shakes his head, a scowl on his face. If there is one thing he hates, it is idiocy. "Just goes to show I suppose, just because you are good a something doesn't mean you can teach it to others."

Szayel raises an eyebrow, a small amused smile on his lips. He leans back into his chair and steeples his fingers.

"True. Professor Snape is another I believe."

Michael snorts, spinning a quill between his fingers.

"Exactly. I'm just glad that it's unlikely Lockheart'll try anything so stupid with us now."

Szayel agrees, but thinks it would at least have been amusing to see his classmates panic.

He is quite comfortably curled up in a chair in the common room, idly penning some notes of one of his many on-going projects. He had been mildly amused when he had spotted Neville Longbottom sending a letter with a very domineering looking horned owl. It seemed his grandmother had seen fit to replace the toad that had gone missing the year before, leaving Neville quite distraught. A flicker of a smile passes across his lips.

A Blessing indeed.

Lazily doodling Plancks Constant in his notebook and wondering if wizards even knew what E =hc over Lambda meant, he peruses on how he was actually enjoying procrastination. He hopes that he isn't getting lazy.

Suddenly, he freezes.

"Come ... come to me... Let me rip you... Let me tear you ... Let me kill you..."

His breath catches in his throat and his quill falls to the floor and begins to bleed ink into the blue carpet. He is absolutely still, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.

He quickly scans the few students still in the common room at this hour and sees none of them have reacted.

He clenches his jaw and as quickly as he can without drawing too much attention to himself, he gathers his belongings and slips up the staircase to his dormitory.

He loathes the feeling of being taken by surprise. That someone had been able to get so close and yet not alert him to their presence is something he cannot allow. He bares his teeth like an animal in the privacy behind his hangings, his eyes shining in the gloom. He has been getting bored.

Now this was a challenge.

He knows he is in a cheerful mood the following day. The dark circles under his eyes and the sharp expression on his face makes sure that people stay away from him. Michael (and Szayel is once again reminded why he likes the other boy) takes one look at him and says nothing, walking with him to breakfast.

He also knows his smile is eager and his eyes are feverish, and that people have noticed.

He finds that really, he doesn't much care.

She feels her breath catch as she spies him in the library, indolently turning a page now and then. He is sprawled yet somehow poised –as always- in his chair, and his glasses have slid down his nose some.

She swallows and continues to look through the gap in the books on the shelf. She sees him crease his brow and look up and she quickly flattens herself against the bookshelf, her breathing ragged and muffled.

She waits for longer than is probably necessary before she steals one last look at his profile before fleeing quietly from the library.

Michael looks concernedly over at his friend. Harry Potter is looking rather the worse for wear. His skin is as pale as it has always been but there is a tiredness to his eyes that is only tempered by a spark of something that Michael can't quite identify. He supposes his should be proud of his fellow Ravenclaw for taking such lengths in the pursuit of knowledge, but he can't quite manage it.

He sighs and thinks that the days Harry Potter takes his advice is the day his mother settles down for good.

He knows Michael is worried about him.

He can see it in his friends concerned, dark eyes.

He reassures himself that he doesn't care.

Michael is walking down the Defence corridor, thinking on his current predicament when he hears a faint splash. He looks down and frowns as he sees that one of his feet is half submerged in cold water. His eyes follow the puddle outwards and see that it's not really a puddle at all, and more like a small lake. Turning up his nose at the thought of trying to cross the watery expanse and ruining his robes, he half turns to go a different route when he pauses as something catches his eye.

His breath catching in his throat, his fists clench as he sees the macabre profile of the cat, swinging lazily from the torch bracket. His mouth goes dry and he takes a quick, stumbling step backwards. His eyes are not on the cat, but on the words that grace the wall behind it.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.

The chilling message glistens in the flickering firelight, the thick red substance that he desperately tells himself is paint sliding down the stone walls.

Stumbling backwards and with a stricken look on his face, he turns to run.

Enemies of the Heir beware.

Szayel looks down at his notebook and frowns. He has a habit of writing things down, in order to make sense of them, and this particular puzzle is no different. Twirling the quill between long fingers, he stares at the words on the page, willing them to make sense. They do not obey. The frown deepens and his expression darkens until in a fit of temper, he throws the little book at the wall with a snarl. He clenches his hands and curses fate, himself, Aizen, Lockhart, the Dursleys, Aizen, Nnoitora, Aizen and a dozen more in his mind.

