Notes: Thank you as always for your interest in this fic! I feel like this chapter is very predictable, but it was something I had planned from the beginning, and it is a pivotal event for Tom and Hermione.

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Heir of Slytherin

Tom read the note from his mother over and over again. With each perusal, his anger grew—and an additional emotion, fear, quickly took shape as well.

She promises me that I won't lose my right of inheritance, but how often do people make promises that they cannot keep because other people interfere? Tom thought. I'm sure that this is what she intends, but she has never wanted to fight Malfoy or Lestrange. The situation has deteriorated rapidly over the past year, with two members of the Wizards' Council murdered, the Council itself dissolved, and appalling new laws in effect. She seems to think that she can defeat Malfoy without violence… or that she can just wait for him to die and let someone else depose Lestrange once Malfoy is dead. It won't happen. Lucius Malfoy would succeed him, and I have no reason to believe he would be better for us. Besides, there is the unicorn blood I'm almost certain that he drinks—and I wish Regulus Black could confirm that—as well as the question of whether he has secured immortality. Despite Mother's best intentions, if a Norman lord is still ruling wizarding Britain, one of these brats will be her heir, not me.

Tom's fury threatened to explode out of control as he thought about it. Something had to be done, and he was utterly certain that he was the only person who both cared enough and grasped the present political reality enough to do it. Potter's group—or their parents, in any case—were probably more interested in their own power than in anything resembling justice for their people, if the Weasley boy's vile reaction in October to Malfoy's appalling law was anything to judge by. They were certainly not to be trusted to do anything that might help Tom, if their shabby and feeble attempts to oppose Malfoy could even produce a change at all—which he seriously doubted. Hermione was obsessed with her studies to the exclusion of all else, it seemed; and Mother's heart was in the right place, but she was too averse to violence and open conflict for her own good, Tom thought. No, it was up to him. I have always known it was up to me, he thought in superior resignation, but now I am sure it is. But what could he do?

He thought about the books that Mother had finally permitted him to read at the time of her wedding, the genealogy and family history books that he had brought back to Hogwarts. They had been very interesting reads indeed. A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt and The Lords of the Fens had filled in the gaps between the time of Arthur and the late tenth century, right before Hogwarts was founded. They confirmed Mother's claim that the family practiced sibling incest every few generations, unfortunately, as well as some other unsavory details about the Gaunts' practices before the founding of the school. The family, Tom had learned, had engaged in shocking ritual murder of their Muggle subjects to enhance their own magical power, and they had claimed that these bloody rites were to honor their almost entirely unmixed Celtic heritage. It was disturbing to Tom, who had made his predominant ethnicity and magical status such an important part of his identity. He certainly did not have a problem with killing, nor did he object to killing for sacrificial purposes that would count as "murder" to most, but even then, the circumstances mattered. It was one thing to kill violent usurping invaders who made wizard lords swear fealty to them or face dispossession, who attempted to impose witch-hating Muggle cultural values on a magical community that honored witches' power, who gave their own blood higher status in the law than that of the families that had lived there for centuries, and who attacked the children of their rivals in school. It was quite another to comb through one's own village for helpless victims, and Tom did not approve of it. Many of his ancestors truly had been terrible lords and terrible people, he had to admit. Not all—there were a number of brilliant scholars who made magical advances or wrote compelling histories—but many. The Lords of the Fens and A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt had been eye-opening to him.

And finally, there was the last book, Serpent-Tongue: The Life and Mysteries of Salazar Slytherin. A dark idea nagged at the back of his mind as he contemplated that one. The book had not described the exact location of the Chamber of Slytherin, but if this biography of the man was accurate, then the Chamber unquestionably existed and did indeed contain a basilisk. The biographer, a Hogwarts Master who had been one of Slytherin's first handpicked pupils, said that his old Master had told him that the creature slumbered in a magical sleep but would awaken at a call in Parseltongue and do the bidding of Parselmouths of the Slytherin line. Tom considered this biography a very credible source of information, given the author's background. The idea of Slytherin's creating a secret chamber was bolstered by the information—which was quite new to Tom—that Slytherin had actually designed Castle Leo, the home of Godric Gryffindor, when they were still the best of friends, and moreover, that the castle had an elaborate series of secret passages and a hidden entrance to one of the passages, rather like Hogwarts itself. That could be very useful information if and when the conflict progressed far enough that they could mount a challenge against Lucius Malfoy, who now occupied the place….

