Tom hadn't lied: he wasn't afraid of Grindelwald, but that did not by any means means mean he was reckless enough to potentially run into the wizard unprepared. No, if they met, Tom would need to have safe guards in place. As confident in his abilities as he was, he was too smart to believe he actually stood a chance against such a dark wizard with decades more experience. To complicate matters, Grindelwald practically made a profession of outduelling and outwitting Aurors, so Tom had to think of something else. Something they wouldn't dare dream of.
He loosed an almost imperceptible sigh. There were important things to be done, yet there he was, sitting through possibly his thousandth Charms lecture. It was hardly his fault it drove him to distraction; he'd learned everything he'd ever need to know on the subject by his third year. Who cared if he could make baubles blossom from nothing or a gentle stream erupt from his wand? Sometimes, he wished he could go back to the days when every aspect of every class had seemed so new and exciting.
But he couldn't, so he settled on half-listening to their lecture on the Homonculous Charm, while putting on an award worthy performance of feigning disinterest in Rabastan's crusade to balance as many torn pages from their textbook atop the professor's hat without her realizing. The trickiest part was managing to fly the parchment by the old bird without her noticing, rather than the actual balance portion. Twenty-two minutes later, the stack came crashing down, theoretically because the point of her hat couldn't take the weight of half a textbook worth of paper, earning Rabastan a week's worth of detention. He didn't actually get caught, per say, but Professor Darrow took one look at his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and decided to forgo any trials regarding his innocence.
Tom spent the rest of the period pretending to study his Charms text, which was, in fact, a book he'd stolen from the restricted section and rebound to look like the proper school required book, until, five minutes before they were to leave, a bizarre noise broke the monotony of Professor Darrow's drone.
A shout.
"Stay in your seats!" she commanded hastily, making towards the door.
No one listened. Tom, quick on the uptake, was out into the corridor before many had so much as risen from their seats.
"Someone get a professor!" Ephiriam Longbottom called frantically from around the corner.
Within seconds, Tom had followed his voice to the source and found Ephiriam crouched in his hands and knees over the body of a seventh year boy. At first glance, the boy appeared to be dead, except his eyes were wide, his face frozen in a mask of surprise.
"What's wrong with him?" Tom asked, leaning in and bringing a hand to the boy's cheek. Completely rigid.
"I don't know- We were just looking out the window talking about the weather from the quidditch match tomorrow, when he froze and I bumped into him," Ephiriam explained in a rush. "Did you call for a professor?"
"No. Everyone within three floors must have heard you."
True to form, they were soon converged upon by dozens of curious students. Professor Darrow tried to fight her way through the barricade with little success.
"Out of my way! What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, still confined to the outskirts in part due to her short stature and feeble makeup.
"Woah, is he dead?" a audacious Hufflepuff girl asked, nudging him with her shoe. "He looks pretty deceased."
"I don't think he'll be playing in the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game this Friday, at any rate," another contributed.
"He's not dead," Tom cut in, brows furrowed.
"Bummer," Rabastan said. "He's a actually pretty good beater. It would be nice to thin down the competition."
"Give us space," Tom ordered coolly, pretending not to hear.
As if he'd shouted, as if he was the sole voice of authority in the corridor instead of the professor they were all studiously ignoring, they backed away. Professor Darrow rushed forward.
"You! Boy!" She rounded on gerbil-faced third year. "Fetch the Headmaster immediately! Professor Dumbledore, too! The rest of you, back to class!"
As the retinue grudgingly disbanded, Tom lagged behind.
"Is there anything more you need, Professor?" he asked, morphing his expression into one of concern. "Should I help you move him to the hospital wing?"
She spared Tom a single glance, earned solely out of the heartfelt affection she felt for the poor orphan that Tom had been sure to nurture those past several years. "No. This is dark, dark magic, Tom, though I can't draw any conclusion about what's done it. It's best not to move him until Albus arrives- oh, speak of the devil."
Dumbledore's robes flowed behind him as he rushed forward at a pace too harried to ever be mistaken for casual, the Headmaster at his heels.
"Let me see him," was all he said before bending low enough for his beard to graze the floor and muttering a long sequence of spells that seemingly had no effect.
"Well, Albus?" Armando Dippet asked tensely.
"It seems... that the boy has been petrified," Dumbledore revealed, his eyes flashing for a fraction of a second to absorb Tom.
"And?" Dippet pressed. "What can be done? Surely there's a cure? Who is behind this?"
"Alas, Headmaster, the answers to those questions are beyond even my knowledge. For now, we should remove him to the hospital wing where the nurse can observe him. She'll know better than I what can be done."