The quill snaps between thin fingers.

"Harry."

Szayel raises an eyebrow and with a small twitch of his lips, replies.

"Michael."

The other boy scowls at him without heat, and sits himself down on the armchair opposite, pushing rolls of parchment and heavy tomes out of the way.

Without a word, he reaches into a bag and pulled out his own roll of parchment, with notes carefully inscribed in tiny, precise handwriting.

Szayel looks on, bemused.

Scanning the page with his lower lip between his teeth, Michael appears to find what he is looking for. With a quick, serious glance up, he begins to read aloud.

"As you no doubt already know, Hogwarts was founded around 990 A.D. by two wizards and two witches: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They each represented an aspect of wizarding that they wanted to bring out in new students. However, shortly after founding the school, Slytherin had a falling out with the other founders about blood purity. Slytherin wanted to admit only pure-blood students, but the other three founders disagreed. Slytherin then left after a disagreement on the issue with Gryffindor."

Michael looks up and meets Szayel's eyes. Szayel muses idly that he's always been impressed with that.

A tiny smirk crosses the brown haired boys lips and makes Szayels own smile widen.

"However," Michael continues, with the air of someone who is eager to tell of what he knows. "What you may not know, is that Slytherin was rumoured to have built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. Slytherin, supposedly, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the 'horror within', and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic. The 'horror within' is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control. There have been numerous searches conducted over the years, but nothing has ever been found. Most people don't believe it exists." He finished.

Szayel is quiet.

Michael looks at him penetratingly.

"There. Now you know. Now get some bloody sleep." He orders gruffly.

Szayel's smile, he thinks, feels somehow softer as he looks at the other boy.

There is a long silence and Michael begins to fidget.

"Very well."

The other boy looks up, surprised, from where he has been poking his foot into the carpet.

"Really?" He says before he can stop himself.

"Yes." He says indulgently. "Might I ask though, how did you come across this information?"

Michael suddenly chuckles and shakes his head, dark hair falling in his face.

"Asked Binns."

Szayel is for once, lost for words.

"Oh."

The lamplight throws his face into sharp relief and his footsteps are silent as he weaves between the shelves. The library is still and the air is heavy, the disembodied light bobbing like a will-o-the-wisp in the blackness.

Szayel pauses at a particular shelf and scans the titles quickly.

Michael thinks he is in his bed not two meters from him. But his friend trusts too easily and has not yet learned how to taste lies.

A duelling club. Szayel raises an eyebrow as he studies the board, not paying heed to the crowd of people who are craning to get a look, but are keeping their distance from him.

He doesn't think he'll go. It's not really his thing, after all.

He's standing there, next to that Corner boy, with an irritated expression on his face. His stare is sharp and measured, and his mouth (for once) is not curved into a smile.

She doesn't want to keep her eyes on him for too long, fearful that he'll catch her stare. So she shrinks into the press of people and fades. Because she's nothing special. Not really.

He narrows his eyes. He can feel that stare again.

Szayel hums as he twirls his wand between his fingers. The girl -who he vaguely recollects is from Hufflepuff- is trembling as she stands opposite him.

He turns his vapid, smiling eyes on her and her tremors increase tenfold. He's doubtful she can even hold her wand, and resists the urge to sneer.

"Don't worry Miss Bones," he says in what he hopes is a vaguely reassuring tone, he doesn't want her to faint in his mere presence. "Give me your best shot."

Susan looks as though she is about to cry.

They get the news of the news of the newest victims in the evening. Professor Flitwick calls them into the common room and passes on the message in sombre tones.

He gives them all a measured, level stare.

"I hope you understand the severity of this incident." His eyes sweep over them and he holds a presence that should have been out of place on one of his stature. "The staff will be taking all available precautions and I trust that you will do the same. I would ask you to refrain from writing home with the details, as the one thing we do not need is a stampede of frantic parents." He advises, although his tone tells them it is not a request.

His face softens slightly.

"Don't worry." He reassures, "We're doing all we can to keep you safe."

Standing at the back, half lit by the fluttering light of a dying candle, Szayel licks his lips and thinks that while Michael may not have the skill, he certainly does and he knows that lies taste like dark chocolate; sweet, with a bitter aftertaste.

It's Christmas.

Szayel certainly never thought much of the holiday, but after receiving the Invisibility cloak the year before, is somewhat fonder of it than he had been.