It was unfortunate that Slytherin had not shared more information with his pupil, but most likely the great wizard had meant to save that for his family. The book also did not confirm Tom's theory that Slytherin had been a Seer who had foreseen the Norman invasion and had left the basilisk behind for his heir to use to remove the occupiers from power. Of course, that was certainly not the kind of information that a schoolmaster would tell a student, Tom had reasoned. Indeed, the biography ended not with the death of Slytherin, but his disappearance from Britain. Perhaps he had gone to Ireland, the biographer mused, but no one knew.

But whatever glorious possibilities there might be in the future for seizing a Malfoy-occupied property, the possibility that existed now was to find the Chamber in Hogwarts and open it, to release the basilisk and claim it as his own rightful weapon in the coming war. He needed the advantage that the fearsome creature would offer. And it would be a way to claim my status as the true heir of Slytherin, he thought, rather than letting one of—those two of Snape's—claim the basilisk in seventeen years instead. It is mine if I choose to claim it, so I should claim it now and make my point.

If the creature would wake from its slumber at the call of a Parselmouth, then perhaps it would make a response in the same language that only Tom could hear, and he could track down the location to the chamber that way. At least he knew that an entrance was most likely on the ground floor; any chamber large enough to conceal a basilisk had to be underground, and it seemed far too dangerous to have long multi-story shafts that would be very difficult to escape if Slytherin's heir needed to make a quick exit. That considerably limited the scope of the search.

Should I do it? Tom wondered, his courage momentarily failing him at the thought of such an undertaking. What if he accidentally looked in its eyes? Parselmouths were subject to the fatal gaze of the basilisk just as anyone else was. If he did this, he was trusting that the creature actually would regard him as its new master and obey him.

The biography of Slytherin says that it will, he reassured himself. He told one of his students that it would obey Parselmouths who were his own descendants. He would have had no reason to lie about that to his pupil.

Tom considered the calendar. In three days, the school would close for Christmas. He might not find the Chamber entrance in that short a period of time, but if he did, he could wait until the final day that the school hosted students before opening it. That would minimize the risk.

And then I will free it and take it home, to protect the castle where Slytherin's blood now dwells, until I need to use it in war, he thought. There were dungeons in Parselhall, just like any other castle. There the basilisk could stay until needed.

Castle Parselhall.

Merope genuinely had not thought it possible that she could conceive again. She had been certain that the injuries she had sustained during Tom's birth had rendered her womb too delicate, too scarred, for any pregnancy to last long enough for her to detect. She was still unsure if this one would quicken, let alone conclude in a live birth—or two—but it had already proceeded farther than she had believed possible.

She was worried for a number of reasons. First, there was the constant dread that she would miscarry, of course. At least I am married to a master of potions, she comforted herself—and indeed, Severus already had devised a potions regimen for her to follow that would help to protect her health. Such things were not infallible, but it was unquestionably better than nothing. Severus's reaction to her news had warmed her heart. Naturally, his uncertainty about whether Harry Potter was his son by blood—and his assumption that he would not have been able to have any children with Merope—had made the news even more thrilling than it would already be. He was very protective of her now, or at least of her physical health. Merope stifled an amused smile at the memories of Severus's manner when he recommended the potions to her—brusque and matter-of-fact about the medicinal qualities, very much the potioneer that he was, but with a strain of personal warmth due to the fact that she was carrying his offspring—and all of that tempered with a nervous anxiety that his solicitousness for her physical health must not overstep into condescension toward her capabilities. It was thrilling, in a way, that someone did care about her in this way, and Merope had nothing to complain of in Severus's concern and advice. He respects me as Sir Thomas never did, she thought.

