~oOo~
She had only just buttered her slice of toast when Tom arrived at breakfast. Professor Dumbledore made his way serenely to the staff table and, when his attention became absorbed by the morning's Daily Prophet, their eyes met for the briefest moment. The meaning was clear, so after a couple of bites she left as casually as possible.
Thankfully, at this hour, the dungeon corridor was empty. She walked slowly, waiting in an alcove when the gazes of the paintings' occupants started to become wary. After some time Tom's footsteps approached and they continued together to the snake carving, his calm expression sliding away as soon as the wall closed behind them.
"Dumbledore," he hissed, and for the first time she almost felt afraid of him.
"W-what happened?"
"Him. Always him. How does he do it? How?" She knew better than to re-iterate her question, and instead settled for running along behind as he strode down the stairs. Strangely enough, his destination was the dining room. He sat down heavily on the wooden bench – she followed suit for lack of alternative. Tom's moods frequently swung to extremes so it did not surprise her that, when he spoke again, it was with complete composure.
"I was halfway through the door when he came round the corner. I told him I was passing and heard a noise… he humoured me, but he didn't believe it. And why would I even be passing? Stupid. Now he's suspicious." She was silent for a while, because that usually seemed to be the best way to handle this sort of situation.
"It was coincidence, I suppose," she said eventually. "His office is right there. He doesn't know anything, so all we have to do is avoid further suspicion." Tom shrugged slightly, which she took as a form of agreement. "We just need a new plan to get you in there." In the quiet that followed, the rumbling of her stomach seemed comically loud; realising it as an opportunity to further placate Tom, she rummaged in her bag for a pair of familiarly-shaped boxes.
"Where did you get those?"
"They've stopped making them for a while, apparently," she said, trying to keep her smugness under control. "Because of the sugar rationing. I heard Parkinson telling the boys about it at dinner. Her darling Daddy sent her a whole crate in the post – took about a dozen owls to bring it in. I didn't think she'd miss a few."
Tom smiled, and it was very close to laughter; it was genuine, she thought, and therefore unusual. He swiped one of the boxes towards him across the table and then they both ate in silence.
Gondoline Oliphant (1720 – 1799) was a Welsh witch famous for studying the lives and habits of several species of troll. Unfortunately she was clubbed to death by a group of mountain trolls whilst on a sketching trip to the Cotswolds in 1799.
She shivered slightly, and not because of the cold – she had never quite got over her dislike of trolls. In fact, it was because of that incident that she had begun frequenting Myrtle's bathroom instead of the other one on the first floor. If it wasn't for the occurrence of far worse events in her later teenage years, she'd probably still be having nightmares about it now. Why had Quirrell even thought it necessary? Surely he could have just gone down the trapdoor unnoticed whilst everyone else was at the feast.
Whilst everyone else was at the feast.
"I've got it!" He looked at her like she'd gone mad, but since that was quite normal, she ignored it. "Halloween. The whole school will be at the feast… no one will even notice if we aren't there."
"You're not coming," he said, after a while.
"I absolutely am. And besides, wouldn't you prefer someone else to discover the basilisk first?" That was the end of the conversation; it was as much as needed to be said. Tom exhaled heavily through his nose in what she had come to take as a sign of defeat – or at least acquiescence – and stood up, pocketing his frog card.
"Let's practice for duelling club," he said, and, agreeing, she followed him into the main Chamber.
There were still several weeks until the thirty-first and they filled them by duelling and by getting to work cleaning and tidying the areas of the chamber that were currently accessible. It was Tom's suggestion, and though he was always immaculately clean and tidy, she somehow found it odd. Perhaps it was the thought of Voldemort doing any sort of manual labour – Tom, however, was clearly no stranger to it. She supposed they had chores at the orphanage, and moreover he probably enjoyed making her work, but she didn't really mind. The time passed amiably enough, autumn settling over the Highlands, until Halloween was upon them and it was time to put the fledgling plan into action.
~oOo~
On the thirty-first they worked in the library until the dinner bell went, narrowly avoiding being ushered all the way to the feast by the librarian. With the help of several dead ends and alcoves, they managed to waste ten minutes making their way unseen down to the first floor, by which time the sound of chattering had faded into the distance. Even Peeves, who always materialised at the worst possible moment, was off creating mischief elsewhere. Hermione opened the bathroom door quickly, glanced inside, and ushered him through.
The snake was small but clearly visible, embossed into the metal of one tap where it had no obvious reason to be. It didn't seem to be in the same style as the ones below, however, leading him to believe it was the work of a different person.
"Hurry," she said in an elevated whisper, startling him from the examination of the plumbing.
"Open."
Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that the entire floor would open up, requiring him to jump backwards away from the sink. Hermione came up next to him to peer over the edge, but there was only complete darkness below. The smell of stale water and slime filtered swiftly upwards and he grimaced.
"What do you think is down there?" she asked. Honestly, he was trying not to think about it. At best, it was filthy and wet. At worst, it was filthy and wet and contained a lethal monster. He calmed his expression.
"Well, you volunteered to go first. You can find out." He thought she would probably protest, now that it came to it, but she just took a nervous glance at the bathroom door. Evidently the desire not to get caught was stronger.
"What if we can't close it behind us?"
That was a good point. He hadn't considered it, assuming firstly that the whole thing might be a false alarm or secondly that it would be a disappearing wall like the other entrance. The pipe looked deep – if it went all the way to the chamber, which would seem sensible, it had to descend more than two floors. They couldn't risk having to leave it open.
"You go, then shout up. If you're a long way away, I'll seal it and go through the dungeons. They must join up somewhere. If not, I'll come back here at eight to let you out." She gulped, and this time he really expected a refusal.
"Impervius," was all she said, tapping her wand on her robes. Then she sat down on the edge of the pipe.
"Tom Riddle… if you leave me down there to die, I swear I'll come back and haunt you. I'll be worse than Peeves." Before he could point out that Peeves was a poltergeist and not a ghost she had lowered herself down and let go with a squeak. He couldn't help but be a little bit impressed at her nerve.
There was nothing but a muffled thumping sound for some time, and he found himself glancing between the pipe and the bathroom door nervously.
"Hermione?" He leant over the opening to speak, not wanting to shout too loudly. After what felt like another minor age, he heard her voice faintly.
"Tom?" She sounded small and distant, the pipe or the water lending an odd resonance. He really didn't fancy going down there – didn't fancy the slime, or the basilisk, or the idea of not being able to seal it shut again.
"I'm going around," he said, and then he replaced the sink without waiting for her reply.
He stayed away from the central staircase and entrance hall on the way down, but there was no option to avoid the main dungeon corridor in order to reach the snake carving. When he heard the approaching footsteps, there was absolutely nothing he could do. In the half second he had to consider it, he turned back around in the direction of the feast.
"Tom! You're late, my boy – that's not like you."
It was Professor Slughorn. Slughorn, who was late for everything. Of course he would be late to the feast, still walking up the dungeon corridor at quarter past the hour. Why hadn't he waited? Would there be an option to evade? He couldn't think fast enough, and all the while they were advancing on the entrance hall. His mind was blank, only screaming at him to avoid suspicion.
"Sorry, Professor," he said, "I haven't been feeling very well today. I lost track of time." His lie was shaky, poorly-executed, and wouldn't have fooled Dumbledore for a second. Thank heavens it was only dim-witted, amiable Slughorn he had to convince.
"Oh, bad luck! Bad luck. Still – no harm done."
"Actually, Sir, I thought I might go and see Nurse Jeffries." The Professor took a sideways glance at him as they walked as if appraising his condition.
"Nonsense! Nurse Jeffries will be at the feast. Anyway, I often find a good dinner puts me right." He patted the slight round of his stomach and Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he had never seen anyone eat as much as his Head of House.
They were crossing the entrance hall now. He was all out of ideas.
"Yes, Sir," he said, defeated.
~oOo~
She felt a bolt of terror flash through her as the sound of the sink moving reverberated down the pipe. There was something primal, perhaps, about being trapped in the dark – and it was dark. The air entering her lungs, chilly and full of damp, made the complete blackness somehow tangible. Shuddering, she waved her hand to produce a ball of light.
The tunnel was much as she remembered it, minus the evidence of the cave-in caused by Lockhart. No torches had been placed on the wall here, presumably because it was intended only for the basilisk. She took a deep breath and began to walk, thinking of how tremendously brave Harry had been to make this journey while the monster was still alive. When he was only twelve.
She pushed the thought down and told herself the familiar mantra; she was going to make a world where Harry would be safe and happy, with his family and friends, and only the Quidditch Cup to worry about.
The passageway was longer than she recalled – last time, they had probably been running. It was hard to remember now.
Finally she reached the entrance to the main chamber, and on this side, too, it was inconspicuous. Just bare metal. She realised that this was the first sign of Tom's alternate timeline: it could only have been him that had made this door more obvious and ornate. He had a flair for the dramatic and the impressive, she was beginning to notice, just like his ancestor. Not surprising given what she knew of Voldemort in her own time.
There was no snake carving on the door; the metal was entirely plain. She touched it, gingerly, but nothing happened. No magic jumped under her fingertips. Examining it more closely, no hinges were visible either – had they been on the other side? She didn't think so. Tom would have noticed that. She could form only one conclusion.
