A/N: Back at this one now that Heartlands is finished. Hope you enjoy the chapter - let me know in a review.

An Unfound Door

Chapter 11 – Remnant Lore

As naked as the day he was born, the cool heat of elderglass riddle-flame still kissing his sunburnt skin, Harry followed Hermione down the dark and dreary corridor toward some uncertain reward. He anticipated something worth the trouble, at the very least, otherwise why such elaborate and complex protections?

The corridor wound down in a wide spiral, and if they had been above the castle in the Arbiter's Vault when entering the hidden passage, revealed by a spooky-if-not-possessed pumpkin, then Harry wagered they were heading steadily toward the eastern edge of the castle. Space could be funny in Hogwarts, dimensions could be off, stairs moved, and rooms shifted, so without a window to orient himself Harry had no real idea just where he was.

Mindful of her modesty, Harry kept his eyes carefully off Hermione, drawing level with her in the dull rune-light dark. She held her wand aloft, providing a soft if not a little dim light ahead. They came to a set of heavy wrought-iron gates, latticed in strange patterns, the corridor twisting on in the dark beyond the gateway.

The gates blocked the passage quite spectacularly, floor to ceiling. Set in the heart of the barred iron was a simple piece of sharp, pointed elderglass—curved like an erumpent horn.

"What do you think?" Hermione whispered, and a whisper seemed appropriate.

"Naked and alone we came into exile..." Harry muttered. The crystal-blue potion had heightened his senses. He could hear water dripping ahead, not a lot, but a steady trickle. He hesitated and then pushed on the heavy iron, not expecting any give.

The gate didn't give.

Hermione eyed the elderglass horn. "That looks... distasteful."

Harry agreed. He muttered a quick unlocking charm with little hope, then a simple diagnostic incantation. The iron doors shimmered red as if with rust.

Now, there's something…

"What do you think?" Harry asked.

Hermione's brow furrowed and for a moment she forgot her nakedness. "...a blood curse? It's a blood curse, isn't it?" Harry raised a single eyebrow. "Yes." More confidently. "Yes, a blood curse."

Harry rubbed his thumb along the smooth underside of the elderglass horn. "Low level, I think, but still..." He placed his thumb over the razor-sharp tip of the horn.

"Harry," Hermione said. "Come on, let's go back. It's not worth it."

"Whatever's down here must be valuable," Harry said, speaking almost to himself. "Why guard it so well? Why demand..." He trailed away.

"Blood curses are nasty, Harry. They can make you sick for years, if not worse."

"Know any cursebreakers nearby?"

"Ron's brother..." She shook her head. "You've already made up your mind. Might as well—"

Harry pricked his thumb on the tip of the horn, spilling a dribble of blood down the inner curve of the elderglass lock. The glass shone to life, deep and dark emerald, swirling with a thirsty malice, and Harry was struck with a wave of dizziness that made him stumble back.

Hermione caught him, his satchel pressed between them, and the dizziness faded.

The old iron doors groaned and swung inwards on creaking hinges, offering the path ahead.

Hermione steadied him. "How... how do you feel?"

A weight like a wet cloak settled on Harry's shoulders. He blinked to clear his vision, but other than the dizziness he felt much as he had—invigored by the blue potion. "I'm OK, I think," he said. "Maybe the curse dissipated over time."

"That's not how it works, and you know it."

He shrugged. "Let's keep going. Be mindful of any more... surprises."

The corridor shifted, narrowed, then widened again. The runes coating the walls shone brighter, enough to light the way without wands. Harry regarded his bleeding thumb and contemplated a magical curative when he made it back to the Arbiter's Vault.

A few minutes later and the corridor ended in a small rotunda, an almost chapel-like dome above ten feet by teen, with dull stained-glass windows of elderglass depicting... faces, Harry thought. Yes, faces caught in grimaces, or ecstasy, depending on how the light hit them. Hermione shivered, covering her breasts, feeling exposed.

The windows didn't look out on the world—through the glass was nothing but darkness, deep within lost parts of the castle. Not the evening, not a blurry starry sky, but complete blackness. If Harry had to guess, he'd say they'd travelled half a mile from the Vault in a long arc toward the eastern ramparts.

In the centre of the small chapel stood a stone pedestal, atop of which rested three items. Harry and Hermione approached carefully, watching their footsteps for hidden traps.

The pedestal came up to about Harry's waist. He eyed the objects atop of the old stone, coated in centuries of dust, with a curiosity that had nearly gotten him killed a dozen times the last year or two alone.

"What do you think will happen if we touch them?" Hermione asked. "A trap, magical or otherwise?"

