Archive of Our Own

Harry hadn't planned on coming down here.

In fact, he hadn't planned on doing anything at all on this wretched evening. Not arguing with Ron, not storming out of the common room under a hundred judging eyes of Gryffindor, and certainly not standing frozen in front of a moldy sink in the second-floor girls' lavatory at ten o'clock at night. He had only wanted to find a quiet place to be alone. A place free from the staring eyes and the whispering, pointing fingers accusing him of being a cheating liar.

But his feet had kept moving. Long ago, Harry Potter had learned that arguing with his own feet was an exercise in futility.

The row with Ron had started in the afternoon, smoldering like live coals, before erupting at dinner when Ron dropped a line in a tone that Harry thought he would never, in his entire life, forgive: "Come on, just tell me how you bypassed the Goblet of Fire, will you? I’d like to be famous for once, too."

Harry hadn't said anything for a few seconds. It was long enough for Ron to look slightly guilty, but not long enough for Harry to swallow the bitter lump that had risen, choking, in his throat. "Yeah," Harry replied, his voice dead flat. "Because I clearly love being dragged into a tournament where people can die. A bizarre hobby of mine, isn't it?"

Hermione had tried to interject. Neville had stared so hard at his plate it looked like he wanted to bloody well turn into the food and be done with it. Harry had bolted to his feet and turned his back on the Great Hall, leaving behind whispers that began to spread like an oil slick.

He walked with no destination.

Past the third-floor corridor. Past the spiral staircases that changed their minds whenever they pleased. Past the portrait of the noblewoman who snored whenever anyone brushed past. Hogwarts at night carried a solitude completely different from the daytime — not a peaceful one, but the kind of silence of a gargantuan entity that was breathing, opening its eyes to watch you, but refusing to speak. Harry liked it, though he would never admit it.

He hadn't noticed where he was going until he caught the familiar scent of damp mildew and looked up to see the old sign: Second-Floor Lavatory — Girls. Harry faltered.

From within came a very faint, muffled sobbing. Myrtle, probably having a particularly miserable night. Harry stood outside the door for a moment, listening to the dripping water mingling with the rhythmic wailing like background music, when suddenly, he felt an invisible tug yank sharply right behind his breastbone.

Go down.

It wasn’t a voice. It wasn’t anyone’s words. It was just a vague yet distinct impulse, much like the way you know you’re hungry without being able to pinpoint exactly where the hunger lies within your belly.

Harry pushed the door open.

Myrtle didn't even bother to glance at him — or perhaps she did but was too busy crying to bother with a greeting. She was floating over a toilet cubicle, her wet hair plastered to her cheeks, her round glasses completely fogged with tears. "Uh," Harry said. "Sorry to disturb you."

Myrtle raised her head to look at him, her eyes red, seemingly uncaring of his presence. She stared a moment longer, then plunged her face back into the toilet bowl to resume her weeping, apparently deciding that Harry wasn't interesting enough to warrant her attention tonight.

Harry stood in the middle of the damp bathroom, staring at the row of sinks. The tug in his chest flared up again, fiercer this time, like an invisible hand violently yanking at the hem of his shirt. He stared at the tiny snake engraved on the central tap.

Of course, Harry thought, not even bothered to be surprised anymore. It’s this again.

"Open up." Parseltongue slipped from his mouth as naturally as breathing.

He didn't need his brain to think — he never needed to think when speaking to snakes. The hissing sounds slid off the tip of his tongue, both soft and sharp. The tap shuddered and spun, and the row of sinks glided apart, exposing a pitch-black pit that gaped before Harry like a mouth waiting for its prey.

Harry stared down into the bottomless dark.

Second year. Ginny. Lockhart and his shattered wand. Ron trapped behind a wall of collapsed rock and dirt. And that spine-chilling hissing echoing through the walls. He loathed this place with every fiber of his being.

Yet, Harry jumped anyway.

The pipe slide was exactly the same — dark, slimy, and longer than he remembered. The only difference was that this time, there was no Ron, and no Lockhart beside him. It was just him, alone with the rushing wind howling in his ears and the smell of damp earth hitting his nose. Harry touched down at the end of the pipe, stumbling a few steps before catching himself against the stone wall to maintain his balance.

The silence down here was a thousand times thicker and heavier than it was above. Harry drew his wand, whispering, "Lumos."

A pale blue light erupted, casting dim reflections against the colossal sewage pipes. The mud squelched beneath his feet with every step. The air was freezing, leaving a peculiar taste on the tip of his tongue — like the taste of an old copper coin, or the scent of a thunderstorm about to break overhead.

He stepped over a pile of small animal bones. They were still there. He paused to look at them for a moment, the yellowish-white fragments piled haphazardly, completely unformed, kicked askew by someone two years ago. Harry shook his head, reminding himself that this was no place for a casual evening stroll, and kept walking.

So what? he thought, and pressed on.

The door to the Chamber of Secrets came into view, adorned with intertwined carved serpents. Once again, Parseltongue spilled forth. The ancient magic embedded in the stone walls listened and responded; the stone snakes rotated, shifting and sliding away.

The door swung open, and Harry stepped inside.

He saw the Basilisk first.

Frankly, it would have been impossible to ignore. The gargantuan monster was coiled in the center of the room like a small mountain, its dark emerald scales shimmering like jewels beneath the flickering light cast from the ceiling. It was asleep. Harry knew this because Dumbledore had once told him that Basilisks rarely slept, but when they did, they slept incredibly deeply — and also because if it were awake, those deadly eyes would have sent him to meet his ancestors the very second he crossed the threshold.

