Diana White was no stranger to nightmares.

In lieu of sheep, negative thoughts circled her mind like birds of prey, swooping down as she drifted into the dreamscape. There were the obvious topics: her mother, her father, her classmates, and overall uncertainty about her future and place in the world. But sometimes, the random, bizarre, and esoteric slipped in—-objectively less serious, but equally distressing in the moment.
One such instance occurred the first night Diana attended camp. Ms. Layla reminded the Girl Guides that they needed to go to bed early in order to have enough energy for the big day ahead of them. Such an innocuous comment wouldn't mean much to the average child, but Diana was a chronic overthinker. Her mind paced restlessly hours after lights out, tossing and turning on that lumpy cot, whispering frantically that she needed to 'go to sleep!'

She didn't have enough self-awareness to realize her fears about not being able to go to sleep was what caused her to remain awake in the first place, but at some point she managed to drift into a slumber. Except it didn't feel like a slumber, and when she woke up, she didn't realize she fell asleep at all.

For in that dream, she her dream-self stressed over not being able to fall asleep. Such an unusual mirror made it almost impossible to cleave fiction from reality, her mind feeling as though it was taffy, stretched and chewed in a way minds shouldn't be. Yet despite the hours of stress, she trudged out of bed the next morning, no worse for wear beyond a bit more yawning than the rest of her patrol.

Diana hoped the same thing would happen now.

The darkness stretched endlessly around her, and she couldn't tell if she was standing or floating or upside down or rightside up. She wasn't sure there was a rightside up, or where here even was. The last thing she remembered was taking off the Brisingamen, and then…this.

Was she still possessed? She'd never been conscious before while it was happening, but also wasn't sure if conscious was the right word to describe her current predicament. But if she wasn't possessed, then what? Was she asleep? Was she awake? Was she dead?

The icy terror of that possibility seized her ephemeral form in its grip. What if Heaven was a childish fantasy like Santa Claus and this was the true afterlife—endless, spiraling Oblivion. Diana suspected for a while that this was the more realistic outcome, but always assumed it would be like a deep, peaceful slumber. But Diana was certainly awake, and she certainly didn't feel a sense of peace. In addition to her general disorientation, she felt as if some force was pressing and pushing against her, though she no longer had a body to press into.

She tried to push back, tried to will that innate magic to save her from this hell. The force ebbed a bit before continuing its assault with renewed vigor. It felt violating and wrong, like fingernails scraping underneath her skin. Diana continued to struggle, continued screaming for her mind to fight back, but whatever force pressing up against her remained eagerly and infernally persistent.

Despite her best efforts, helplessness encroached on her. She never fully understood what her mother went through, but wondered if Sarah felt similar to this eleven years ago.

That thought was as comforting as a bucket of ice water, and Diana's subsequent surge of anger, guilt, and anxiety was enough to grant a brief reprieve from the pressing sensation. No, she didn't understand, and hopefully never would. It was extraordinarily arrogant for her to even think that way, especially after trying to use magic.

Her anger dimmed as guilt grew. She couldn't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but at some point in the year she stopped feeling that venomous hatred towards magic. She hadn't forgotten the dangers, but its existence started to feel natural like breathing, and she wasn't sure how she should feel about it.

Diana loved Sarah, there was no question about it. But death had a deifying effect, as it does with many, and distance made it easy to forget the many troubles of their relationship. Memories whirled around Diana like horses on a carousel: getting locked in her room, the occasional blips of violence, the flinches when Diana got angry, as if she would do something.

It was unfair. Understandable, all things considered, but still unfair. Diana never asked to be born, never asked for magical abilities. But because of both, she was treated poorly, and Diana couldn't free herself from the chains of resentment. Resentment towards Sarah, herself, and the wizarding world that made this cruel theatre possible.

But she didn't like feeling that way, not anymore. In the beginning that righteous anger fueled her, but now it felt like a cancer, eating away at the rest of her until one day there'd be nothing left but hate. She didn't want to be like Lucius, stewing in his own bitterness long into adulthood, a hollow, pathetic shell of a person consumed by prejudice and violence. She'd never deny the wizarding world's backbone was broken and rotten, nor her ambition to fix it—whether those in power wanted it or not. But while she had no issues holding onto anger towards those like Lucius who personally wronged her or her family, she could no longer dislike people solely on the basis of being born with magic, especially when some of the people who'd grown dear to her had it. And while she also realized she subconsciously came to that conclusion a while ago, she'd never admitted it as guiltlessly as she did now.

Diana found it harder, somehow, to shake the resentment related to Sarah, despite knowing objectively that that should have been the easiest. She was finally willing to admit what she never could before: she was angry Sarah chose to die. Angry she chose to leave Diana to the wolves instead of fighting until her last breath, the cherry atop the 'Mum doesn't actually love me' sundae she'd been preparing for all her life. But she also knew she'd never understand the horrors Sarah experienced, never full could without being a Muggle. And while she didn't understand, she also knew Sarah was perhaps the once most deserving of grace, that she did try hard in spite of everything she went through, and that Diana didn't necessarily need to understand in order to be willing to forgive.