Harry nodded. "Likely." He cast another diagnostic charm but came up with nothing magically nefarious—nothing he could detect, anyway.

On the pedestal, in its centre, rested an old tome about the size of a paperback novel. The pages were thin, made of elderglass, and inscribed with a running script of shifting runes. Harry knew a grimoire when he saw one, and here was something from the Age of Elderglass—a substance wizards today could not break, could not create. The runes moved slowly in simple lines, some brighter than others. He imagined each page—each tablet, or pane of glass in the book held a similar treasury of lost magic waiting to be translated.

Next to the piece of remnant lore was a smooth velvet bag about the size of his closed fist. The purple velvet was coated in dust and tied with a golden knot drawstring around its mouth. Harry didn't have a clue what could be inside the bag, but he would find out, one way or another.

The third item was perhaps the least curious of the three but offered a glimpse at something more. A key of familiar shape, old though perhaps not so old as the grimoire, and pressed at its head with the goblin-crest of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Fortius Quo Fidelius, strength through loyalty.

A Gringotts vault key, an old one, to Merlin-knew-what fortune (or misfortune, he thought) guarded by the goblins deep beneath London. Beneath the crest, pressed deep into the metal and shrined in dust, the number 7.

Seven, Harry thought. A powerful number.

"Be ready," Harry whispered, and unclasped the leather flap of his satchel. He wanted to collect the items as quick as he could.

One at a time, he grabbed the grimoire, the velvet bag, and the key, slipping them into his satchel. When nothing happened, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can we head back now?" Hermione stressed her last.

"I guess—"

The pedestal shifted, half a ton of old limestone, and simply dropped from sight into a wide, black maw. Harry heard it drop, grating against the walls on either side, yet it slipped away through the floor almost as if it had been yanked from beneath.

At the same time, a deafening roar of flame and hot wind blew down the corridor behind Harry and Hermione. He glanced over his shoulder at the same time as Hermione uttered a cry and saw a wall of cascading, roiling fire—red, blistering, liquid—surging down the corridor toward them.

He froze—but only for a moment. To stay would be death. Once again, the blue potion saved him, giving him the clarity and quick-thinking needed to act.

Harry yanked Hermione's wand from her hand and thrust it into his satchel alongside his own. He flipped the bag closed, clasped it shut, and then pulled Hermione to him—pressing her nakedness against his own.

She uttered a squawk of protest.

Without sparing a thought to consider what he was doing, knowing he would falter if he did, Harry pulled both of them back and into the dark of the hole that had claimed the pedestal.

The chapel disappeared, the wind howled around his ears, and he left his stomach somewhere above him as they dropped. Harry pulled Hermione to him, wrapped his arms around her, and fell into darkness.

Above, a wall of liquid fire engulfed the chapel and chased them down the hole in the floor. He glimpsed smooth edges, a curve at his back, slick with the trickling water he'd heard earlier.

The hole curved, became a tunnel, became a slide. Harry and Hermione slipped down, far beneath the castle, gathering speed. The darkness became complete, the deathtrap of flames above receding, and Harry couldn't tell if he was screaming or laughing.

Like a bullet from a gun, he and Hermione were expelled out into the clear Halloween-night air. They shot out into open space, a glimpse of the castle lights far above, the stars above that, and then gravity took over and they fell together.

At the last moment, Hermione pushed away from Harry and they plummeted into the Great Lake at speed. The water was cold, but not yet freezing this time of year, and the crystal-blue potion stole the teeth from the bite.

Harry still gasped as he hit the water, washing off his speed from the mad descent through the tunnel. He emerged on the surface sodden, hair clinging to his forehead, and paddled across to Hermione who coughed and spluttered and cursed.

"You OK?" he asked.

Hermione nodded, blinking water from her eyes. "Where are... we're in the lake!" She glanced up at the cliff above them, the tall edge of the castle grounds where the eastern waters curved toward the Forbidden Forest. "I can't see where we came out from."

Harry spared the small cliff a glance. The tunnel they had shot out off was either concealed by magic or a by a clever trick in the stone. It didn't matter. He scanned the shoreline, caught a flicker of light and warmth from the fire in Hagrid's Hut, and began to swim in that direction.

"Come on then," he breathed, excitement coursing through his blood—alongside an eldren curse he would need to figure out. "Not that far to the shore."

Hermione grumbled something but soon outpaced his awkward strokes with a smooth freestyle. They reached the shore in a few minutes, naked and soaked to the bone.

"Here," Harry said. He retrieved their wands from his satchel and cast some quick buffets of warm air to dry them off.

