Of course it knows. Of course the portrait knows.

I offer it my own, faint smile in response. "Hello yourself," I say. "You're looking particularly dashing today."

Its grin stretches even further. "So are you. Age has treated me remarkably well, it seems."

I let out a soft, quiet laugh. "How did you know?" We're both aware of what I'm referring to. Its sharp, discerning eyes- my eyes- lazily flick over my new features and it tilts its head slightly as if trying to figure something out.

"I'm you," It says, as if this is completely obvious. Which, to be fair, it is, but it doesn't answer my question, so I choose to ignore it. "I'm assuming our wonderful descendant doesn't know?" it asks, when it becomes clear that I'm waiting for it to elaborate, leaning forward on its elbows and resting its chin on its pale, interlaced fingers. My golden locket sways slightly, glinting in the rich, dark folds of its robes.

"Of course not," I reply distractedly, my focus still captivated by the lustrous metal of the locket. Its eyes shrewdly follow my gaze, fixing on the medallion still swinging slowly like a pendulum.

"Oh," it says softly, as if in understanding, skeletal fingers tracing first the chain, then the locket itself before weighing it absentmindedly in one hand. "You want this."

My attention snaps back to the portrait's face. My face. For once, it is deadly serious.

"Don't tell Tom," I whisper, my face equally grave. Fear- real fear- suddenly kindles inside of me, a horrible cold feeling spreading from my heart into my blood. If Tom finds out about the locket, about why I need it-

No. He can't find out, and he won't. I will not let all my plans be ruined, even if it means destroying the portrait beyond magical repair and then sending it into another dimension for good measure. But the portrait just smiles, back to its usual manner. "I didn't tell him how to find the Chamber of Secrets. You think I'd tell him this?"

"He still found the Chamber anyway," I mutter.

"Because he's related to us. But you stopped him being able to summon Aristomache." I don't ask how it knows this. It's true: I gave Aristomache specific orders not to answer to Tom. She may be there to obey the heir of Slytherin, but she is first and foremost loyal to me. Before I have time to answer the portrait, however, it cuts in again. "By the way, Tom's outside."

"I know," I reply irritably. He's been setting off my wards all over the place, the way he's been traipsing around the castle, trying to be stealthy. As if mobilised by my words, the door cracks open and Tom steps smoothly through, two bottles of firewhiskey dangling precariously from his fingers. He sees me standing, looking at the portrait, but doesn't immediately comment, instead effortlessly levitating one of the bottles towards me with a casual flick of his wand. I deftly pluck it out of the air and use my own wand to uncork it, ignoring the glasses and taking a swig straight out of the bottle. Tom wordlessly comes to stand by me and looks up at the once again silent portrait, a faint smirk lingering on its harsh mouth.

"We're related, you know," he says eventually. "Slytherin and I. On my mother's side."

I'm not surprised that he knows.

"And your father?" I ask. Dangerous territory- his father is probably a taboo subject. Indeed, as soon as I mention the word, he flinches. Nothing much, just a flicker in his eyes and the twitching of a muscle at the corner of his mouth. I can't blame him; I've never talked about my own father. Not even Godric knew the whole story.

"Dead." He replies shortly. And that's when I know. I'd suspected, but I hadn't wanted to acknowledge the truth- that Tom might be more like me than even I realised.

"Did you kill him." I say quietly. It's not quite a question. There's such an ache in my chest, such a familiar pain twisting my heart up in memories from a different life. Tom blanches and turns his head sharply to look at me, eyes wide with shock.

"Why would you say that?" He breathes, gazing down at me in astonishment and something more that I can't quite place. No denial. I shrug nonchalantly, ignoring the slight nausea. "No reason."

He shakes his head, still clearly bewildered, and takes a long drink from his bottle. Then he chuckles slightly. "Then," he says, carrying it off spectacularly, "to answer your question, no, I did not murder my father."

He's so good that if I hadn't been able to read his mind, I might've believed him. "That's a shame," I reply brightly. "A nice murder might have made you more interesting."