Dippet ran his fingers restlessly along his wand. "Yes, yes. Quite right, as always. Someone will have to tell the boy's parents. And I shudder to think what the school governors will have to say about this... that is a dozen letters I don't look forward to writing."
"I think the student's safety is slightly more important, Headmaster," Dumbledore said unaccusingly, conjuring up a stretcher wordlessly. "You'll need to write plenty more of those if this doesn't stop. I fear this may be related to the mysterious animal deaths around the castle. We're only lucky this time that the victim was only petrified. I can guarantee that would the worst letter of all."
"It will stop," Dippet replied adamantly. "It must. I'm sure this will all turn out to be some sort of accident. What could possibly be predating on students within castle walls?"
He laughed nervously, but Dumbledore only shook his head.
"I wish I shared your optimism, Headmaster."
"It was Slytherin!" Ephiriam blurted, then, realizing what he'd said, went a brilliant shade of magenta.
"I can assure you that it was not one of us," Tom intervened smoothly, giving Ephiriam a narrow-eyed look. He'd never fallen into House animosity before.
"Tom's right," Dippet agreed, brushing the prefect aside. "You can't go around accusing people without merit."
"He is our only witness, Headmaster." Dumbledore turned his piercing eyes on Ephiriam. "Please explain."
He loosed an almost imperceptible sigh. There were important things to be done, yet there he was, sitting through possibly his thousandth Charms lecture. It was hardly his fault it drove him to distraction; he'd learned everything he'd ever need to know on the subject by his third year. Who cared if he could make baubles blossom from nothing or a gentle stream erupt from his wand? Sometimes, he wished he could go back to the days when every aspect of every class had seemed so new and exciting.
But he couldn't, so he settled on half-listening to their lecture on the Homonculous Charm, while putting on an award worthy performance of feigning disinterest in Rabastan's crusade to balance as many torn pages from their textbook atop the professor's hat without her realizing. The trickiest part was managing to fly the parchment by the old bird without her noticing, rather than the actual balance portion. Twenty-two minutes later, the stack came crashing down, theoretically because the point of her hat couldn't take the weight of half a textbook worth of paper, earning Rabastan a week's worth of detention. He didn't actually get caught, per say, but Professor Darrow took one look at his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and decided to forgo any trials regarding his innocence.
Tom spent the rest of the period pretending to study his Charms text, which was, in fact, a book he'd stolen from the restricted section and rebound to look like the proper school required book, until, five minutes before they were to leave, a bizarre noise broke the monotony of Professor Darrow's drone.
A shout.
"Stay in your seats!" she commanded hastily, making towards the door.
No one listened. Tom, quick on the uptake, was out into the corridor before many had so much as risen from their seats.
"Someone get a professor!" Ephiriam Longbottom called frantically from around the corner.
Within seconds, Tom had followed his voice to the source and found Ephiriam crouched in his hands and knees over the body of a seventh year boy. At first glance, the boy appeared to be dead, except his eyes were wide, his face frozen in a mask of surprise.
"What's wrong with him?" Tom asked, leaning in and bringing a hand to the boy's cheek. Completely rigid.
"I don't know- We were just looking out the window talking about the weather from the quidditch match tomorrow, when he froze and I bumped into him," Ephiriam explained in a rush. "Did you call for a professor?"
"No. Everyone within three floors must have heard you."
True to form, they were soon converged upon by dozens of curious students. Professor Darrow tried to fight her way through the barricade with little success.
"Out of my way! What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, still confined to the outskirts in part due to her short stature and feeble makeup.
"Woah, is he dead?" a audacious Hufflepuff girl asked, nudging him with her shoe. "He looks pretty deceased."
"I don't think he'll be playing in the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game this Friday, at any rate," another contributed.
"He's not dead," Tom cut in, brows furrowed.
"Bummer," Rabastan said. "He's a actually pretty good beater. It would be nice to thin down the competition."
"Give us space," Tom ordered coolly, pretending not to hear.
As if he'd shouted, as if he was the sole voice of authority in the corridor instead of the professor they were all studiously ignoring, they backed away. Professor Darrow rushed forward.
"You! Boy!" She rounded on gerbil-faced third year. "Fetch the Headmaster immediately! Professor Dumbledore, too! The rest of you, back to class!"
As the retinue grudgingly disbanded, Tom lagged behind.
"Is there anything more you need, Professor?" he asked, morphing his expression into one of concern. "Should I help you move him to the hospital wing?"
She spared Tom a single glance, earned solely out of the heartfelt affection she felt for the poor orphan that Tom had been sure to nurture those past several years. "No. This is dark, dark magic, Tom, though I can't draw any conclusion about what's done it. It's best not to move him until Albus arrives- oh, speak of the devil."