"We can't go back to the castle like this," Hermione whispered, trying to cover herself. "Thank Merlin it's so dark."

"Hagrid's got some washing on the line," Harry said, eyeing the groundskeeper's home. "One of his shirts is big enough to be a pair of robes. Enough to get back inside, anyway."

Hermione bit her lip and tapped her foot. "Oh, OK, but you're returning them tonight, Harry Potter!"

Harry chuckled. "I've got detention with Professor Umbridge in about half an hour, but sure, right after that."

"Excuse me, Mr. Potter?" a tiny voice squeaked.

Harry's eyes snapped open and he leaned forward, his back cracking against the limestone pillar in one of the upper courtyards of the castle, lying just in the shadow of the Astronomy Tower. The bowl in his lap wobbled, spilling a globule of pungent yet soothing paste onto his robes.

After sneaking back into the castle, Hermione had departed for the Gryffindor Tower, wishing him goodnight. Dressed in one of Hagrid's borrowed and absurdly large shirts, Harry had gone back to the Ravenclaw Tower for a quick change of clothes before dashing off to his detention. Hermione, bless her heart, had reappeared after the detention with a bowl of the soothing paste to soak his abused hand in.

Two little first-years took a careful step back as Harry straightened against the pillar. The moonlight shone in thick beams at his back, casting the outside corridor in pale lengths of light. The words 'I must not tell lies' stood in stark, brutal clarity on the back of his salve-soaked hand.

"Hello," Harry said, some of the sharpness leaving his gaze. He shifted his satchel around his neck, sitting up, surprised to find he had caught himself on the edge of sleep. Halloween night had never felt so long.

The first-years exchanged a hasty look, both uncertain, and Harry was struck by their resemblance. Twins, he thought. Brother and sister.

"Tell him, Nell," urged the boy, pushing his sister forward a step into the light.

The girl, Nell, blushed to her blonde roots and fixed the glasses on her face, offering her brother a fierce glare. "It's… you see, Mr. Potter—"

"Harry," Harry said.

"Harry…" Nell said faintly and bit her lip. Her eyes widened at the ugly cut on the back of Harry's hand, courtesy of the night's detention with Umbridge.

Not for the first time, Harry cursed the woman and the Ministry, wishing them both misery. Though that didn't seem likely. His scar pained him. He felt a weariness soaked into his bones. Still, he found an encouraging smile for the two nervous first-year kids before him. Was I ever so small? It was an old man's thought long before he left his teens, and didn't sit well.

"It's our friend, see," the boy said. "Roland, he's—"

"Monster got him," the girl said quietly, her eyes filled with fright and tears. The moon and starlight made the silver scales of the Slytherin patch on her robes almost shine. "Halloween and the monsters are out. Oh dear. Mr. Pot—Harry, can you help him?"

Harry leaned forward on his bench and placed the bowl of salve aside. He was alert now, awakened from the edge of sleep. He knew better than most how dangerous the castle could be—more so this year, since the Dark Lord's return. He seemed alone in seeing the shadowy creatures that plagued the rooftops near dawn and dusk, but he knew the castle well enough to know it still held secrets. Talk of monsters around these parts was to be taken seriously.

"When did this happen?" Harry asked.

"Just after dinner on our walk back to the common room in the dun—"

"Neil," Nell hissed. "He's not supposed to know where the Slytherin common room is!"

Neil had the good grace to look ashamed. Harry smiled to himself, remembering his own first year and how such things as common rooms, house cups, even Quidditch, had seemed beyond important. Now the castle felt colder, even hostile. Harry realized he hadn't headed back to the Vault or Ravenclaw tower after detention because he had almost been waiting for something to happen.

"About twenty minutes ago," Nell said and her chin wavered, on the edge of tears. "Everyone knows you've got detention with Professor Umbridge every night so we came to find you."

"You stop monsters," Neil said. He shrugged. "Malfoy says not to talk to you, but..." He frowned, possibly considering the implications of crossing Draco Malfoy.

Harry nodded. "Let's go then."

Nell and Neil exchanged a surprised look as Harry drew his wand. "You'll help?"

"Lead the way."

The two first-years led him swiftly down through the castle, and Harry glimpsed a cadre of floating pumpkins ambling in concert behind Peeves on the second floor. The poltergeist sent a few of them chasing after Harry and the first-year Slytherins, but only in jest, and they soon outpaced the laughing lanterns.

Harry considered a vial of blue potion, but decided against it for now. He'd already had too much of that today.

"What do you reckon it is?" Neil whispered. "It snatched Rolly so quick."