He chuckles and shakes his head again, but there's a wariness in his eyes that sucks all the genuine feeling from the gesture. "And what about your parents?"

Ouch.

"They live abroad, in Albania," I say casually. "My father works for the Ministry over there and my mother is in Necromancy research." Thank goodness I'm so proficient at occlumency, or Tom would've been able to tell that every single word of that sentence was a blatant lie.

"They're both magic, then," he states, somewhat wistfully.

"Yes," I say. Another outrageous lie. Tom just nods, then wanders over to the grandest armchair and sinks into it unceremoniously, drinking long and deep from his firewhiskey. I follow his lead and recline languidly into a chair of my own, kicking off my heels and folding my legs over of the arms. Idly, I summon one of the pristine crystal glasses and fill it to the brim, hoping to drown at least some of my more unpleasant recollections regarding my parents in the deceptively still liquid. Tom notices, and smiles faintly, but doesn't comment. After a long moment, he begins with "What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?"

I choke on my latest gulp of firewhiskey and it scorches the back of my throat.

Then, regaining my composure, say "Lots of things. What do you want to know?"

He frowns. "How do you know about it?"

I sigh in exasperation. "Everything you need to know regarding that particular topic can easily be found in the school library, if you know where to look." No doubt that he's already read every book on the subject twice. Suddenly, I frown and sit upright, pretending to have a revelation. "Wait," I say suspiciously, "Why are you asking me this?"

His indifferent shrug is anything but reassuring. "Academic research?"

"Please, please," I groan, "tell me that you're not thinking of opening it."

When he doesn't reply, I close my eyes for a second and tip my head back, taking a deep breath. When I open them again, I look at him straight on and state bluntly, "That is literally the stupidest idea I have ever heard, for numerous reasons, generally associated with, but not limited to expulsion, attempted murder and a life sentence in Azkaban."

He raises an eyebrow smoothly and stares at me keenly. "You wouldn't want to get rid of the unworthy?"

I begin to feel the resurfacing of painful memories once more, and take a hasty sip of my drink. It doesn't help. I can still hear my own words ringing in my ears, words that I meant at the time but destroyed everything I cared about.

Unworthy.

I used that word, too. Among others. I remember every detail about that argument perfectly. I remember the looks on their faces. My feeling of betrayal. Helga's pleading. Godric's shouting. Rowena's disappointment.

I don't regret my views. My principles, my morals. I regret leaving, yes, and I regret everything I subsequently did in that life, but what I believed about muggles, about muggle-borns, was reasoned and just. True, I was biased on the subject, but I'd seen firsthand just what muggles were capable of, and I'd wanted to build Hogwarts to protect my people from them.

Now, though…

I suppose that times change. People change. Especially people with eternity to grow and adapt and learn.

"Unworthy is subjective," I say quietly, absently swirling my drink in the glass. Try as I might to hide it, pain laces every word.

Tom seems to sense the sudden change in my demeanour, as he pads over noiselessly and pries the glass from my hand, setting it on the small coffee table with surprising gentleness. "We should probably get back to the common room," he says kindly.

I don't know why it stings as I realise the kindness is fake. Another mask, designed to bring me closer to him.

"I'd rather just sleep here," I say wearily. The drink, rather than numbing the pain, only served to render me in low spirits, making me suddenly realise just how tired I am. Not just physically, but mentally as well. "It's late, and I can't be bothered to walk all the way back to the dungeons."

Tom scans my face for a second, then shrugs. "Okay." He backtracks to his armchair and sprawls across it, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It's the most human gesture I've ever seen him make. I stretch out elegantly like a cat before nestling into my own chair, leaning my head against the warm velvet of the backrest.

As sleep begins to take over, I glance back at the portrait out of the corner of my eye. It could be my imagination, but I swear its eyes are gleaming slightly. I just can't tell whether it's at the recollection of the argument or the mention of my parents.