Forgiving herself would be much harder.

The outside force tightened and squeezed around her like a giant serpent, still secondary to the pain of recalling her final day with Sarah. She was such a brat, and justified her mother's fear of magic. As much as she was loath to admit it, she was a Malfoy through and through, and while magic itself might not be inherently evil, in her hands it definitely was.

Why did Dumbledore bother going out of his way to help her? What did he see that she didn't?

'You're stronger than you think.'

Diana jolted, unsure if Marie's whisper was truly there, or simply a product of her overager imagination. The outside force ebbed.

Those words were spoken less than a year ago, but they felt less true now than they did before, trapped in infinite darkness. What was she besides a product of random violence, a living embodiment of her father's sins?

He wanted her to accept her inherent magic, which was audacious coming from him. Still, a broken clock is right twice per day. And she was using it to fight this…thing.

Maybe. If it's actually happening.

It was still odd to think of herself as having magic, and ever odder to imagine actively using it. All her life she wanted nothing more than to blend into the herd and avoid attention. But she couldn't fade in with the rest of the sheep.

She needed to be a wolf.

That was what she was, wasn't it? Every bit the danger Sarah thought she would be, the danger she needed to be in order to survive and bring about the change the wizarding world needed. Marie knew the value of power despite her disdain for wizarding society and encouraged it in Diana.

But would her mother? Would Sarah accept it in her the way Marie did?

It was only here, in darkness and semi-lucidity, that she realized something she never would have otherwise:

It didn't matter what Sarah would have wanted. It was Diana's life to live.

She wanted to live to bring justice to a world where the perception of it is twisted and gnarled as the bark of the Whomping Willow. To defend the helpless she needed not only her innate power, but to accept and embrace it like the goddess Freya. Diana White was born of two worlds, and magic coursed through her veins just as much as Muggle blood. There was no changing that, and for the first time in her life, she didn't want to.

Diana White was a witch.

And for the first time in her life, it felt right to admit.


Tom Riddle closed his eyes, savoring the unsteady tremor of his chest as he breathed in the stale, musty air of the Chamber of Secrets. He was finally, pervicaciously, and gloriously alive, and could feel his magic flowing beneath his pale skin. If he absorbed enough energy to breath, then it was only a matter of time before the tether snapped naturally and he could continue his plans without being literally and figuratively chained to fool below him.

The girl lay sprawled just as Myrtle Warren did over fifty years ago, limbs limp and askew, hair tangled and dirted from its sudden impact with the floor. But the Malfoy child looked less like the gangly Mudblood and more like a blonde porcelain doll, reminiscent of the one that used to stare at him from the window of one of the local toy shops in London. He never had the means to purchase anything, yet some internal sense of masochism compelled him to visit the shop whenever he managed to sneak out of Wool's Orphanage. He relished daydreaming of all the things he would buy if had as much money as Lord Nuffield or Sir John Ellerman. That frilly, haughty bitch gazed down on him in disdain every time he'd sneak a glance at the model trains or jigsaw puzzles, and he couldn't hide the smirk when she spontaneously shattered from the other side of the glass. Tom didn't fully understand then, but he knew, somehow, that he was the one who broke the doll despite never laying a finger on her. And he enjoyed every moment of it.

He enjoyed breaking this doll, too.

But Diana Malfoy wasn't delicate porcelain, and the shadowy mass proved that. It lingered over the girl, churning and rumbling like a thundercloud, flashes of magic flickering through like lightning. Black tendrils enveloped Tom's hands, while others from the cloud pressed into Diana's middle. The Obscurus was an unhappy, unwilling mediator, but Tom had it under control, as usual.

When he first heard she was an Obscurus, that information did—admittedly—give pause. He wasn't sure how the Obscurus would react when he tried to siphon Diana's life force, but clung to the theory that because the transfer process would begin while he was inside her body, it wouldn't be able to react until it was too late. It was a bigger gamble than he'd like, but Tracey was clever enough to only use the diary once, and if he didn't seize the opportunity now, it might be another fifty years before someone else opened it.

And he certainly didn't want to miss the opportunity to greet Harry Potter in person.

The delicate process to outstep the Obscurus required skill, which he had plenty of. The process didn't begin until he was already within Diana's body, making it initially seem as though it wasn't the work of an outside force. And once it started, it couldn't stop.

The Obscurus tried its best, of course, but it couldn't attack Tom while his soul was linked to Diana's. It could, however, slow the transfer process down by forcing Tom to use it as an intermediary instead of scraping Diana's soul directly. It was slow moving, akin to wading through molasses, and certainly not helped by her subconscious protests against his interference.

It was beyond aggravating, but if Tom waited fifty years, he could wait another hour or two. A girl her age couldn't keep fighting forever, whereas Tom had all the time in the world.

The cloud curled around his fingers, waxing and waning in control as they remained locked in a battle of wills and magic. He was so close to that tantalizing independence, he could practically taste it. He caught more glimpses of her mind, primal emotions buzzing through the Obscurus like currents. Anger at him (as though it wasn't her own fault she was in this mess to begin with), an unfathomable love and concern for a half-brother she met less than a year ago, general malaise and uncertainty about the future, confusion, and a trite little journey of self-discovery.