Beyond her fear for the pregnancy itself were more worldly concerns. Belatedly she realized that perhaps she should have told Tom explicitly not to tell anyone except Hermione. She hoped he would have—not the sense; he did have that—but the self-discipline not to explode in fury in front of people like the Malfoy boy or the Lestrange girl. She and Severus had agreed to keep the pregnancy a secret for as long as they could. She was not sure what Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange would do with the information, and she did not care to find out. She was sure that her marriage was already infuriating enough to them.

Then, too, there was the matter of Tom's inheritance. She could keep her promise to him only if Malfoy's law were repealed—which, she realized, meant that Malfoy and Lestrange themselves would have to be removed. It was a pity that the house-elf who acted as a spy for Regulus Black could not murder his masters, but anyone as malevolent as Malfoy would give that order to servants that he undoubtedly abused. No, Malfoy and Lestrange had to go, and that meant that she, Severus, their allies, and—yes, she acknowledged it—Tom and Hermione needed to work together to formulate a plan for replacing them. That was one thing that she intended to happen over Christmas at the family discussion she had mentioned in her letter to Tom. They had to go, or else her word would be worthless—a promise she couldn't keep.

But even if we achieve everything that we need to, what does this mean for Hermione? Merope thought with some disquiet. In that scenario, Tom could inherit—but the twins would still be his heirs if he did not have any children of his own. If all went well, he no longer needed to continue the line himself, which meant that one rationale for his marrying Hermione had dried up. If Merope ended up having to compel the marriage against Tom's wishes, and Tom could not even tell himself that it was necessary for the sake of the family, it could be genuinely miserable for Hermione. More than ever, Merope hoped that Tom's behavior would prove to be temporary and that he would return to her in his heart.

Merope sighed. This should be a happy moment. The worries about the pregnancy itself were inevitable, but the political worries and her concerns about Tom and Hermione were casting a pall. Guilt and sadness spread over her at that realization.

"Merope," said Severus.

She glanced around and met his gaze with hers. A smile formed on her face. He was obviously worried too, but this had softened his features and removed some of the bitterness and cynicism that had defined him for the past three years. As she walked across the parlor and linked her arm with his affectionately, she resolved to focus on the good, since there was little to nothing that she could currently do about the worries.

Hogwarts.

The evening of the day that he received his mother's letter, Tom finally decided to tell Hermione about it. He was not going to tell her about his plans to look for the Chamber. If he found it, he would let her know then.

She was seated in the Slytherin common room, reading a book. Potter sat next to her, engrossed in his own thoughts. Tom remembered suddenly that he had received several letters of his own that morning. He had not been included in the discussion that Potter had with Hermione and Luna Lovegood, and he had completely forgotten about Potter's letters after his own arrived. He wondered what had happened.

Hermione closed her book and turned to Potter, which prompted a spark of jealousy from Tom even though he knew that there was nothing between them except friendship now. "I think you should still go home," she said in a low voice. "Your mother, at least, would like to see you, as would Sirius. And you should congratulate him on his betrothal."

Harry considered that and nodded. "That's true. I didn't think of that, but you're right. It means that I will have to see my father, though…."

"You should see him," Hermione urged. "He might even relent and see how unreasonable he has acted once he sees you again."

Harry seemed skeptical at that, but he was convinced to go to his hometown for his mother and godfather's sake. He managed a weak smile before rising from his chair and heading to the door leading to the boys' corridor.

Tom seized the opportunity. As he sat down next to Hermione in the spot where Potter had just been, she stiffened. "Tom," she acknowledged. "What is the matter?"

He scowled at the news he was about to relate. Scanning the room with his piercing gaze to make sure that none of their enemies were there, he lowered his voice almost to a whisper anyway. "I received a letter from my mother today," he growled under his breath. "She is with child."

Hermione gasped. "She is?"

"Don't be loud. I don't want anyone else to know. Yes, she is, and apparently it's twins." His handsome face was twisted unattractively in irritation.