It wasn't, in fact, a door at all.
Frustrated, she banged on the metal lightly – then harder. It didn't give the slightest wobble or echo. How thick was it? She didn't fancy simply trying to blast it out of the way. Not when a simple backfiring memory charm had once caused a partial collapse of the tunnel. She banged even harder, wondering if Tom would hear and knock back, but stopped when her hands began to throb and ache.
It was cold even with a warming charm, and she couldn't keep one up forever, especially when she was tired and hungry and also had to maintain the light source. So she jogged up and down the tunnel, looking for another passage or carving, and when she grew too tired to jog she walked. When she grew too tired to walk she cast a cushioning charm on the ground beside the metal not-door and sat down to think.
When eight o'clock came, she dragged herself back to the bottom of the pipe and waited.
The sink stayed firmly in place.
~oOo~
Dippet's speech seemed to last forever, and then dinner dragged on and on, and then there was still pudding to sit through. Even though he was never part of the other students' conversation, he liked to eavesdrop because knowledge was power, after all – but tonight he barely heard the chatter. Eight o'clock came and went, and he felt for the first time ever a flicker of guilt. Where was Hermione? Had she found the basilisk? Was she still alive?
He noticed that, though he had contemplated her murder barely weeks ago, he found the thought of her death… unpleasant. It was probably because she had been so helpful with the cleaning and organising of the Chamber – it would have taken him twice as long on his own. And she had found another entrance, in a place he might never have visited.
While he lied frequently, and almost as a hobby, it was somehow annoying that Hermione would think he had lied about coming back to let her out. But he wouldn't be able to do it tonight, at all: he would be escorted back to his room, and locked in, and even if he could get out he couldn't possibly afford the risk of getting caught. She would just have to stay there until first thing in the morning.
"Hey, Tommy, where's your girlfriend?"
What if the only way out was back up the pipe? He couldn't very well wait until another feast to go back into the girls' bathroom. But he really didn't want to meet Dumbledore a second time… no. He would go into the dungeon entrance first. Maybe she had found a way through.
"Riddle? Riddle…! Look, Einar, I think he's daydreaming about her!"
The chorus of cruel laughter jolted him out of his thoughts. Several faces, including Lestrange and Fudge, were staring at him.
"I said, where's your girlfriend?" It was Malfoy that had been speaking, to the rapture of the gaggle of girls sat to either side of him. He blinked several times in a tremendous effort to keep calm and look unaffected.
"If you mean Granger, I've no idea." Malfoy looked somewhat irked not to have got more of a rise out of him. After a small pause, the girl to his left – Yaxley – began to speak in a stage-whisper.
"Maybe she's in the hospital with another of those mudblood diseases." There was a scattering of chuckles, and Malfoy smirked.
"Perhaps. That's what you get for associating with muggles… you'd know about that, eh, Tommy?"
His fingers fought the urge to tighten around the stem of the goblet he was holding and his eyes fought the urge to narrow. At that moment the remains of the dessert disappeared from the plates and everybody began to get to their feet.
"I'd watch it if I were you, Malfoy. One day, your father might not be around to save you." He swept off to find Professor Slughorn before the shorter boy could make a response.
~oOo~
A minute passed, then ten, then an hour. The air seemed to become colder and damper until she felt that it had formed an icy lump in her chest. She couldn't think what to do – try to get back up the pipe? Try to break into the main chamber? Sit and wait for Tom to return?
He must have got caught. It was the only explanation; though he was hardly trustworthy, she did not believe that he would really abandon her deliberately. She was too useful, and he wanted to know what was down here too much. But if Tom had got caught, he wouldn't be able to return until morning, and even then it would be difficult for him to get into the girls' bathroom.
After yet another brief jog up and down the tunnel she was worn out, and this time the cold was quicker to return. She sat down, curled into a ball to conserve warmth and allowed the light to dim. Not for the first time, she wished for a better plan. She'd had weeks to plan this! She'd known what was down here. Somehow she had imagined simply opening the metal door and that being that. It was a stark reminder of how easy it was for her to fail, even with all of her extra knowledge. How Salazar – the younger version, at least – would laugh if he knew. It was like the day Tom had killed her all over again.
Salazar.
Her hand jumped to the cat pendant, ever-present since the day he had gifted it to her. She would touch it often even now, always comforted to know it was there. Should she call him? Would he even come? Was it worth the derision she might receive?
She thought of how nice it would be to talk to him; of how little she wanted to spend the night down here freezing and alone… and she clasped the silver cat tightly.
"Salazar?" And then, in a smaller voice, just in case it only worked with the name he had originally given, "…Z-zorion?"
~oOo~