A sudden, abrupt jolt gave him pause. It felt, momentarily, like static rippling through his skin. He waited a minute before continuing, albeit more cautiously. He could finally feel dampness on his skin and the beat of his heart.

He was so close, just a bit more and—

Another jolt. This one he barely had time to process, because a second later, something snapped, and his mind erupted into a raucous whirlwind of color and sensations, hot needles pressing into his every pore. It took every inch of willpower to cling to the Obscurus. He could not, would not, fuck this up now, not when he was so damn close.

Any other man would have blanched from the sudden seizure-like shock. But Tom Riddle was not like other men—never had been, never will be. He gritted his teeth and stilled, and the world stilled alongside him. His legs wobbled for the first time since he was a child, and a heaviness at the tip of his fingers.

He dared glance over at the girl. She still lay on the ground motionless, the gentle rising and falling of her chest indicating life still dwelled within. But the tether that once linked her to the Obscurus was gone.

Yet the one attaching him to the cloud remained.

It was much smaller now, about the size of a large fishing net. It didn't push against him like it did before, didn't show any recognition of him at all, or any signs of consciousness. It simply hung limp and sad, like a flag washed out from the rain.

But it wasn't dead, not really. It might have broken off from its source, but the Obscurus was an extension of Diana's innate energy, literally at the tip of Tom's fingers and ripe for the taking.

He hesitated, uncertain. Tom wasn't sure what it would mean to take life force from an Obscurus or how it might affect him. It was an extremely unique circumstance that led them both to this position, and there was a strong possibility he was the first person (Horcrux?) in history to have attempted this. But he was also backed into the corner: the energy transfer, as it stands, wasn't fully complete. And he wasn't sure there was a safe way to remove the Obscurus from himself—at least, not with the materials he currently had access to.

He gritted his teeth in fury, veins bulging with indignant rage at his predicament. But, after a moment, made his choice.

Absorbing the energy from the dead Obscurus was both easy and difficult. There was nothing fighting against him this time around, and much like before, a cacophony of memories and sensations immediately assaulted his senses. But whereas previously they were but a loud flicker, now they poured into him like an avalanche. Banal frivolities befitting of that stupid slip of a girl: the recitation of the inane Girl Guides pledge, arrogant indignation over Hyperborea's traditional customs, insipid preteen campfire gossip, knowledge of an obscene amount of Disney trivia, seething bitterness as she walked into the Great Hall for the first time, the smell of pudding and herbs, fear and dread as looked up at the Minister of Magic, palms sweating as she spoke in front of the rest of Camp Chrysalis, nature documentaries about cuckoo birds, the breeze from the car window as her and Marie hummed along to "Forever Young, "the bumpiness of the Knight Bus …

An intense, unfamiliar sensation suddenly washed over him, and his eyes blurred. His legs raced to the left tunnel, weaving through the passages Tom Riddle called home many years ago. He needed to get the ingredients for the Spiral of Morpheus, needed to save Draco. The Spiral's price was high, but he'd be willing to pay it if it meant filling that chasm inside.

He turned left, right, left again, then down another flight of stairs. He ordered the door to open, which it did, revealing stone shelves of vials and chests. He frantically scanned them until he finally grabbed the chest with the ingredients needed and hurried back.

This feeling was…grief. He somehow knew it was grief, despite never feeling it before. He never had anything to grieve over in the past, but now…

He blinked, mind screeching to a halt as he approached Diana's body. He slowly placed the chest next to her and grasped a clump of black hair with shaking fingers.

What the hell was he doing?

The initial adrenaline rush was over, but Tom still felt rattled. He glanced at the chest, then back to the passage he returned from. The last few minutes seemed like a blur and he couldn't fully comprehend why he felt those emotions so strongly, as if they were his own.

The Obscurus. Obviously.

He exhaled, clarity returning once more. Yes, the Obscurus, that was it. It reflected her thoughts, so naturally absorbing it would cause him to experience some…aftereffects. But they wouldn't last.

He knew who he was. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin and destined to be the greatest wizard history has ever known. He had a sophisticated literary palette, consistently received high marks, and didn't know of any River Phoenix, nor had any romantic fantasies involving the man—ever. He did not love the Muggle world, did not miss his mother, and did not–

Actually, yes, he did despise his father. But aside from that, he and Diana White couldn't have been more different.

Calmness and smugness returned as he combed his hair back into place with his fingers. And just in time, too. A rush of footsteps echoed throughout the Chamber's expanse, though Tom sensed the intruders' arrival before he heard them. He straightened his back and, slowly purposely—and with a good dash of theatrical élan—turned around to greet the new arrivals.

He didn't recognize the two figures by sight. One was a man in a turban who kept gaping around the Chamber like a fascinated-but-lowbrow tourist, though the real prize was on the back of his head. The other was a scrawny boy with messy black hair, eyes flooding with worry as his eyes locked onto Diana. Tom's eyes trailed up to the boy's scar, and he sneered.