Something else occurred to her. "Malfoy's inheritance law—"

"She claims that she won't let that happen," he said sullenly.

His voice was clipped and cold, and it surprised Hermione. "If she agrees that… well… they must go," she said almost inaudibly, "then what is the problem?"

"The problem is that she doesn't have a feasible plan to make that happen, as far as I'm aware," he spat. He rose from his seat. "I just wanted you to know, because she said I was to tell you, and after all, we are going to Parselhall in a couple of days. That was all. Have a good night, Hermione."

Hermione was affronted at this rudeness and the clear implication that he had told her only because his mother had said to and because he might get scolded in a couple of days if he disobeyed. Her eyebrows narrowed, and she scowled back at him as he stalked toward the boys' bedchambers. The news was upsetting to him; she understood that. But there was no call to be so rude to her. He barely values me at all anymore, she thought. Our relationship has reverted to what it was in the very first days, three and a half years ago. The emotion that accompanied this thought was not sadness, as it had been for a while, but anger.

The next morning, Tom had felt a bit bad about his interaction with Hermione. He realized he had taken out his frustration about Mother's pregnancy on her. But what was to be done? Hermione remained stubborn, obsessed with her studies, and once again had chosen her friendship with Potter over him. By the following summer, she would either have to open up to him again or accept the sad consequences of personal estrangement in their marriage. That was how he saw it. He did not want her to choose the latter, but he supposed that she might. They would not be the first such noble couple—or the last. In any case, he had other things with which to concern himself right now.

The day was free for him to conduct his searches. The professors were not teaching anything, and the pupils who were planning to visit their families were gathering their belongings and beginning to leave, a slow but steady trickle. The bustle on the ground floor of Hogwarts made it flatly impossible for Tom to consider opening the Chamber—if he could find it—unless he wanted numerous fatalities, and since no one at the school was personally responsible for the troubles of his family or a foul Norman Muggle who tried wrongfully to control witches and wizards, he did not. However, he could search for it and form a plan for opening it if his search proved fruitful.

Tom had considered how best to keep any stragglers—or Hogwarts masters—away from the site of the Chamber entrance if he did find it. Any spell to discourage them would likely be detectable, and it would just provoke investigation of the place. It would raise the risk. After considering it, he settled on a very simple but hopefully very effective solution: making a mess in the hallway outside the room that was the entrance, slightly removed from the door to whatever that room might be. He did have some ideas in mind; he first wanted to check out the schoolroom where his biography of Slytherin had told him the great man had taught his pupils. The room was now used for Transfiguration studies, which had been Dumbledore's speciality—and Minerva McGonagall's. A pair of Gryffindors. It was almost as if the choice had been a deliberate insult to Slytherin, Tom thought. If not for the fact that they were Malfoys, he would almost approve of the fact that alumni of Slytherin House now occupied Gryffindor's castle.

Tom slipped unnoticed into the schoolroom in the midst of the confusion and activity of students who were leaving for their homes. His magical senses were much more sensitive now than they had been four years ago, he thought idly. It was true that a witch or wizard's magic developed as the person did. As he examined the schoolroom, he detected the magical residue of attempted spells to transfigure the myriad of things on which students practiced.

There was something very peculiar at the front of the classroom. For some reason, Tom thought of Crookshanks, Hermione's feline familiar. Of course, he remembered, Professor McGonagall can transform into a cat. And obviously Crookshanks has some magical abilities too; he's not a common cat. It seems that I can identify that specific magical signature now. This was interesting—and promising. It meant that if he found the entrance itself—which should be magically concealed, surely—then he would also be able to detect an extremely magically powerful serpent.

He continued examining the large stone room, focusing on the walls for any sign of unusual magic that could not be the residue of Transfiguration. As he reached the fourth wall, his face was growing sour. Nothing had turned up. He then considered the floor and stalked toward the center of the schoolroom. His walk around the perimeter would have revealed any magic trapdoor in the floor that was close to a wall. This search also came up empty.

