The next morning, I'm awoken by Tom shaking me, yelling at me. My eyes snap open and I bolt upright, gasping for breath, my chest heaving. I can feel the lingering presence of sweat coating my face, matting my long hair. Tom regards me warily, something akin to real fear overshadowing his eyes.

"Harry," I breathe, scouring my mind for anything to link me to that name. I've known many Harrys, but none of any significance. Yet that name is all that echoes in my head, over and over again. Harry.

Tom's eyes narrow. "You know who he is?" There's a strangely suspicious cast to his tone.

I shake my head, bewildered. "No." Tom looks sceptical, but doesn't push for more information. Instead, surprisingly, he comes out with: "I'm sorry if what I said last night- about the Chamber- upset you."

He's quite clearly not sorry. I tell him as much. Then I add "You didn't upset me. You just reminded me of someone I used to know." It's true. Tom's similarities to who I used to be- to the original Salazar Slytherin- are frightening. But that person doesn't exist anymore. He died long before he ever discovered the secrets of immortality.

"Whom?" he asks sharply. Genuine curiosity sparks in his eyes.

I grimace slightly and swing my legs off the arm of my chair. Groaning, I slide my feet back into my heels, wincing at the residual discomfort. "It was a long time ago," I say, determined not to let myself get lost in old memories again. Unable to resist the urge, my eyes dart momentarily to the portrait. It's face, for once, is stony, any emotion concealed by a carefully crafted façade.

Tom scowls slightly, his brows contracting in barely masked frustration. "Fine." He says stoically. Then, "Do you have any plans for today?"

"Actually, I do," I reply. "But nothing that will last me beyond lunchtime. We could go down to Hogsmeade together?" It's an olive branch. An offer of time, conversation and company.

He looks at me somewhat disbelievingly, as if he can't understand why I'd want to spend an afternoon with him. Then it dawns on me: most girls who ask to hang out with him are captivated by his looks, his charming manner. I've made it quite clear that I am taken by neither of those, therefore leading him to the conclusion that I genuinely like his company. Which is not technically untrue- I don't specifically dislike talking to him- but it's tainted by the fact that I'm only here because I need him.

"I'd like that," he says. Perhaps I'm being overly optimistic, but I think that I can hear a sincere undertone in his voice.

"2 o'clock, in the courtyard. Don't be late."

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in some semblance of an exasperated smile. "Of course not," he replies smoothly. I nod sharply, before pushing up to my feet and making my way to the door, wobbling precariously on my heels. If there's one thing I miss about being male, it's the lack of outrageously unsafe footwear. Heels, whilst looking absolutely fabulous, are undeniably detrimental to my feet.

"Evangeline," he says, when I'm halfway out the door. I pause, one hand lingering on the frame, and glance back at him, waiting. "How did you learn occlumency?" he asks, his voice falsely innocent.

"Very funny," I say, scowling at him, before strutting out the room and down the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me. I hear Tom sigh, and grudgingly stomp to close the door. A small smile graces my lips momentarily; I know it's petty, but I'm nothing if not vindictive. We were really having a nice moment there and then he had to go and ruin it.

I begin to walk briskly down the stairs, but at the second floor, instead of carrying on down to the dungeons, I turn off and amble casually down the hallway until I reach the girl's bathroom. Carefully, I slip inside, glancing back to check that Tom hasn't followed me. He hasn't, of course- I'd have sensed it if he had- but my paranoia compels me to double check everything.

Turning my head, I see only one other person in the bathroom: Myrtle Warren. Suddenly, I'm immensely glad that I'm currently female, heels or no heels. The ease of access to the Chamber was one of the deciding factors when I chose this body. Although, having said that, it was a rather rushed and panicked decision, thanks to my total idiot of a descendant, Merope.

Myrtle is sniffling obnoxiously in front of one of the mirrors, her glasses fogging up slightly as she dabs at her eyes with a crumpled and stained handkerchief. Why she doesn't just clean it with magic, I don't know, but then she is muggle-born. She's not used to having magic constantly at her command. I make sure my footsteps are loud and echoing as I stride across the worn flagstones towards the sinks so that she notices my presence, then proceed to busy myself with fixing my makeup in front of the mirror.

"Oh," she snivels weakly. I cringe internally as she screws up the soiled handkerchief and hastily stuffs it down her sleeve. "Chambers. I-I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I'm just going myself actually, so-"

I cut across her mindless babbling. "Oh, there's no need for that."

She blinks. "Really?" Her voice is still clogged with tears.

"Of course," I say gently. "Besides, you can't possibly go out looking like that. You'll cause a riot. People will start to think a night troll's been let loose on the school."

For a moment, she says nothing, simply looking extremely taken aback. Then she begins with "I-"

I interrupt her again. "I mean, please, do something about your hair, if nothing else. The face, I suppose, can't be helped, but it could certainly benefit from some improvement. Here, allow me." And I pull out my wand, twirl it between my fingers expertly, then cast a few simple charms, ones I could do in my sleep, onto a still bemused Warren. Nothing much, just enough to clean her face and add the slightest hint of makeup, brush and style her hair, and straighten her clothes. Oh, and polish her glasses, which are so grimy she must walk round in a perpetual fog. "There!" I announce, once done. "Now no one need be afraid of a night troll in the castle." Myrtle doesn't move, rooted to the floor in shock. I smile encouragingly, but let a dangerous glint into my eyes. "Run along, now!"