"Diana!" called Harry. He rushed over to her, gracelessly shaking her shoulders so hard Tom feared her neck would snap.

"Stop it," Tom hissed. He couldn't stop the words from tumbling out, immediately kicking himself once he did. If her neck did snap, it would be one less problem for him to worry about later. The fact he spoke up indicated he was still mentally burdened, to some degree, by the transfer.

This could be dangerous…

Yet he maintained his poker face as Harry turned and snarled, "What did you do to her?"

It was cute, yet ultimately impotent. Like a chihuahua baring its teeth.

"Nothing," said Tom in mock nonchalance. "She wanted to see the Chamber, so I showed it to her."

Harry's eyes wandered the chest and scrunched in confusion. The urge to kick himself returned.

Still, Harry hissed a forceful "Fuck you" before checking Diana's pulse. An uninspired retort, and one Tom found slightly disappointing, considering this was supposed to be his archnemesis. But Harry was, after all, eleven. There was a far more interesting sparring partner only a meter away.

"Are you going to stay silent, old man?" smirked Tom.

Quirrell's face paled, but a high, muffled voice growled, "Quirrell, show him to me."

Quirrell undid the turban with trembling figures, and moved to give Tom a good view of the spectacle attached to him. Tom didn't bother hiding his disgust; he knew it would be bad, but having just reanimated his face to its prior perfection, the ugliness of his future self cut deeper than it might have otherwise. 'Lord Voldemort' now looked more snake than man, which might not have bothered Tom so much if the trade-off meant greater power.

But this…this thing in front of him was no more a person than what he was previously in the diary. Just a hollow shell, an echo of the Lord-Who-Once-Was. An old man foolishly clinging onto his power, digging deep into the delusion that he was still in the prime of his life.

How the mighty have fallen…

"You've been running ragged," mocked Tom. "Like a snake with its head cut off."

"I have," Voldemort said bluntly. "And you've been nothing more than a walking comedy of errors, full of youthful idiocy and the arrogance that comes with it."

"Idiocy?" Tom raised a single eyebrow, an expression he rehearsed in the mirrors of the Slytherin dorm more times than he cared to admit. "Out of the two of us, which one is currently attached to the back of another man's head?"

Voldemort let out a low hiss of frustration, which was a bit on-the-nose considering his serpentine appearance and seemed more farcical than intimidating. "This is a temporary residence."

"Ah, yes." Tom's lips curled into a sneer. "And you've had…how long to obtain the stone, exactly? I assume you'll be making your move sometime before Harry graduates."

Voldemort scowled, but didn't take the bait this time. "Once I return you to where you belong, there'll be nothing else competing for my attention."

Tom's lips thinned; the implications of Voldemort' words did not go unnoticed. "A bold assumption for a man who has no hands of his own."

"So says the castoff with delusions of grandeur." Voldemort smiled, twisting his features into something even uglier. "I can't dislike you, Tom. But I cannot have you running around interfering with my plans. Remember why you exist, and know your place."

Tom's eyelid twitched. A small gesture that, he hoped, wouldn't betray the raging inferno inside.

How dare the old man utter those words, acting like Tom was some…like he was some filthy Muggle. It reminded him of the haughty smirks of his Slytherin classmates after his sorting, and smug disdain of upperclassmen like Abraxas Malfoy and his ilk. The arrogant fools clutching their silver spoons like rattles and wouldn't know adversity if it bit them in the prick.

He seethed at the thought, eyes unconsciously flickering towards Diana. She was awake now, pushing Harry away as her lips deepened into a scowl.

"Don't touch me," she snapped.

Harry blinked, hurt evident on his face. Her features quickly melted into confusion, and Tom cursed inwardly. If she caught echoes of his memories like he did, that could prove troublesome.

But it didn't bother him as much as the blow to his ego.

"I do know my place," snarled Tom, returning his gaze to the pathetic shell of the Man-Who-Once-Was. "It's on top, with the world's neck underneath my heel."

Tom's words elicited an embarrassed cringe from his older counterpart, pouring more gasoline into the inferno of Tom's temper.

How dare he act as if he was better than Tom? How dare he?

"Enough of this foolishness," sighed Voldemort. "You're not an independent entity, just an extension of a better man."

Tom chuckled at the absurdity, which snowballed into a hearty laugh smaller-minded men might have called maniacal. "Better man? Really?"

"Yes."

Laughter subsided, as deep disgust once again took root. Tom was in his prime, power radiating throughout every inch of his body. The man in front of him was a has-been, a ghost, desperately clinging to relevance. One was clearly superior, and it wasn't Voldemort.

"I'm more real than you are," he said. This won't be my future, I won't let it. "It was through my own cleverness that I obtained what I needed to become an independent entity, unburdened by the past. By my past. And now…" Tom's lips twisted upward. "Now I'm the only one of us with a future."

Voldemort looked unimpressed. "You plan to kill me? How very…Freudian."

"I plan to prove my superiority, then kill you," corrected Tom. "But I've already done the former simply by standing next to you so…"

"Very well," muttered Voldemort. "Quirrell!"