There are no magical treasures this time, but Michael does gift him with a book on advanced potions and a new note book, something that Szayel has been wanting for some time, seeing as he filled his old, battered one the previous month.

'Let me rip. Let me tear… let me kill…'

He wonders if whatever it is he is hearing would let him join in on the fun.

Potions, Szayel reflects, has not lost its appeal.

Severus Snape on the other hand, has not gained any either.

"Powdered Lunamoth wings are key ingredients for truth potions, you cretinous little fool. Fermented, they are likely to dissolve the frontal lobe of your pitiful little brain! Although what can you expect, from a Hufflepuff?"

He does, however, have his moments.

She is in the library, waiting for him to arrive. It is his custom on a weekend, she has realised, to arrive at the library after breakfast and work until lunch, after which he will likely disappear.

But she's got that feeling again and despite her mind screaming at her to run back to her dormitory and hide, she secludes herself behind rows of musty books.

She can't see if he is there from where she is without giving herself away, so she pulls out a pocket mirror that she carries for just this purpose.

Ginny Weasley is minding her own business. It's lunch now, and while she doesn't particularly want to sit in the Great Hall with everyone else, that is where the food is, so she lets her feet take her there.

It's a fight to keep her eyes open. She's so tired these days. She was up for most of the previous night, conversing with Tom. She doesn't have any other friends. She doesn't need any other friends. Why would she, when she can carry the best friend a girl could wish for in her pocket?

Although, she thinks with a heavy feeling in her stomach, she and Tom have had their first argument.

It was something trivial, and in her anger she lashed out at him. He had responded in kind, angry at her. She felt guilt seeping into her soul. Tom didn't deserve that, but she hadn't been thinking clearly in her tiredness.

But he had snapped at her, and she isn't feeling guilty enough yet to apologise to him.

She wanders into the Great Hall just as two people are coming out. She curls in on herself, trying to stay unnoticed. From behind a curtain of red hair, she glances up to see who it is. Brown eyes widen and her cheeks turn crimson as she sees the figure of her favourite Ravenclaw.

She makes to hurry past but in the flurry, she somehow manages to knock into him. She bounces off his solid form (and she doesn't think to wonder how a rake thin twelve year old boy could be so unmovable) and lets out an embarrassing squeak.

As she flails, a hand catches her arm and steadies her. Falling still, she looks up with dread in her gut and she meets his eyes. He is smiling at her (her!) and his hazy green eyes are fixed steadily on her own

She vaguely realises that his friend (she can't remember his name) is staring.

The hand lets go of her and she feels her face become aflame.

His smile widens by a couple of teeth. To her, the smile is kindly and reaches his eyes.

"Careful." He chides.

She is speechless for a moment before everything wells up inside her and she thinks she may explode.

"I'm sorry!" she cries before her legs suddenly begin to work and she flees from his presence, forgetting her earlier hunger completely and running in the direction of her dorm.

She's out of breath when she reaches her bed, having barely stopped to stumble over the password to Gryffindor tower.

Throwing herself on her bed, she clutches her pillow and bites the fabric through her grin to keep herself from screaming.

She feels stupid. Stupid and happy and light as a balloon and heavy with humiliation.

She wants to talk to Tom. She can apologise and then tell him everything. Tom will forgive her.

She fumbles for the comforting feel of the small book in her pocket, but comes up with only air. Panic creeping into her thoughts, she almost rips her robes apart.

Tom is gone.

She is hyperventilating.

Where is he? Had she dropped him? How could she? She jumps up from her bed and forces her way through the hangings, her breath coming in painful twists.

Where?

She stills. She bumped into Him. And then she ran, not paying any attention to her flapping robes.

Tom must have fallen when she was running.

She rushes out of the door before her thoughts have even finished.

The thought of thievery never even crosses her mind.

Szayel grins as he walks back to his dormitory, a spring in his step.

Michael is shooting him inquisitive, calculating looks from out of the corner of his eye.

Students who they pass in the hallways are left wide eyed and curious.

Szayel is too elated to give a damn.

He takes the small, innocuous book out of his pocket and, almost reverently, lays it on his desk. It is bound in faded black faux leather and, on the back; he can see worn letters telling him that the diary was bought at Vauxhall Road, London. Muggleborn.

Opening it with care, his senses are stretched out and his body tensed. On the front page, sharp eyes caught the name written at the top, a scratchy date written underneath.