Taking the hint, she scampers out the bathroom with a harried "Oh, yes- thank you ever so much- yes, I'll just-"

I sigh, linger a few more seconds at my mirror (using my wand to remove a stubborn smudge of mascara) then, with another glance behind me, casually sidle over to the next sink along. The bathroom falls oddly silent, as if a thick blanket smothers the whole room, as my deterring and muffling wards lock into place with a flick of my finger. Reaching out, I grasp at thin air, then slowly draw my hand across as if carefully closing a heavy curtain, allowing an illusion to ripple into place, showing the bathroom as normal. I deliberately drop my wand, giving me an excuse to bend down to retrieve it. Once I'm eye level with the taps, my gaze falls instinctively on the miniature snake engraved on the side, and I smile softly at it.

"I'm back, darling," I whisper in Parseltongue.

The tap glows a brilliant white, then begins to spin rapidly. Next, with a soft groaning and scraping of ceramics, the sink descends into the flagstone tiles, leaving an open pipe, like a gaping maw, facing up at me. Scourgify, I think, pointing my wand towards it. Just in case. The Chamber isn't exactly the most clean or sanitary of places, and I'm ready to bet that Tom doesn't take off his shoes when using the pipe on his fruitless missions to summon Aristomache.

Determined to show more appreciation for cleanliness than Tom, I remove my killer heels and send them into a little pocket between dimensions for safekeeping. I'll probably just summon new shoes or cast a levitating charm once I'm in the Chamber. Delicately, I lower myself to the cool, tiled floor and swing my legs over the lip of the pipe. Then, with a push, I'm off, sliding as gracefully as possible. Once I near the end of the pipe, I slow myself down with a whisper of aliquantulus morabor, so that by the time I reach the pipe's limit, I can simply slide to a stop and effortlessly emerge into the Chamber.

I make sure to cast gradus in aerem, an invention of my own, before my feet hit the floor. It's a useful little spell that allows me to walk a few inches above the ground, sparing my feet from the disgusting cesspit that has become this antechamber's flooring decoration. When I first built the Chamber, it was spotless, with glittering black walls and a subtle green glow. Yet now, I am once again slapped in the face by how utterly incompetent my descendants have turned out to be. Clearly, not enough of them had any comprehension of tidiness or presentation. The only reason I don't give the entire place a much-needed makeover is because I think Tom might become mildly suspicious, given his arrogant belief that he's the only person since myself to use the Chamber.

Further along the tunnel, round a tight bend, I come across the dead end where two entwining serpents are carved, their emerald eyes issuing a faint light. "Open," I say softly in Parseltongue. The snakes part smoothly, the wall cracking open between then and sliding noiselessly out of sight, revealing the heart of the Chamber: a long, eerily lit hall, supported by towering columns engraved with writing serpents, so lifelike they could have been the victims of a cockatrice, or perhaps a gorgon. And at the very end of the Chamber stands the crowning glory: a colossal statue of myself, ancient and staggeringly powerful. Looking at it, it's hard to suppress a smile. I had quite a flair for the dramatic at that time, and had felt that it would be a good idea to place such an egotistical monument in my own private hideaway for all my descendants to gaze at in awe. The face is just about barely recognisable as me, betraying some resemblance to the portrait in the Room of Requirement, but more lined and weathered, the depthless eyes blank and unseeing.

I stand before the statue, waiting. I begin to tap my foot impatiently, then realise at the lack of any sound that I'm still floating on thin air, so stop and cross my arms instead. The Chamber is totally silent except for the gentle lapping of water. No sign of Aristomache. Eventually I give in to her stubbornness and throw my arms up in exasperation. "What are you waiting for?" I hiss irritably.

Silence. Then, "For an apology," comes the reply. Aristomache's voice echoes around the chamber, dripping with ire.

I roll my eyes. "Fine," I spit out sourly, incensed by her obstinacy. "I'm terribly sorry, dear, dear Aristomache, for not coming to visit you more often." I pause for a moment. "Will that do?"

Another long silence. At last, I hear the faint scrape of scales against stone and Aristomache slithers into view, eyes carefully averted. "For now," she says primly. "You look terrible," she adds wryly a moment later.

"Hilarious," I reply scathingly.

Her lips peel back from her yellowed fangs in a twisted, savage grin. "Why have you come to visit?" she asks. "You only ever drop by when you need something."

I gasp in mock outrage. "Can't I just come to check that you're alright?"

"I wish you would," she mutters bitterly. "That moron Tom comes to see me more than you do."

I shake my head in disbelief. "I rescue you from Muggles, I raise you by hand, I build you a lovely chamber and this is all the thanks I get?"

She hisses at me with mulish attitude, then tells me exactly where I can go and stick her thanks in far too much graphic detail.

"Language!" I scold. Aristomache, despite being almost as old as me, never really got over being a teenager. Except her grumpy and wilful insolence comes equipped with razor-sharp fangs, deadly poison and a literal death-stare.

"But now that you mention it," I continue, somewhat sheepishly, "there was something I was wondering if you could help me with."

I'm pretty sure that if she was able to look at me without killing me, she would roll her eyes. "What now?" she asks resignedly.

"Well," I begin. "I'm almost certain that Tom's trying to make a horcrux-"

"Idiot," mutters Aristomache.

"-so, just to be on the safe side, I think that a few flasks of venom may be in order. Oh," I add as an afterthought "and don't kill anyone for him."

If basilisks had fingers, I'm fairly confident that a few of Aristomache's would be up in my face right about now. "Fine," she grumbles. Then: "Not even a small kill?"

"Darling," I say, "You can kill whomever you wish to. Just not on Tom's orders."