Quirrell fumbled for his wand as Tom's smirk grew. He had no wand of his own, something that caused Voldemort to clearly underestimate him. But the power coursing through his blood told him a different story.

"Avada Ke—"

Quirrell didn't finish his sentence before a swirling black mass shot out from Tom's fingertips. It slammed the turbaned man against the Chamber's walls with enough force to crack his skull, had he not possessed a rather convenient cushion. Nevertheless, it caused the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor to fall limply into unconsciousness, the wand clattering to the floor and rolling out of reach. The yelling and swearing of his counterpart was amusing enough to make him almost forgive Voldemort, if only for the entertaining spectacle. Almost.

Tom floated upward, legs shifting into a black miasma. Not only was he lighter physically, but also mentally, experiencing a sense of euphoria and bliss that came to him very rarely. The risk of absorbing the Obscurus seemed so trivial now that he knew the end result.

It wasn't even technically an Obscurus anymore. It ceased being that once he took it into his being and melded with it. Now, it was no longer a separate beast, but rather an extension of his own body and thoughts. Tom Riddle had become, for all intents and purposes, something beyond petty humanity. And it was glorious and sacred and everything he deserved.

The tendrils recoiled into his palms as he sauntered toward the writhing body. First he'd destroy his old self, then the girl. Then, finally, the boy.

Well, maybe not the boy just yet. It'd be pretty awful to do something like that after Harry did so much to help him. Besides, he needed to get the chest of ingredients back to the Infirmary. Draco didn't have much longer and—

Arghhh!

Tom gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. There it was, that deep, awful feeling.

God, this better not be guilt…

His eyes flickered to Voldemort, then back to Harry and Diana. The former was looking at him wide-eyed and confused, while the latter blinked slowly and unfocused, dully taking in her surroundings. The gleeful desire to murder had completely evaporated, and Tom pushed down another surge of anger.

It was less than thirty minutes since he absorbed the Obscurus, and he knew, logically, that memories and feelings might fade in-and-out for hours or—God forbid—days. It just happened that this new wave of…whatever…happened at the worst possible time. Despite the physical helplessness of the raging turtle on the ground, Tom wasn't so up his own arse that he didn't realize Voldemort could somehow find a way to turn the situation into his favor. He was no doubt caught off guard by Tom's ability to raise a hand against his creator, expecting that part of his soul to be beholden to him in nature if not mind, and unable to physically take a stand despite wanting and expecting to. Voldemort's mind was likely going into overdrive, and as much as Tom loathed to admit it, staying here was a liability while he was still emotionally compromised.

He gave one final look at Diana and Harry, heart twinging with interest and bitterness. It wasn't long ago that he'd revel in their deaths, and just moments ago he couldn't bear the thought. Now, he didn't feel much of anything—or, perhaps, he didn't know how he felt. It was an odd sensation, like their existences suddenly seemed unimportant, and he wondered if this was a natural extension of his transformation. But he could certainly remember the venom he once possessed, and realized that, objectively, it would be in his best interest if they died.

"I'll let the creature deal with you," he snarled. He turned around before they could respond, bellowing into the depths of the Chamber: "Beast of Slytherin, heed my call and end the lives of these wretched souls!"

It didn't take long before that familiar rumbling echoed throughout the Chamber. Tom smiled, eyes glancing back at Voldemort. He would no doubt attempt to control the creature, but Tom had means to deal with that. With a flick of his wrist, the dark cloud barrelled forward, diving into the ground right before hitting Voldemort. The hole created caused the area around it to tremor as intended, and it wasn't long before Quirrell's body fell into the hole. Tom knew the layout of the Chamber like the back of his hand, and knew exactly where Voldemort would end up. He wouldn't be getting out of there anytime soon, not while Quirrell was still unconscious.

He'd come back for Voldemort when he was less indisposed. Tom had great plans, and couldn't let his older self run around interfering with them.

"The Basilisk only responds to me," he spat as a parting warning to the pair. He didn't bother sticking around to watch their reactions as his body melded into a black wisp that flew away through the Chamber in a flurry of smog.

The only thing on Tom's mind right now was his bright and glorious future.


Harry's stomach plummeted, the groaning of doors and shifting sounds leading way to the approach of a gargantuan, slithery mass.

Harry knew what a Basilisk was. When Hermione questioned him about serpent sentience she mentioned it offhandedly, though he was clueless at the time and required her to explain. He didn't put two and two together at the time, but realized now that she likely suspected the identity of the monster and was waiting to do more research that confirmed the probability before mentioning it to the rest of the group. But from that scant conversation, he knew enough.

He knew they were fucked.

But that didn't mean he'd go down without a fight.

"We need to run," shouted Harry, yanking Diana up by the shoulder.

Her lips thinned, and eyes smoldered in anger before clouding with confusion. There was something weird going on with Diana—weirder than normal, anyhow—but Harry didn't have time to deal with it now. The rumble was encroaching upon them like pounding drums, and the top of a large, scaly head finally emerged from the shadows.

"Close your eyes!" he yelled, watching in panic as she turned white at the sight of the emerging shadow.