Disappointed, Tom slumped against the floor in the back of the room, trying to determine a logical next step in his search. No other room seemed obvious to him based on his reading about Slytherin. Then a door caught his eye.

He knew it was the door to the supply closet, and he had been doubtful that Slytherin would conceal an entrance to his grand chamber in such a grubby, ordinary place as a storage room. But… it was a room, and perhaps it was not storage in Slytherin's day. Tom opened the door and continued his search of the premises.

Quickly he realized that there was magic in this room—and he detected the magic of a serpent. His pulse quickened with anticipation. How could Dumbledore and McGonagall not have detected this? Tom thought. He listened carefully through his magic-detecting sense and thought he heard a voice casting a spell in his ancestral tongue. Is it just for me? Is this magic of the blood, calling out to me because I have this blood? Maybe they can't hear it or sense it. That thought brought a satisfied smile to Tom's face as he began casting diagnostic spells at the stone floor. Very quickly, one caused a green glowing outline of a large rectangle to appear—just large enough, perhaps, to move a basilisk through.

Tom instantly focused on this spot. He cast the spell repeatedly until it was outlining the grain of the wood used in the trapdoor. He closed his eyes—just in case—and spoke sibilant, mysterious words in Parseltongue. The magical mask of stone veneer melted away, revealing the wooden trapdoor to Tom's reopened eyes. He took a deep breath.

I need to make my preparations, he thought. I need to get something to blindfold the basilisk. This is not directly off the hall, though, so I don't think I want to create a mess in the hall—magical water, or whatnot—after all. It would just draw attention here. I could create a blindfold by magic… but the basilisk itself is a powerfully magical creature. Best to have something fully material. Tom considered it. Oh—and there should be far fewer pupils tomorrow. Or tonight.

The idea of opening and visiting the Chamber that night quickly took hold in his mind.

That evening, Tom crept quietly up the stairs to the ground floor with a long strip of silky white fabric under one arm. For a castle, Hogwarts was surprisingly short on basic supplies other than food. Magical supplies it had in plenty, but not quite as many ordinary materials. There was no castle tailor or seamstress, and the elves only repaired pupils' robes if necessary. They did not sew new clothing, so they did not keep fabric about. This was a bed sheet that Tom had swiped from the sickroom. That room was empty—as he had expected it to be on the night after many students had left for home—and the room seemed ghostly to Tom, even though no ghosts were there at that moment. One bed in particular troubled him, though it looked just like the others. He had just felt a very strong evil premonition associated with that bed, though whatever foresight this was did not give him any details. He had pulled the thin sheet he now carried from a different bed, not wanting to disturb that one.

Tom entered the Transfiguration classroom, closed the door behind him, and progressed to the storage closet.

Although most students had gone on the first day that it was allowed to them, some were going to make their journeys on the second day. Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood, and Ginevra Weasley—though not the Weasley boys—had decided to do this. Neville Longbottom, whose family lived in Hogsmeade, also could stay at the castle until the last minute. These four decided to have a meeting—not a formal meeting of the Friends of the Founders, but a meeting of the four of them plus Hermione.

"I was hoping that you might have a better idea of what your parents—and older brothers—were doing," Hermione said haltingly to Ginny Weasley. "Half the school heard your brothers' approval of Malfoy's Imperius law about married witches a couple of months ago. It really shocked me, I have to say." Luna Lovegood nodded heavily in agreement, her eyes wide.

Ginny did not defend her brothers. "Why do you suppose I did not leave with them?" she asked pointedly. "I wish I didn't have to go at all. That comment was nothing unusual for Ronald—or for the twins, for that matter, though they usually couch their comments in 'humor.' Ronald is just spiteful and ugly about it. But this has been going on for several years. I don't think my father approves, but he is not bold enough to put an end to it, and my mother encourages it, because she thinks that any witch that one of her precious boys speaks against must deserve it."

That would have been befuddling to Hermione not long ago, but her own mother's irritating letter urging her to overlook Tom's behavior in the name of "duty" had opened her eyes. It sounded as though Ginny's mother was far worse.

