Fortunately, Tom comes to quickly, stirring from the depths of unconsciousness. I fear I may have overloaded his tiny brain. Too much information too soon.

He cracks an eye open and groans, the noise somewhat muffled by the fact that he's practically kissing the carpet. I lean down over him and nudge him with my foot. He mumbles something incoherent.

"Come on," I say, offering him my hand. "There's something I want to show you."

He peels his face slowly off the carpet, eyeing me mistrustfully. I can't say I blame him. Despite his suspicious gaze, he takes my hand dubiously, picking himself up off the floor.

I lead him down the corridor and he trots after me like a lost child. He's terribly quiet, but there's a subtle, rippling fury in his eyes, despite the vacancy of his face. The house shifts and rearranges, lining up the hallways so that my room is directly ahead.

"Where are we going?" Tom asks quietly.

"My room," I reply.

He doesn't say anything in response to that.

"Open," I say in Parseltongue when we reach my door. I feel Tom flinch almost imperceptibly, his hand tightening within mine. The door opens soundlessly, and the candles in my chandelier sputter into life.

My room is large, and high-ceilinged, with a vast four-poster bed draped in dark green swathes at the centre. It is lit by an immense chandelier: a sparkling, spangled mass of diamonds dripping from a wreath of slender, white candles. There is a vanity, complete with a towering gilt mirror, and several pieces of dark, wooden furniture. But the most notable feature of the room is the pictures.

Plastered and tacked and hung across every wall are hundreds of pictures, some dating back to nearly a thousand years ago. Paintings, mostly, but also some more recent photographs, in grainy black and white. Many are enchanted to move; some are static.

Tom gazes around, wide-eyed. His focus lands eventually on the largest painting, in pride of place above the mantlepiece. Set in a heavy, golden frame, it features myself and the other founders, posing for the artist in the headmaster's office of Hogwarts.

We looked so happy, back then. We're all laughing and smiling, content in our situation. My chest hurts a bit to look at it.

Tom walks towards the painting, and slowly reaches out his fingers to trace the inscription on the frame. It reads:

THE FOUNDERS

992

"Nine hundred and ninety-two," he reads softly.

I walk up and stand beside him. "I was twenty-nine at the time," I say gently. "That was in my first life."

"And what life are you on now?" he asks dully.

I pause momentarily. "My twenty-fourth," I say at last. Then I gesture to all the pictures on the walls. "These are from all my lives. The people that I've known."

And lost, is what I don't need to add.

"You lied to me," he says bluntly.

"Yes," I reply. I'm not sure what else I can say to that.

"Why?" he asks.

I sigh, and trudge wearily over to my bed, plopping down on it. I fumble on the bedside table for a bottle of firewhisky, and take a swig. Truth, or lies? I know Tom deserves the truth from me. He just might hate me because of it, though.

"I needed to be anonymous," I begin. "That way, I could watch over you undetected."

He narrows his eyes. "Why watch over me?"

I shrug, taking another sip. "You're the only family I have left."

"So you—" he breaks off, his voice catching. "You didn't befriend me because you actually liked me." There's hurt and betrayal in every word. I wince, and take a hasty gulp of the firewhisky.

"That is correct," I say frankly. He turns away, looking at the floor. "But," I continue, "over the last couple of months you've grown on me. Not many people can earn my sincere friendship. But you have."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he mumbles, still not looking at me.

I laugh, and cross the room to where he's standing. I take his hands in my own, and look into his averted eyes.

"You don't. Neither of us are good people, Tom. We're both deceitful, and selfish, and cruel. But for what it's worth, I think I'm better with you. And you're certainly better off with my influence in your life. That is the truth."

Tom, very slowly, brings his gaze up to mine.

"We were born into the same bloodline by chance, Tom," I say. "But I chose to make you my friend."

He smiles. Faintly, but it's there. At last, very quietly, he asks: "What should I call you? Salazar or Evangeline or—"

"Tom," I interrupt, laughing in relief, "you can call me whatever the hell you want."

I answer all of Tom's questions- and there are a lot- mostly truthfully. I show him my different forms throughout the ages, immortalised in the pictures on my walls. I tell him about the lives I've lived.

Of course, I don't divulge everything. There are some secrets I can't even share with Tom

By the time evening rolls around, we're sat by the fire, eating crumpets and drinking butterbeer.

"Salazar," Tom begins, and I instantly know I'm in for another round of questioning. He reclines on the sofa, draped languidly over the cushions. The firelight dances across the harsh panes of his face. "Is the whole Chamber of Secrets myth true, then?"

I shrug, biting into a buttery crumpet. "Mostly," I say. "I mean, it's been embellished a bit over the years, but the essence of it is correct."

"So there's a basilisk down there?" he asks. "The one I saw in the pensieve?"

"Her name is Aristomache," I reply, leaning back against a plump cushion. "She's just a bit younger than me, and she's the most irritable creature you'll ever have the misfortune to meet."

"And the heir of Slytherin can use her to purge the school of the unworthy?" he asks, his tone disconcertingly eager.

"That," I say, gesturing with my crumpet, "is absolute rubbish. Any one of my descendants- or any Parselmouth for that matter- can summon her if they feel like it. And before you ask, she didn't come to you because I told her not to. Lord know what you would've done with her. Plus, I only left her in the Chamber in the first place to protect her. Magical creatures were being severely hunted at that time, and I knew she'd be safe at Hogwarts. All that stuff about purging Mudbloods was made up later. Not that I would've objected to it at the time."

He chews on his crumpet thoughtfully. "You don't hate Mudbloods anymore?"

"Times change," I reply casually. "They used to be a danger to our people. They're not anymore."

There is a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sound of Tom slurping some butterbeer.

Then, "Salazar," Tom begins again.

"Lord give me strength," I mutter.

"What was Henry the Eighth like?"

"Fat," I reply shortly. "Oh look at the time. We must be getting you to bed."

Tom smirks uncontrollably. He stands and heads to the door. He rests a hand on the doorknob, then turns and asks: "Did you ever meet Merlin?"

"Yes," I say, gritting my teeth. I point at the door. "Bed. Now."

Tom smirks again, and leaves the room. There is a few seconds of peace until he yells from the corridor: "Did you know Shakespeare?"

"Bed!" I yell back.

Later that night, I apparate into Hepzibah Smith's house. It's quiet, and dusty, and stuffy. I carefully pad along the hall into her cramped sitting room. It's like a dragon's hoard, overspilling with forgotten treasures and antiques gathering dust in glass cabinets. The moon picks out the dull glimmer of gold and jewels.

There, nestled in a satiny cushion in pride of place, is my locket. It gleams, the emeralds winking in the dim light.

I like to come here, just to look at it. I don't dare risk touching it.

Eighteen years, its been out of my bloodline for. I've played around with dangerous magic, stretched the bounds of sorcery to their limits. I can only hope that once Tom retrieves the locket, the laws of enchantment will be satisfied. Then I can be reborn once more.

So proud of myself for updating this quickly! Free time does wonders for my writing.

Once again, stay safe, happy reading and leave a review if you are so inclined :)

Love you all,

Amy Grace xx