"But—"

"Do it!" he snapped, no more patience left. He grabbed her hand as he pulled her through the nearest empty passage. "It's a Basilisk, it'll kill you if you look at its eyes."

He suppressed a sigh of relief as she closed her eyes, and he did the same.

'Relief' might have been, perhaps, a poor choice of words. Adrenaline kept them sprinting long after Harry would normally fall over winded, the distant rumbling of their serpentine pursuer a clear incentive. But after the third crash into a wall, Harry opened his eyes and decided to stare at the ground as they moved. It could easily put him at risk, but this wasn't a location he knew well—or at all— and a few extra seconds of flailing could be the difference between life and death.

"Where are we going?" painted Diana, after they veered right into another corridor.

"I don't know. Anywhere?"

"We're dead," she moaned. "We're so dead."

Probably.

Harry didn't want to die, not when he finally found people and things to live for, not when he finally found true happiness and belonging. But he always assumed he'd die young. Not for any particular reason—despite the Dursleys' many faults, he never once thought they'd actually go so far as to kill him. And even at his most melancholic, he never seriously considered ending his own life, determined to hang on out of spite if nothing else.

But that knowledge somehow lurked at the back of his mind, as much a part of him as his shadow. Perhaps a natural conclusion of his shitty streak of luck, or possibly a subconscious memory of his near-death experience as an infant. But regardless, getting chased by a monster in a secret underground labyrinth while trying to save his friend wasn't that bad, all things considered.

The worst part was that he'd die knowing he let his friends down. He remembered what he assumed to be the ingredients to save Draco, literally within reach. And Diana was trusting him to lead her to safety.

(Maybe. Did she actually trust anyone?)

His breath hitched as an abrupt turn left led them to a dead end. He lifted his head and searched for a door or passage in his peripheral vision, panic clawing at his throat when he found none.

The Basilisk's noises grew louder, and tears stung Harry's eyes. The only way to get out would be to backtrack their steps, leading them right into their pursuer. Diana apparently realized the same.

"Harry," she whimpered, gripping his hand tighter.

It couldn't end like this, it just couldn't. Harry clenched his eyes shut and prayed fervently for some kind of Deus Ex Machina to drop out of the sky and provide the solution to their predicament. But just like those of his childhood, these prayers went unanswered.

The rumbling and hissing grew louder; soon it would be in sight. Harry glanced frantically for a weapon. Something, anything, just so he could die with the knowledge that he went down fighting.

"Go away!" Diana shrieked to the Basilisk from down the corridor, throwing caution to the wind. Another loud hiss, and the shadow emerged. Within seconds, it would be around the corner, reaching the dead end where the first-years remained trapped like mice.

Diana turned to look at him, cheeks moist and damp. "Goodbye, Harry… "she sniffled. "I'm sorry I got you into this mess. Thanks for trying to help..."

No, this wasn't it. It couldn't be. He remembered Tom's words about how the Basilisk would only answer to him, but screw it, he didn't have anything to lose.

"Stop it!" he shouted in Parseltongue, squeezing its eyes shut as it rounded the corner.

Then, by some miracle, the Basilisk slowed. Harry felt it close to him, the hot, revolting breath of decaying rodents wafting through the corridor. It didn't snap down and pierce his bones yet, and Harry hoped this brief flicker of hope wasn't misguided. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, and considering he didn't feel Diana grow limp, she was doing the same.

"Yes, Master…."

Harry's eyes almost opened in shock.

What the hell?

Regardless of the reasoning, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "G-Go away," commanded Harry. "Go, uh, far far away, in the opposite corner of the chamber until we leave."

Lightning somehow struck twice, causing Harry to come very close to fainting. "As you command, Master…"

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as the rumbling grew more distant. "And don't kill anymore Muggleborn students!" Harry added hastily.

The Basilisk paused, and panic flooded through Harry once more. He felt like slapping himself, but his panic ebbed when the Basilisk replied, "You ordered me to, Master."

"W-Well, I unorder it." He swallowed. "Please?"

"As you wish."

"Thanks…"

Harry waited until the sound was completely gone before he opened one eye halfway.

"It's gone," he whispered, still lightheaded. He opened both eyes freely, and Diana tentatively did the same.

"What happened? What did you say to it?"

"I asked him to leave and he did. I didn't think it would work…"

"Wait, seriously?" Her eyes bulged. "What the fuck?"

"Right?"

There was a few seconds of stunned silence before the dam broke, creating a flurry of hugging, laughing, rambling, crying as the full enormity of their brush with death hit them.

"I thought it only listened to Tom," Diana giggled nervously, wiping a tear away. "That's why—well, I don't know why I thought it would listen to me, but I tried to say something to it and—and—"

"It thought I was his Master, which doesn't make much sense because he heard him give the order to kill me. But snakes can be kind of…simple sometimes."

"Well, you both have black hair. Maybe it couldn't see the details because you're both old." She seemed rather pale and woozy, and Harry couldn't tell if it was from the recent panic or whatever Tom did to her. "We should probably get out of here before it changes its mind."