Dumbledore's robes flowed behind him as he rushed forward at a pace too harried to ever be mistaken for casual, the Headmaster at his heels.
"Let me see him," was all he said before bending low enough for his beard to graze the floor and muttering a long sequence of spells that seemingly had no effect.
"Well, Albus?" Armando Dippet asked tensely.
"It seems... that the boy has been petrified," Dumbledore revealed, his eyes flashing for a fraction of a second to absorb Tom.
"And?" Dippet pressed. "What can be done? Surely there's a cure? Who is behind this?"
"Alas, Headmaster, the answers to those questions are beyond even my knowledge. For now, we should remove him to the hospital wing where the nurse can observe him. She'll know better than I what can be done."
Dippet ran his fingers restlessly along his wand. "Yes, yes. Quite right, as always. Someone will have to tell the boy's parents. And I shudder to think what the school governors will have to say about this... that is a dozen letters I don't look forward to writing."
"I think the student's safety is slightly more important, Headmaster," Dumbledore said unaccusingly, conjuring up a stretcher wordlessly. "You'll need to write plenty more of those if this doesn't stop. I fear this may be related to the mysterious animal deaths around the castle. We're only lucky this time that the victim was only petrified. I can guarantee that would the worst letter of all."
"It will stop," Dippet replied adamantly. "It must. I'm sure this will all turn out to be some sort of accident. What could possibly be predating on students within castle walls?"
He laughed nervously, but Dumbledore only shook his head.
"I wish I shared your optimism, Headmaster."
"It was Slytherin!" Ephiriam blurted, then, realizing what he'd said, went a brilliant shade of magenta.
"I can assure you that it was not one of us," Tom intervened smoothly, giving Ephiriam a narrow-eyed look. He'd never fallen into House animosity before.
"Tom's right," Dippet agreed, brushing the prefect aside. "You can't go around accusing people without merit."
"He is our only witness, Headmaster." Dumbledore turned his piercing eyes on Ephiriam. "Please explain."
Still looking like he'd suffered a rather severe sunburn, Ephiriam said, "I'm sorry, Tom. That's not what I meant. I just- well, some of the older students have been telling stories to frighten the younger ones, and it got carried away after people's pets started dying without signs of injury." He seemed to wither further with each successive word, as if realizing only now how ridiculous he sounded, yet resolved to push forward until the end. "And some students believe- not necessarily me- that the attacks may be coming from the... the Slytherin monster."
Though last words came free with a grimace, doubtlessly feeling the flaws in his accusation, they struck Tom differently. The animal attacks he had little doubt were connected to the serpent, and the fact that rumours were spiraling was no trifling matter, but it couldn't have had anything to do with this attack could it? Basilisk's were known for their lethality; he'd never heard of one petrifying someone before. Was it even possible?
He wasn't sure. Even if it was unheard of, how many other lethal creatures capable of such a thing lived within the castle walls? For once, he agreed with Dumbledore in that a student wasn't capable of such a thing, especially when they would have instantly been noticed by Ephiriam.
Armando Dippet spared Ephiriam a strained smile. "Those are just stories with no foundation in fact. Now, do your best to not to spread hysteria until we've gotten to the bottom of this."
After lifting the seventh year onto the stretcher with a silent spell, Dumbledore straitened and placed an aged hand on Ephiriam's shoulder. "Thank you for alerting us to these concerns. Please, return to class." Glancing over his half-moon spectacles at Tom, he added, "Both of you."
III
Ephiriam undeniably failed in preventing the spread of hysteria. Within moments, it seemed, the whole school knew about the attack, with varying degrees of accuracy. Some who had actually seen the body, and therefore should have known better, swore on tales of grisly murder, while others accused Peeves of his usual trickery, though none had any idea how the poltergeist could have pulled it off.
And then there was that other subgroup, the ones harping on about Slytherin's monster. Tom did his best to dissuade such rumours when he could, not that it did much good. Before days end, speculation was already spreading about the rest of the legend: Slytherin's heir.
Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or annoyed that he hadn't made the short list. Really, who thought that oaf of a Slytherin team captain had the brain cells required to discover the Chamber of Secrets? He barely had enough cognition to find his own lashes without poking his eyes out. Tom consoled himself with the fact that people didn't suspect him by his own design. If he was to be Head Boy, it wouldn't due to have a reputation as a common thug, or as a common anything, for that matter.
Still, he was going to make that infernal snake into Serpent Soup if he didn't cease its little rebellious phase. Tom was the master here, and he would not be jerked around by a mere beast, no matter how many centuries it had slept away.