T.M Riddle.

Michael is feeling somewhat guilty.

There has been another attack. They found some girl in the library the previous morning and whispers are still fluttering around like angry butterflies.

He mentions this to Harry, who only smiles and brushes a strand of hair from his eyes.

He doesn't seem to care.

No. That's not right. He cares about the situation, just not about the human life involved in it.

Michael (guiltily) sort of agrees with him. He is a pureblood, he is safe.

It's not really his problem now is it?

He relishes the chance to have something unknown at his fingertips. With his limited resources, he can only do so much and this irks him somewhat.

Eventually, he stumbles across the books' most remarkable quality, save its apparent indestructibleness. The ink that he lets fall from the tip of a quill stays on the surface of the paper for a brief moment before sinking into it, leaving nothing behind, as though it has never been there at all.

After hours of studying the phenomena and coming to the conclusion that he has no idea how it works, he tentatively begins to write.

'Hello.' He composes, feeling somewhat foolish. He wonders if he should not have thought of something better to write, before coming up blank on just what that might be.

He waits for a few seconds, quill poised at the ready over the new notebook Michael gave him for Christmas. The word sinks in like he expected, but nothing more happens.

A frown marring his face, he wonders if he has not been too hasty in his hypothesis.

It is then he notices his own ink bleeding back out of the pages, and forming words that are not his own.

'Hello. Who might you be?'

Giddiness. Elation. Hunger.

He is wondering just how to play this. In the end, he goes for naive.

'My name is Harry Potter. Who are you?'

Hello Harry. My name is Tom. Would you tell me how you came by my diary?'

'I found it. It was lying in a hallway and I picked it up.'

'Interesting. I would have thought it would have been more effectively disposed of.'

'Why would anyone want to get rid of you?'

'That's the question, isn't it? I know things. This diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I assume that is where you are right now?'

'Yes, although they don't teach us about talking diaries.'

'I would think not. It is complex magic. And I am lucky that same magic prevents my destruction by persons who would wish me harm.'

'Do you mean about the Chamber of Secrets? Because things are happening here, bad things, and you said you know about things that happened here…'

'Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, a mere myth, and that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster at the time, Professor Dippet, was ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, and forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned for good.'

'You know who opened it last time? Who was it?'

'If you so wish, I can show you. Images are far more valuable than words and I can show you my account f that night. Let me take you into my memories, and you can see for yourself.'

'I don't know… I don't know how that would work! You're a book.'

'I mean no harm, it will help you to understand.'

'But the Professors told us that mind magics can be really dangerous! Should I get one of them to help?'

'No, that will not be necessary. I can tell you in words then, if you would prefer.'

'Alright.'

'I was in my fifth year, and one evening I was called into the Headmasters office. We talked about the attacks and the death of one poor girl in my own year, and he told me that the school might have to close if the attacks didn't stop. I'm sure you'd agree that one would prefer to stay here if it were at all possible. I didn't really have a choice after that. I figured out who it was and cornered him as he was trying to smuggle the monster out of the castle. I tried to slay the beast, but the student tried to protect it. So I did the only other thing I could. I turned him in. he was expelled and the 'crisis' was declared over.'

'That sounds bad. What was the monster? Was it as horrible am I'm imagining it to be?'

'Likely worse. It was a hideous beast. It had a vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs. Its many black eyes gleamed and it possessed a pair of razor-sharp pincers.'

'And it could petrify people? Who on earth would set something like that on students?'

'That is the question isn't it? But I found out. I exposed the monster who did it.

It was

Rubeus Hagrid.'

He looks in the mirror again and quickly finds the tiny, almost unnoticeable fleck of venomous yellow half obscured by emerald green. He isn't sure, but he swears that it has increased in size.

He leans back in his chair in the library, a book on his lap. The table in front of him is laden with several more. He slips his fingers under his glasses and rubs his tired, research worn eyes.

Acromantula.

Fascinating.

But a lie nonetheless.

It takes him some time, and he has to answer some interesting questions from the entity known as 'Tom', but he finds out that the book absorbs only certain liquids. Ink, he already knows, works fine, as does muggle biro. Orange juice does not, and neither does tea.

What potions he has tried however, work just fine.

He is staring at the diary. The reiatsu is a filthy as his own, yet has a different flavour to it.

Remarkable.