"Tell her about the argument with your mother," Neville urged her gently. "She might as well know. It could affect us all."

Ginny scowled, and next to her, so did Luna. "All right," she began grudgingly. "Apparently, my mother and Harry's father think that Harry and I should be together. That was what they expected to happen when they allied under the Friends of the Founders' banner, but it didn't quite turn out that way."

"It's silly," Luna interjected, "because Neville's parents are also allies, and my father supports the overthrow of Armand Malfoy."

"Evidently, as soon as one's parents get involved in political power games, this becomes a danger," Ginny growled. "One doesn't have to have a title. In any case, I told my mother that it was not going to happen, and she became angry with me. And Harry's family, of course…." She trailed off.

"I don't have to stay with my father," Harry said.

Hermione considered what she had heard. It did not elucidate the greater game of her friends' families… but it was intriguing. She remembered, suddenly, something Merope had said the summer before last, the summer that Luna had visited at Parselhall. "The Lovegoods are an interesting family." "Luna, do you think that perhaps everyone else's parents don't trust your father? What does he do?"

"He is a scholar and bookbinder by trade," Luna said. "His researches have led to some conclusions that many people do not like." She gazed out primly.

Hermione thought about that. In that case, the other Friends of the Founders might not trust him. They might want someone who could be assured to be on their side, rather than following where the facts led him. In fact, nothing seemed more likely: The Longbottom family renounced their title over politics and now Neville's father was mayor of Hogsmeade, the Weasleys of eighty years ago also renounced a title, and Harry's father's family had been dispossessed by the Malfoys. Their perspectives would be inherently political—and without the mitigation, the softening of extreme views, that reading and scholarship could afford. Nobles' perspectives would be quite political, but Hermione's friends' families would not have the time to devote to scholarship like Merope and Severus—or the coin to amass big libraries. For many witches and wizards, their years at Hogwarts would be the only lengthy time in their lives that they had the chance to study and read.

"You should make your decisions for your lives as you see fit," Hermione said sincerely to her friends. "You don't have to let your parents bully you into matches that are not your first choice."

Luna patted Harry's hand and smiled. Neville awkwardly, shyly grinned at Ginny. Ginny herself, however, was eyeing Hermione with a shrewd, pointed look on her face. "Do you?" she asked.

"It's different for me," she said at once. "It's not that I don't want to marry Tom. He has just been difficult…."

"For two years."

"We have had arguments," she admitted. "That has been the extent of it. If he tried to harm me, of course that would be different. But I think he will warm to me again this summer, if not before then." She rose from her seat. "I had better go back to my dormitory. I still haven't packed!"

Ginny and Luna chuckled at that as she left. She smiled as she closed the door behind her and headed down the many flights of stairs.

When she reached the ground floor, Hermione saw a shadow, long and attenuated in the dim light of the corridors. She hid herself behind a pillar of an archway. Her eyes widened when the shadow's owner appeared: Tom. What is he doing, prowling about the castle at night? Hermione thought. He entered one of the schoolrooms—the Transfiguration room, it appeared—his long shadow trailing after him. The shadow was cut off when he closed the door.

For a moment, Hermione was resolved to continue to the lower level and the Slytherin common room. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned the corner.

Locked inside the closet, Tom hissed the command in Parseltongue that had made the trapdoor appear earlier in the day. The wooden, hinged door became visible once again. He considered for a moment, gathered up the fabric, and lifted the trapdoor. A dark tunnel descending into the bowels of the school yawned before him.

The basilisk is said to be in a magical sleep, he thought. I should be able to enter its sleeping area safely… but I will be sure to keep my eyes closed or trained on the floor.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the pit. The tunnel appeared to be a slide of sorts, which was unnerving. That would be difficult to escape quickly if it became necessary. Perhaps, though…. Tom flicked his wand. More glowing green appeared on the curving, downward-sloping tunnel. It can change shape, he realized.

Crouched over the floor, he opened his palm and cast a spell to make a cut, which he pressed against the wall of the tunnel. Before his eyes, the smooth surface transformed into a set of stone stairs that he could easily descend. He took another deep breath and entered the tunnel, lighting the tip of his wand.