He found Ophelia pacing outside the Slytherin Common Room, looking haggard and not knowing the password to get inside. Indeed, he heard her echoing steps on the cold stones long before he saw her.
"There you are!" She trailed to a stop. "Ephiriam told me about what happened."
Tom uttered the password, ushering her inside, before responding. "And? Is there a reason for this information or do you merely wish my congratulations on your ability to listen?"
He pointedly avoided looking in her direction as he slipped onto one of the long couches, feeling her ire needling into him from the entryway.
"I know you aren't stupid," she finally said, fisting her hands on her hips. "Is there really no reason, none at all, that you can think of as to why this might be a problem?"
Tom pushed away his own swirling thoughts to focus the full force of his annoyance on her. "I beg your pardon?"
"No need to beg," she assured, ignoring the dangerous lilt of his voice in favour of sarcasm. "Don't you think that some interested third parties might be behind this last attack?"
The worried look she tried to hide was what reminded him of the conversation he'd overheard between her and Dumbledore after one of the animal attacks. Of coarse, she thought Grindelwald was behind it.
"I really don't think your worries are founded," he said carefully, looking around to make sure they were alone.
"I really don't think you know who we're dealing with," she countered, matching his tone. "Dumbledore said it was Dark Magic. Who else could it be?"
"You aren't thinking clearly," he soothed calmly, not sure how to convince her without revealing his own unwitting involvement in the crime. "Sleep it over. In the morning you'll see the truth here. What does- he- have to gain from attacking some random Ravenclaw? How would he even get into the castle?"
"I don't know, I'm sure he'd think of something!"
"Certainly not your best argument," he sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
After such an eventful day, his patience was running thin, forcing him to work hard to not snap at Ophelia's misplaced concerns. If she knew what actually lurked within the castle walls, she'd be a tad more concerned. As things stood the odds of his house of cards coming crumbling down was looking worryingly possible, so maybe she would find out sooner rather than later.
No. He could not- would not- let that happen. Countless before had strived to find the Chamber- and failed. It was still safely hidden away, and safely hidden away it would remain. Tom would make sure of that.
The cushions beside him dipped sharply as Ophelia dropped into them, exhaling dramatically for effect. "You really don't think he did this?"
"Why would I say as much if I thought otherwise?"
"Some people lie to make others feel better," she said, her teasing tone making it clear what she actually thought about Tom's chances about lying to spare her feelings.
"I can promise you this: I will never lie to you for such a useless reason," he guaranteed.
"Isn't that just what everyone likes to hear?" she joked softly.
They went quiet for a time, languishing in the relative peace of the moment and uncertain when it might come again. Only when he felt a slight pressure on his shoulder did Tom deign to reopen his eyes to find Ophelia fast asleep. She had to be, for Tom could see no other situation where she'd wilfully leave herself so exposed.
After a moment, Tom knew he had to make his move, yet still he stalled for a minute longer. Two. Three Finally, he stood up to leave, carefully removing Ophelia's head from his shoulder and laying her out flat on the couch so as not to wake her. He wondered what she dreamed about, looking as troubled as she did, or if she dreamed at all. When she closed her eyes, did she see Grindelwald? Did she see the life she'd have if they were ever reunited?
Tom took a graceless, stumbling step back, and shook off the thought. What did it matter? It shouldn't. So why did want to keep her from Grindelwald? Tom didn't exactly disagree with the dark wizard's ambitions, after all.
Tom wasn't entirely stupid. He knew exactly why, and he hated himself for the weakness.
As stupid as he wasn't, he still didn't know how light a sleeper Ophelia proved to be from years on the run with her uncle, nor how light on her feet that had consequently made her, because she followed him out of the dungeons, through winding corridors, up several sets of stairs to the girl's bathroom, and finally down, deep within the school into the Chamber of Secrets.
A/N
You know what's always bothered me? If Colin creevy survived after seeing the Basilisk through the lens of his camera, wouldn't it make sense for moaning Myrtle to survive if she saw the Basilisk through her glasses? Maybe I'm missing something idk.
What do you all think? JKR I require answers.
On another note, (I dont think it's much of a spoiler at this point since I presume we've all read the books by now lmao) what do you think the boy looked through to see the Basilisk and not die? I don't really plan on going into it bc it's not really a big part of the story. Certainly Tom Riddle wouldn't care why he didn't die, but I did leave a hint of uncertain vagueness in the chapter. Other hint: not a puddle, mirror, or camera.
Final comment: the reason Dumbledore didn't say he knew how to undue the petrification when we know he knows it's the mandrakes in book 2 is because I'm taking liberties. Of course he'd know in book 2 because he'd already been through all that madness once before, but at this point I'm assuming it's never come up yet. This is his learning curve!