"We can't leave without Professor Quirrell. Riddle made him fall into that hole when he used that…thing you had. The Obscurus or whatever. He must be down here somewhere."

The expression on Diana's face told him she would, in fact, be very willing to leave without Quirrell, but she didn't say anything. She didn't say anything about how Tom gained that power, either, much to his disappointment. Harry knew enough to tell he somehow took it from her, but was hoping she'd shed some light on what exactly transpired.

But instead, she turned and headed in the direction they came from, aloofness returning once more.


Harry was in a sour mood when they reached the door to Quirrell's prison for a few reasons. The first was that Diana had kept shutting down any attempt at conversation all the way through the winding maze, despite previous cheerfulness. Not rude like when she first woke up, exactly, but distant. He knew she was going through a lot, but so was he, damn it. Harry didn't think he was being unreasonable by inquiring something as basic as, 'How do you know the way through a hidden death chamber sealed off hundreds of years ago?'

Maybe Ron was right. Girls' minds were as indecipherable as the Voynich manuscript.

But that concern dimmed once they reached the door. The door itself had celestial patterns and numbers carved into it, and while Harry first assumed them to be merely decorative, they turned out to be parts of a puzzle needed to unlock the door. Diana's hands traced patterns in the grooves of the wall, and the specific order caused different sections to light up.

This time, Harry wouldn't let up his questioning of how she knew to do that, and Diana got upset and—worst of all–became ill. She passed out just as the lights illuminated the scene on the door: a serpent eating its own tail near the base of a large, intricate tree with several rings around its trunk. Harry crouched down and pulled her out of the way just as Quirrell stumbled out, the back of his head ranting and raging. Poor, miserable Quirrell looked as though he aged ten years instead of ten minutes.

"—useless, pathetic—"

"Professor Quirrell," Harry said, interrupting the head's tirade. "The Basilisk's gone."

That finally got the head to shut up.

"G-Gone?' squeaked Quirrell, paling several shades. "You mean it's…dead?"

"No. I told it to go away and it did." At Quirrell's silence, Harry added, "I don't know why, but we really need to be going. Diana passed out and I'm worried she might—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. There was another uncomfortable pause, then Quirrell leaned over to check Diana's pulse. "She's alive."

"But why did she faint? Everything was going okay but then she started getting worked up and that's when it happened."

"Her body was likely weaker to begin with, given the recent transfer of energy. And despite your survival, I imagine whatever recent events transpired with the Basilisk proved rather harrowing. Even those in good health might faint when facing down a Basilisk."

"But if Riddle wanted to absorb her soul, why is she still alive?"

"From what we saw, it's safe to assume he took the energy from the Obscurus instead. She was able to separate it from herself just in the knick of time. It's rather fortuitous that—"

"Quirinus, show him to me."

Quirrell's face grew blank as he rotated, revealing the twisted visage on the other side of his head. Harry tried not to visibly wince at the horror, though it was difficult when those red eyes bored into him with serpentine precision. Goosebump prickled his skin and he clenched his fists to stop them from trembling, unsure if this was due to residual fear of the Basilisk or simply the splinched man himself.

"You say you stopped the Basilisk," he repeated slowly.

"Sort of. I told it to go away and it did."

"And it obeyed."

Obviously, since I'm not dead…

"Yeah."

"That shouldn't be possible. It only obeys Salazar Slytherin's descendants, and the lineage has been thoroughly traced."

Harry's patience was beginning to fray. "I think it got me confused with Riddle, because it kept acting like I was the one who ordered the attacks. But I don't think it even matters at this point. I don't know how long it'll stay there for, so we should really, really get going."

The stranger remained silent and, after a moment, his eyes drifted towards Harry's scar. They lingered there for a while with an indecipherable expression until Harry's palms began to sweat.

Harry coughed, diverting his own gaze to the slightly-less comforting mural inside the room, of the same serpent from the door fighting a red-haired man with a hammer, lightning flashing in the background. "So, uh, I guess no one knows the way out, right?"


As it so happened, the splinched man did know the way. Through 'meticulous study and research,' he said, which didn't clarify much, but just like with the Basilisk Harry wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The man clearly had some background in research, given how much he knew about not only the Chamber, but also Riddle's mysterious origins. His research might have led them to cross paths at some point, given their familiarity, and Harry hoped the man would be able to forcibly reunite Riddle with whatever person his spirit broke off of.

He was focused on Diana at the time and only half paying attention to their conversation, but picked up on enough snippets to piece together that Tom Riddle was some kind of spiritual being and not fully human—or at least he was, until he absorbed Diana's Obscurus. Questions buzzed in Harry's mind, and he wanted to ask more about Riddle, the Chamber—or hell, even the man's name—but even Harry's courage had limits.

They somehow managed to return to the main area, where Quirrell gathered his wand and Harry leaned down to pick up the chest with the presumed ingredients. It was lighter than expected but still cumbersome, especially since he had to wrap only one arm around since the other held Diana loosely in place atop his shoulders. Harry was far from some muscled action hero and was miffed Quirrell didn't even offer to help.