It has taken six failed attempts, each more frustrating than the last, and a whole month to perfect. The ingredients themselves were nigh on impossible to locate, but Lady Corner is nothing if not well connected.

Michael knows not to ask questions, and his Christmas gift has been invaluable.

If he had been anyone else, it would have been impossible.

But he is who he is, and in his scientific mind; nothing is impossible.

He decides to change tactics.

'Hello Tom.' He scribes, mentally planning how he wishes today's session to go.

'Harry. It is good to hear from you again. Do you have more questions?'

He reads the response and is barely aware that there a grin tugging at his mouth.

'As a matter of fact, I do.'

'Oh? I will try to answer what I can.'

Szayel licks his lips in response, hungry eyes devouring the words.

'But first, I wish to try something.'

He doesn't give Tom a chance to reply, as he quickly pens a phrase in Spanish.

The reaction is confusion as to why he is suddenly writing in the other language.

He responds with another foreign, although certainly not for him, tongue.

'Co ukrywasz?'

'... I do not understand. What language is that?'

He bites his lip in excitment, and his handwriting looses some of it's elegance. The final puzzle peice.

'Polish. It was an experiment.'

There is a pause, but it feels like an age.

'I see. What were you testing, if you don't mind me asking?'

There is another wait, but Szayel relishes the word he writes next.

'You.'

There is what seems like an age before Tom replies, and Szayel likes to think that he is wary.

'Why would you want to test me?'

There is a grin that would not have looked out of place on a hyena.

'Because I am a curious man. I like to know things. And I wish to know about you.'

'Why not just ask? I have nothing to hide from you.'

The former Octava lets out a dark chuckle, the lenses in his glasses catching the candlelight.

'I very much doubt that, Tom Riddle. You see, I had hoped you could be a worthy opponent. But it seems I was sadly mistaken once again. No, I very much doubt you have 'nothing to hide'. You will not give up your secrets via conventional means, so I shall have to improvise. I suspect the experience will not be pleasant for you.'

Another wait, longer this time. He is on the verge of frustration when glistening ink bleeding through the paper catches his attention once again.

'You are not Harry Potter.'

Szayel cannot help himself and he lets out a burst of cackling laughter. The sound bounces off the stone walls of the dormitory and shatters the silence like a hammer on flawless diamond.

Reaching to his left, he delicately lifts a small glass phial filled only half full with thin, clear liquid.

He observes the bottle with lustful, hooded eyes and gently uncorks it, easing the stopper off with a finger and thumb.

With almost reverent care, he dips a pipette into the phial and draws a small amount of the liquid into it. Setting the recorked phial aside, he hovers the pipette over the worn, faded pages of the diary.

Three drops.

That is all that is needed.

The hyena grin intensifies, teeth and lens catch the flickering candlelight.

'Did you know that powdered Luna moth wings are a bitch to prepare?' he asks Tom conversationally, his writing sloppier when written by his non dominant right hand.

The answer is immediate, as though its author is on tenterhooks.

'What?'

'Luna moth wings. Fiddly little things they are. But useful. Do you know what potions they are most commonly used in, Tom Riddle?'

There is the tiniest fraction of a pause, before frantic, chaotic writing bleeds through the page. Final proof.

Tom knows exactly what the pearly, iridescent insect wings are used for.

Ignoring the pleading words and impotent threats from the entity known as Tom Riddle, Szayel lets the three drops of the potion fall onto the pages.

They hold on the surface for a moment, quivering and glistening like liquid diamonds, before sinking faithfully into the paper.

He lets out the breath he didn't realise that he was holding.

He looks to his own notebook, open and ready beside him. It is filled with questions, numbered one through god knows how many.

He will start at the beginning.

He picks up his quill and, after dipping it into his inkpot, begins to write.

As he does so, he murmurs under his breath, whispers passing through lips like the first chill wind of winter.

"You are wrong, little diary. I am Harry Potter. I am just also so much more."

Well now. Firstly, I apologise. It's been what, two whole years since I published the first one of these? No excuses save the usual really, university, lack of motivation, extreme laziness… You know the drill.

Either way, it's here. Finally.

There will be one more chapter to this, as the original ended up being just a tad too long to fit into one page. Also, I do not like having to re-insert all my page breaks. As you can see, there are quite a few. -_-

Please, do tell me if you like this new installment. I love to know what you all think, it helps me write more. :)