"Don't know," Nell breathed. She led them down a set of stairs, curving into the dungeons just past the Great Hall, and Harry felt turned around. The castle had moved again, though unlike before this felt… malicious.

Once passed the Potions laboratories, the Slytherins took a sharp turn away from the kitchens, further down toward Slytherin common room. At the last corridor, they turned left, wands out, and hesitated. Harry understood and went first, his wand alight before him.

"It took Roland down here…" Neil said.

A disused part of the castle, old classrooms and storage cupboards, the rugs a little dusty and the tapestries hanging askew. No classes down here, not for decades.

"We followed for a bit but then…" Nell gulped. "You'll see."

Harry nodded and reached the end of the corridor, which ended with a view beneath the murky-green lake, lit by magical lanterns on the outside of the castle. The Slytherin common room held a similar view under the lake. Above their heads was the first few feet of lake water. Harry had swum in it only an hour and a half ago.

Opposite the window, in a cul-de-sac corridor, a large section of the old stone wall had collapsed—or, he thought grimly, been blasted outwards from behind the wall. Heavy chunks of stone, crumbled brick, littered the carpet. The gaping hole in the wall was ringed with wet dirt, old and gnarled tree roots. It stank of decay.

Harry sighed. "Let me guess…"

"It took Roland in there," Neil said quietly.

Harry shook his head slowly, wand at the ready. "What are the odds of two basilisks…" he muttered to himself. Then chuckled. "Hell, what were the odds on one in the first place?"

Steeling his nerve, and not unmindful that this was his second mysterious if not sinister passage of the evening, he climbed over the broken brick. He crept down the murky passage, mindful of the two young Slytherins behind him, mindful of everything. He thought perhaps that he should have gone for Dumbledore, but something told him to hurry. That hurry was best.

Soon the brick gave way to old stone and mud. Lake water dripped through the soil overhead and, Harry saw with a start, old warding runes had failed along careful waypoints. He only scanned the runes briefly, but he recognized wards when he saw them.

Further down the passage, something hissed and then growled, like nails dragged on sandpaper. Whatever it was, it knew they were coming.

Nell whimpered. "Oh, no."

"It's OK. Stay behind me," Harry said softly. "In fact, maybe you two should go back."

The two first-years glanced at one another and then shook their heads, more and more a pair of twins. "No, Roland is our friend."

Harry considered that, then nodded. He had no earthly clue what lay ahead, or how much more this Halloween would exact, but again he was pressed with the urge to hurry. A stray thought occurred… he may need the twins to get their friend out while he held off whatever had snatched the poor kid.

The stink of decay, of death, deepened, and Harry slouched through mud up to his ankles. Up ahead, he saw something that gave him pause.

Elderglass.

Shattered pieces of elderglass, something he hadn't thought possible.

His mind, still running a little on the crystal-blue potion, made a connection that scared him. Did I do this? he wondered. What are the odds this passage opens at the same time we stole the artefacts from the hidden chapel?

Beyond what could have once, even recently, been bars of elderglass, Harry crunching them underfoot into mud and muck, lay a crypt.

He knew what he was looking at almost immediately. The passage widened into a small room, lit only by his wand and the wands of the first-years just behind him. The room had been set above the wet earth when it was first constructed however many centuries ago, but time and erosion had caused it to sink and slant into the mud. In the heart of the room, an ornate brass-handled coffin rested on a dais.

In front of the coffin stood a tall figure, cloaked in dark-grey (parched) robes. At first glance, the figure could have been mistaken for a man, but only at first glance. It stood eight feet tall, thin, the cloak wrapping it in darkness. It's face was gaunt, drained, and eyes yellowed with rheumatism blinked and narrowed harshly against the light of Harry's wand.

The creature Harry was fairly sure was a vampire stared at him without blinking. Without breathing. Though he couldn't remember whether the lore or the Muggle movies said vampires didn't breathe—that they were undead. Perhaps it was both.

In it's grasp, swaying in a muddied Hogwarts robe with the Slytherin crest on the breast pocket, was a young freckled boy that could only be Roland.

"Roland!" Nell called, her and Neil both stepping into the space either side of Harry. "Merlin, what is that?"

"Eyes on me," Harry said, trying to think fast, not sure whether he was talking to the kids or the creature. He wished he'd taken some blue potion. Either way, the rotten yellow eyes settled back on him and pulled at him, whispered a lullaby to lower his wand.

