I woke up to two bulbous eyes staring at me from the foot of my bed. Grabbing my wand, I growled, "Trying to kill me, eh?"
The house-elf gaped. "Dobby is not trying to kill the Great Harry Potter; Dobby is only trying to save him. Dobby…"
Dobby. I knew that name from somewhere. I hummed, my wand still pointed at the house-elf. "You're Lucius's elf, the one who used to serve those fantastic cakes!"
"The Great Harry Potter knows about Dobby?" the pitiful creature said, eyes filling with tears.
It wasn't that impressive, really. House-elves were simply less prone to failure than their owners and therefore died significantly less often.
"So, which Malfoy sent you then? The older or the younger?"
"No one sent Dobby. Dobby went on his own. Dobby wanted to warn the Great Harry Potter – "
"House-elves don't just go places. Really, though, which one is trying to kill me? I'd have guessed Lucius, but Draco might be making another go at it."
"They is talking about terrible things at Hogwarts –"
"Both of them, then?" – I paused thoughtfully – "Yes, of course, Malfoys always travel in packs."
"Dobby –"
"Yes, thank you for this valuable information. If you'll excuse me, I need to plan."
Pulling at his ears, Dobby popped away. That was one of the most helpful assassination attempts I've ever experienced.
...
"Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac."
Lockhart sighed gustily, golden curls flopping with a dramatic shake of his head. His exasperation lasted only a moment, however, and he was soon back to grinning like a loon.
The Weasley rolled his eyes, grumbling about frauds. Of course, the boy was far too dense to realize that it wasn't his accomplishments that Lockhart was faking – it was his personality. After all, it is common for truly powerful wizards to hide their cunning behind a mask of harmless incompetence. Just look at Dumbledore.
I, too, had once doubted Lockhart's claims, for even I would hesitate to take on an entire island of vampires, no matter how many stakes I was using as hair curlers. Nevertheless, a small amount of research revealed that Lockhart was quite reputable.
Besides, Dumbledore would hardly hire someone as idiotic as Lockhart pretended to be. No, he was clearly more than he appeared.
Lockhart went on to prove his worth as a professor by releasing a batch of Cornish Pixies and hiding under a desk. By withholding support, he forced students to think on their feet and problem solve without relying on an authority figure to do everything for them.
This was true Defense Against the Dark Arts.
For the first time in decades, I feared that Dumbledore had hired a professor talented enough to break my curse. Gilderoy Lockhart would have to die.
...
I approached Hermione, Ron trailing at my heels. She was cheerfully chatting with Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor House. I found it telling that the ghost of Gryffindor had been violently murdered while the ghost of Slytherin was a violent murderer.
"You shouldn't let them upset you," she said, "People are just awful when they're in groups. They like to exclude people, you know, especially on technicalities. It makes them feel important, and it's well-known psychological phenomenon…"
"I suppose," Nick said morosely.
Hermione reached out a hand to pat him on the shoulder, realized what she was doing, and yanked her hand back. She sniffed. "I'm quite certain the Headless Hunt isn't nearly as fun as you'd think, anyway."
"Hermione, are you talking to ghosts?" I asked. "It's useless, you know. They're like paintings – not really sentient – so there's no point bothering with them."
"But you spent three hours arguing with a painting just last week," Ron very rudely interrupted.
I glared at him. "Yes, and, if it was capable of changing its mind, it would have that realized I was right. We learned a valuable lesson about the idiocy of paintings, and I think we've all grown since then."
Hermione giggled, sharing a traitorous grin with Ron. "Yes, well, I was just speaking with Sir Nicholas about ghosts and their very rich culture."
"I can hear another Hermione rant coming on," Ron groaned.
She ignored him, going on excitedly. "He's invited us to his two hundredth Death Day Party!"
...
"So we can go to a ghost party with rotted food but we can't go to the Halloween Feast?" Ron whined.
"Oh, hush, Ronald. You could have gone by yourself. Besides, Sir Nicholas' Death Day Party was a wonderful learning experience," Hermione chided.
He snorted. "Yeah, I learned that I never want to go again."
"…rip…tear…kill…"
I stopped in surprise. The Basilisk? If she was slithering around, it meant that someone else had been meddling in my Chamber of Secrets.
"…time to kill…"
"NO!" I hissed, "Bad snake! No killing."
Hermione glanced back. "Are you okay, Harry?"
"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly alright. Just, erm, clearing my throat. Probably shouldn't have tried the food at Nick's party…"
Shortly afterward, we stumbled upon a petrified cat and a bloody message telling everyone that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
This was exactly like what I did in my sixth year, down to the curl of my S's. This new "heir" was only a pale and pathetic imitation of my former glory.
Filch accused me of being the Heir of Slytherin (technically true), Dumbledore got me out of trouble through the power of favoritism, and Hermione began a new research project.
That night, I snuck into the girls' loo and changed the password needed to enter the Chamber of Secrets.
...
I leaned up against the cauldron, glancing about the abandoned loo. Myrtle had long since disappeared down the toilet in tears. Her death was accidental, just a case of poor timing. I might have felt bad about it if she'd had the dignity to just die.
"So, Hermione, you want to explain what we're doing here?"
She grinned, giving the potion a final stir and going into teacher mode. "This is Polyjuice Potion, or it will be in a month. It'll let us sneak into the Slytherin Common Room and ask Malfoy if he's the Heir of Slytherin."
I frowned. "Hermione, of course he's the Heir of Slytherin. Everyone's the Heir of Slytherin."
She wilted, confusion wrinkling her brow. "Come again?"
"Look, Slytherin lived a thousand years ago, right?"
"Nine-hundred and ninety-four."
"Right. A long time. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but the wizarding population is kind of tiny. Everyone is related to everyone, so everyone's related to Slytherin. In fact, the only people in the school who are not the Heirs of Slytherin are you and the other Muggleborns. Also, possibly Ron."
"Yeah!" the redhead yelled, sparking a wail from Myrtle's toilet.
"…Salazar had standards."
The grin melted off his Weasley face. He said, "But it's still probably Malfoy, isn't it? I mean, him and the other Slytherins are the only ones who believe in all that blood purity stuff."
I snorted. "If Malfoy were the Heir of Slytherin, he'd be bragging about it. All the time. He would be right here, in our faces, bragging."
"We're in the girls' loo," Hermione said.
"Like that would stop him. He would follow us into the girls' loo just to brag about it. I mean, honestly, this is Malfoy we're talking about here. There are two things he mentions in every conversation: his father and his money. If he were the Heir of Slytherin, there would be three things he'd mention in every conversation."
Hermione pouted. "So, that means we don't need to brew an illegal potion with stolen ingredients, knock out three of our classmates, tie them up in a closet, sneak into the Slytherin Common Room, and interrogate Malfoy?"
I gaped at her. "Was that your plan?"
I fear that Hermione may be the most evil of us all. That is concerning since I am a retired Dark Lord.