Down he descended for some time. When he reached the end, his eyes widened. Magnificent architecture spread out before him, carved snakes with green sparkling eyes in seemingly every crevice. A great sculpture of what Tom presumed was Salazar Slytherin's head overlooked all of it.

"What can you tell me, great-great-great-grandfather?" he murmured, taking in the sights in awe. "What secrets did you keep? Did you know what was coming less than a lifetime—a wizard's lifetime—from the founding of this school? And what became of you at last? You were said to have disappeared… but did the other Founders murder you? Might Gryffindor have spread lies about the disagreement he had with you, after you could not defend yourself?"

The stone statues offered no answer.

Tom gazed around the chamber. No basilisk was in sight—nor were there any books or other magical artifacts. It was a pity, but if Slytherin had constructed this chamber to be the domicile of the basilisk, it would not make sense to fill it with other things. He noticed a great arched corridor that led into an unknown anteroom, and his magical senses prickled. The basilisk was in there… and it was indeed asleep.

Gazing fixedly at the floor, Tom began to speak in Parseltongue: "I am here, Great Serpent of Slytherin. I am the heir you have waited for, and I summon you from your long rest to serve me as I finish your first master's work."

Rustlings from the antechamber sounded as the immense creature awakened from its sleep. Tom repeated his words for the basilisk as it entered the main chamber where he stood, keeping his eyes focused downward.

"The heir of the master? The master is dead, then?"

Tom sensed the presence of the huge snake mere feet away from him. He stole a dangerous glance out of the corner of one eye. A vast scaled body rested nearby. "I assume so, Great Serpent. It has been many years. But I am here, and I am of his blood."

"You speak it… and I recognize the smell of your blood. You are the master's blood, indeed. You have come to finish his work?"

"Yes," Tom said eagerly. "The world of witches and wizards is overrun with invaders. My own mother, who is also of the blood, is under threat. You are a powerful creature, and I command you to protect the heirs of the master's blood and drive out the intruders."

"Then I am at your service, my lord."

Tom considered. "I must first place a blindfold over your eyes, so that you do not accidentally kill allies or innocents. We would not want that."

The basilisk paused for a moment. "As you wish."

Tom waved his wand around. The bed sheet sailed into the air and gently wrapped around the creature's head.

"I can still see through this," the snake remarked. "It is not opaque."

That did not surprise Tom, and presumably it would still prevent someone from looking "directly" into the animal's eyes, but he was not going to risk himself. He instructed the basilisk, "I will ascend the steps first and then transform them into a tunnel up which you can glide comfortably. I will tell you when to come."

"As you command, Heir and Lord."

Tom preened at the subservient tone of the basilisk as he began to ascend the steps. His heart was soaring. This was historic. It would make a difference—no, the difference—in the coming war. He could bring this basilisk to the very gates of Malfoy Manor and Malfoy's vassals would drop at the mere sight of it. Tom pictured Rodolphus Lestrange, stationed outside Armand Malfoy's private rooms, getting an eyeful of it and crumpling to the ground. Then I would burst into Malfoy's sanctum, Tom thought as he climbed the stairs, and perhaps he would even have a goblet of shining silver blood in hand—but it would do him no good in that moment. He would gape at the basilisk and then crash to the stone floor, the goblet falling from his withered hand, spilling its contents everywhere… and if he has a Horcrux, then he would be disembodied. I would have it eat his body so he could not repossess it….

Unless they know I'm coming and bring chickens, he thought with sudden disquiet. The delightful revenge fantasy faded away with that cold consideration. For such a magnificent, lethal creature, it was horrifyingly easy to kill with the crow of a rooster. He would have to keep this weapon secret until he was ready to use it.

Tom reached the top of the stairs and found himself in the storage closet once more. He swished his wand, turning the stairs into a smooth tunnel once more. "It is ready for you, Great Serpent," he intoned to the creature below. In a second, he heard the telltale signs of movement as the basilisk slithered up the tunnel. He felt proud and satisfied enough that he thought he might burst.