Harry fought the enchantment, struggling to remember what he knew about vampires. Garlic? Sunlight? Wood? Magically resistant… Vampires could feed on cow's blood and be fine. Centuries ago they fed on humans, magical humans for a better kick, and the longer they went without blood the greater the hunger drove them into madness.

If this creature had been locked down here for centuries, imprisoned, it seemed, then when was the last time it had fed?

The vampire blinked once, and the yellow-eyed gaze moved from Harry's face down to his hand, where the blood had clotted over the words 'I must not tell lies'. The creature didn't lick its cracked lips, but the thin pale skin pulled back to reveal sparklingly sharp fangs, as whiter teeth as Harry had ever seen.

"Help…" muttered Roland, swaying in the vampire's grasp.

Harry considered, offered Roland a reassuring wink, then slammed the back of his hand against the wet stone wall. The wound broke open and hot blood flowed fresh and free down his hand, dripping to the floor.

Whatever light remained in the vampire's eyes disappeared, yellow turned midnight-black, replaced by a look that surpassed hunger, considered starvation, and settled on famine. The vampire tossed Roland aside like a ragdoll and swept at Harry with unnatural speed.

Acting on instinct, Harry flung his bloody hand forward and splashed drops of vital liquid into the vampire's face. The creature blurred, catching the drops while closing the distance.

"Confringo!" Harry shot the stunning spell to the right, anticipating its movement without much hope. The vampire seemed to bend around the stream of red light—which travelled on and struck the coffin on the black stone dais.

The coffin exploded into a hundred shards and splinters of old wood. The vampire hissed and leapt at Harry. It hit him like a brick wall, knocking him to the ground. The creature weighed more than it looked, and despite its wasted limbs and gaunt face, was strong enough to pin him down.

The vampire's fangs grew another inch as it glared down at Harry. It's jaw unhinged, elongated, opening its maw twice as wide as a normal mouth.

Harry's bloody hand came up to protect his throat and, with no other option, the vampire made to sink its fangs into his wrist. Every instinct Harry had told him to pull away, to protect his arteries. He resisted that urge and instead shoved his hand into the vampire's mouth—forcing his fist to the back of the creature's foul throat.

The fangs closed either side of his wrist, cutting deep furrows, but not gaining purchase in his veins. The vampire hissed around Harry's wrist, its fore-teeth breaking the skin above his wrist but failing to dig deep. It tried to rear back, away from Harry, but he kept his fist as far back in its mouth as he could. Its tongue was cold against his fingers, somehow parchment-dry.

With his free hand, Harry grasped the dusty old robes cloaking the vampire and hung on as it leapt up, trying to break free from his grasp. Blood flowed down Harry's wrist into his face, but he held on.

The vampire slammed his fist into Harry's face, scattering his glasses and making the world spin. His grip loosened and the vampire snarled, bringing his fist up to strike again.

"Watch out, Harry!" Nell yelled.

A foot of splintered wood exploded from the vampire's chest, through its heart, and came to rest a scant inch from Harry's nose. He blinked, focused on the sharp splinter of coffin, and muttered something that was either a curse or a prayer—perhaps both.

The jaw slackened around Harry's arm and the vampire stood up, surprised. The vampire blinked, startled, and one hand reached feebly for the wood that had pierced its heart.

"Ugh," it said.

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

"Ugh," it said again, and then slumped forward. The grip of its teeth against Harry's wrist slackened.

The vampire shrivelled and died—already corpse-like, the creature's decay accelerated until it was nothing but leathery skin stretched over wasted bone. Its coal-orb eyes faded to two shrivelled lumps.

All the weight and strength left the creature and Harry hauled it to the side. He cradled his scored hand and wrist against his chest and reached for his glasses. Standing above the vampire, still gripping the length of splintered coffin they had used to stab the creature, Nell and Neil looked both shocked and sickened—the look of kids who think they've done something that's going to get them in trouble.

"Thanks for that," Harry managed. He sat up, ignored the pain in his wrist, and made it to his feet. "Let's go check on your friend."

Nell's eyes widened. "Roland!" She darted back into the crypt and knelt next to him

Harry joined her and, with Neil's help, managed to lift Roland into his arms. The kid murmured, frowned, a lump the size of an apple bulging above his eye from where the vampire had tossed him into the stone. Harry popped him back down and decided to levitate him instead. His wrist pulsed with pain, and he worried dropping him in the narrow passage.

"Best we get him to Madam Pomfrey," Harry said, holding his wand on Roland's levitated weight. The lump on Roland's head worried him, but not as much as the two dark marks, like needle punctures, in the boy's throat. "Light up your wands again, guys. Lead the way back."

A/N: Damn vampires.