Harry let out an incredibly faint, cautious breath of relief. His mind was too exhausted to wonder why this snake was still vibrant and alive instead of decomposing into a heap of bones after two years. Perhaps because it was a Basilisk? Whatever.

But then, Harry's line of sight shifted, and he froze dead in his tracks at the sight of a figure.

A teenage boy was standing right beside the colossal head of the Basilisk, one hand resting lightly on its cold scales.

He was tall — a head taller than Harry, with a lean build but broad shoulders, standing so straight it verged on rigid. His jet-black hair was neatly styled in a fashion Harry had never seen anyone at Hogwarts wear — too vintage, too perfect, without a single strand out of place. He wore black school robes, but the crest on his chest was foreign. It wasn't a badge Harry could instantly recognize.

And he was whispering to the serpent. In Parseltongue.

Harry stood rooted to the spot at the entrance, holding his breath. His chest tightened in sheer terror. Driven by the rawest instinct of his body, he blurted out: "VOLDEMORT?! BUT HOW—"

The other boy whipped around.

The face made the blood freeze in Harry's veins — not because it was terrifying. But because it was entirely un-terrifying, and that was precisely the problem. The teenager before him possessed a face that people would describe as "handsome," with sharp, symmetrical features, and dark eyes that pinned themselves straight onto Harry. In those eyes, there was no anger at being intruded upon, but rather a calm, scrutinizing amusement.

Harry knew this face.

Not because he had met him in the flesh — but because he had stared at it in the diary two years ago. The entity that had stepped out of spilled inkblots, speaking to him as though the entire world were a chessboard, and Harry nothing more than a disposable pawn.

I'm done for, Harry thought, a bizarre sense of calm washing over his panic. I am utterly dead.

Tom Riddle stared at the strange brat who had just materialized at the entrance of the Chamber, and experienced a sensation for which he could find no words.

This was a significant issue, because a person like Tom Riddle always had words for everything in existence.

Tonight was supposed to be the culmination of six long years of research and waiting. Tom had spent every single day since his first year scouring this castle — overturning every page of text, tracing every scrap of ancient records. He had known he was the sole heir of Slytherin long before he found the magical proof. And tonight, he had opened this door, had stepped inside, had stood before the ancient serpent to converse in the language that only he — and he alone — understood.

Then, a wave of magic hit him.

Tom had been placing his hand on the Basilisk's scales, calculating the methodology to awaken the creature slumbering deep within the shadows, when he felt it. Not heard with his ears, nor seen with his eyes, but a distinct perception: someone had just used Parseltongue right behind him.

There was no mistaking it. Parseltongue carried its own weight, its own tonal frequency, and when two speakers uttered that tongue within an enclosed space, the air between them tautened like a plucked string.

Tom turned around.

The brat standing at the entrance was staring at him as though he had just seen a living ghost.

Tom swiftly observed and analyzed his opponent with his habitual, systematic precision: Black hair. Green eyes — a shade of green that burned bright under the dim light of the stone cavern. Scrawny. Looked to be around thirteen or fourteen. Hogwarts robes, but the cut and fabric weave were entirely foreign; even the Gryffindor crest on the chest possessed a styling that no student in the school currently wore. And a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.

Tom paused on that scar for a fraction of a second.

Not a student he had ever known. That untamable, messy black hair was unmistakably a Potter trait. Since when did the House of Potter produce a Parselmouth? But he had just opened the door using Parseltongue — that fact was absolutely undeniable. And he was looking at Tom with a gaze...

As though he knew exactly who Tom was.

Not the superficial knowledge of a name. It was a profound, bone-deep recognition — a identification that required no introduction, a supreme terror mingled with something far more complex.

Interesting, Tom thought to himself.

But what truly bothered him was something else.

From the exact moment Tom had sensed this brat's presence — even before he had turned around — there was something pulling within his chest. It wasn't fierce, nor was it painful, just a vague magnetic attraction pulling directly toward the black-haired boy frozen at the door. The boy who was trying desperately not to panic, though his face betrayed everything.

Tom Riddle did not believe in emotions. Emotions were weaknesses — he had realized this since he was a child in the orphanage, earlier than anyone else. Feelings were cheap tools used to manipulate one another, and Tom would never allow himself to be led by the nose.

Yet, the thing stirring in his chest right now was not an emotion. He did not know what it was, and it was precisely that "not knowing" that stimulated his curiosity.

Tom slowly lowered his hand from the Basilisk's scales. Abandoning the thousand-year-old monster sleeping soundly behind him, he focused his entire attention on the most dangerous creature in the room right now — the boy.

Something is wrong, Tom thought, though he himself wasn't entirely certain what he was referring to.

He opened his mouth, his voice as smooth and undisturbed as the surface of a windless lake: "You are not a student of this school."

Harry Potter looked straight at him, swallowed hard, and secretly thought that this was simultaneously the best and worst question he would have to face tonight.

"No," Harry replied, his voice trembling only a fraction. "I'm not."

The Basilisk let out a soft sigh in its deep slumber, exhaling a long, warm breath. The shadows of the Chamber of Secrets seemed to thicken, enveloping both teenagers, silently waiting to see what would unfold next.