The great head appeared in the open trapdoor. Tom looked away at once, averting his gaze from the blindfolded yellow eyes. "I will open this door and let you out," he said. "Then I will take you out of this castle and find a secret spot where you can hide until I can bring you home." He went to the door that led to the Transfiguration schoolroom and opened it.

He had only half a second to recognize Hermione's presence at the doorway—her brown eyes wide with alarm and shock, her mouth open in an almost perfect O, her wand hand raised—before she tumbled to the floor.

Tom could hardly think. His first thought was horror—the fear that seemed to pierce straight to his soul that the basilisk had killed her. He collapsed to his knees and cried out as he grabbed her wrist.

Her eyes were still open, and her skin was already cold. That shouldn't be…. Completely oblivious to everything else, his mind consumed with her and her alone, he realized that he felt a pulse beneath the cold, clammy… unyielding… skin.

She was not dead. She was Petrified, but she was alive.

Tom's heart rate increased, or perhaps he just became more aware of it as that relieved thought poured over him. "Return to the Chamber!" he hissed in Parseltongue at the basilisk. He did not look back, but he heard the creature's descent back down the tunnel. Once its slithering noise was far in the distance, he muttered in Parseltongue, "Be concealed." The trapdoor vanished, appearing as a normal stone floor once again.

The basilisk told me that it could see through the fabric, Tom thought, panicking. It could see through it… and Hermione could see its eyes through the filter of the weave. That is why she wasn't killed. But what can be done to revive her? There is a potion… a restorative… but I can't remember how to make it. He gathered her frigid, stiff form up in his arms. I can't. I can't remember….

A shadow was advancing down the corridor outside the schoolroom, accompanied by a light. Tom grimaced. If one of the masters caught him—

He could open the trapdoor again and take Hermione into the Chamber itself to hide—

Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn poked their heads into the classroom. "Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed. "And Lady Hermione!" he added, springing forward when he saw her unconscious form.

Dumbledore was giving Tom a look as hard as steel and as cold as ice. "Is this the place, then?" he said.

Tom instantly knew that Dumbledore was aware of what had just happened—and why would he not have? He was the High Master of the school, and it was common knowledge that Tom was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

Tom nodded, not looking into the High Master's bright blue eyes. "She has been Petrified," he said to Slughorn, shame filling every syllable. His fantasy about having the basilisk kill Malfoy and Lestrange was long forgotten. "I don't remember the formula—"

"The principal ingredient is chopped mandrake," Slughorn said, "which I have." As Tom rose to his feet, still carrying Hermione's limp form in his arms, the stout potions master touched her forehead. "Yes, you're right, of course—that's what it is. She'll be all right, Tom," he said reassuringly. "The potion will have to brew overnight, but she will be perfectly fine in the morning!"

Tom knew that Slughorn was trying to make him feel better, but it felt ghastly and inappropriate right now—though he could not articulate even to himself why. Why was Hermione here? he thought as they left the room and headed up to the infirmary. What was she doing out? Was she with Potter and his friends? They drew her out of the common room—out of safety—and then she followed… me? She must have seen me….

As he attempted to cast blame upon Potter, upon Potter's friends from other Houses, upon Hermione herself, he felt even worse. He gazed down at her face, her eyes still wide and unseeing. It was wrong, all wrong. He had seen Hermione making such an expression of surprise before, of course, but it should never be affixed to her face like this.

They reached the infirmary and went inside. Barely aware of his own actions, Tom moved over to a bed and set Hermione down—and then he realized that it was the bed about which he'd had a bad feeling. At that realization, he wanted to be sick.

"I will stay here," Slughorn said to Dumbledore, "and awaken the healer." He nodded at the quarters of the school healer, which were just off the infirmary itself. "Once she's made aware of it, I'll be in the potions laboratory to brew the restorative."

Dumbledore turned to Tom. "It is a long walk to my office. The room next door, then."

Tom did not dare disobey.