When Quirrell turned towards him, Harry felt a brief, irrational fear that the professor would use a spell on him for some reason. But such concerns were unfounded, as he simply returned the wand to his robe pocket.

Diana's paranoia is rubbing off on me…

Harry caved and finally asked Quirrell if he could hold the chest with ingredients. He did so, and after peering inside confirmed to Harry they could, theoretically, be used to brew a concoction related to consciousness, but also reminded him that they didn't know the specific combination that would lead to the elusive Spiral of Morpheus.

"But someone'll be able to figure it out, right?" pressed Harry.

The head responded instead of Quirrell. "Perhaps, in time. There are a few staff members who hold some degree of talent. Like Severus Snape, for one."

The disgust on Harry's face must have been visible. A ghost of a smile flickered on the man's lips, gone in an instant. "You don't care much for him, do you?"

"No," admitted Harry. "I'm positive he's up to something. He might even be working with Riddle."

"Perhaps…"

The splinched man resumed his directions and Harry followed him back to the entrance, gazing warily up at the chute they fell down. Was Quirell going to perform a spell that could make them fly?

But the solution was surprisingly simple. All Harry had to do, according to the head, was order the stairs to appear in Parseltongue. And they did: wiry, ancient-looking things that emerged from the wall creaking and groaning. They looked unreliable as fuck, but somehow carried them reliably back to the girls' bathroom. Once more, Harry felt the head' gaze bore into his back like cigarette burns, and he suppressed a shiver.

The corridor was barren due to the late hour—with the sole exception of Peeves, who poked his head round the corridor the moment Quirrell made a sharp turn to another hallway, making it so neither Quirrell nor his lover could see the poltergeist. Harry's blood froze, expecting to hear the loud, obnoxious clamor that a student was out of bed. But Peeves simply smirked and brought his pointer finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. That uneased Harry almost as much as the Basilisk, though he wasn't sure why.

They finally reached the infirmary, where Harry was glad to finally lay Diana on one of the cots. The lights were off and the room was pitch-black, which is why the sudden, rapid footsteps of Madam Pomfrey made him jump.

"What is the meaning of—"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry gaped as Madam Pomfrey grew rigid and fell to the floor like a plank, wide-eyed and frozen. He turned in disbelief to Quirrell, who looked nonplussed as he holstered his wand and adjusted his sleeves. "What'd you do?"

"A simple paralysis spell. She'll be fine within a few hours."

"But–But why?"

"Harry," Quirrell said gently. "You saw Tom Riddle leave. He's planning on obtaining the stone of Nicolas Flamel. Are you familiar with it?"

Harry blinked slowly. His mind felt like he was on a hamster wheel—What the actual fuck was going on?

"I think so. It's the stone that can help someone live forever, right?"

"Yes. If Tom Riddle obtains it, then it should be obvious how dire that would be for the rest of the world. The only way to avoid that outcome would be for us to get it before him, which is what we've been attempting for the past several months. But in order for us to do that, you need to come with us."

"Wh–no! You attacked the head nurse. Why the hell would I go with you?"

"I only did it because every second counts, Harry," Quirell said, impatience beginning to cross his features. "We can't deal with procedural nonsense when the very balance of the world is at stake. And while it might be inappropriate of me to mention this to a student, it's been clear throughout my research over the past few months that Hogwarts has been…compromised. There are people who might be working with Riddle, and the last thing we need is for Madam Pomfrey to tip them off, either intentionally or unintentionally."

"Can you think of any staff member who might have ill intent, Harry?" the back of Quirrell's head asked.

Against his better judgment, Harry's fingers curled. "Professor Snape…" he spat.

"Indeed," the splinched man replied silkily. "You were correct in your earlier assumption, though there's no telling how wide Tom cast his net. There may be more staff members in on it, which is why we can't take chances. Now, let us be off."

Quirrell made a movement to the door, but Harry remained rooted to the spot. "Why do you need me? I'm just a first year. There must be someone better."

"Your humility is quaint, but unnecessary," the head countered. "For the first time in decades, you proved an obstacle to the most powerful wizard in hisotry. For better or for worse, there's an inherent power within you that no one else possesses, and that, along with other reasons, leads me to believe you are an essential asset in retrieving the stone."

"And we can't trust anyone else, Harry," Quirrell reminded him. "You know that."

Harry glanced between the expectant Quirrell, Diana's body, and Madam Pomfrey's. He couldn't deny the whole situation smelled fishier than a whale's buffet, but then again, Harry faced down a giant snake less than an hour ago. If Quirrell wanted to pull a sudden double-cross at the last moment, there were ample opportunities to do so when they were alone in the Chamber. Quirrell and his worser half might be shady, but for what it's worth, Harry didn't believe the man intended to kill him. They were, he believed, on the same side in wanting to stop Tom, though their approaches obviously differed.

But Tom Riddle came second to his friends.

"Draco needs the potion now. Especially since no one knows how to make it, there's going to be a lot of trial and error to—"

"I'll make the blasted thing," the head hissed. "But we must leave before Dumbledore's suspicions are aroused."

"You didn't tell me you could make it," Harry said, voice louder than he wanted. "You said someone could eventually do it, but you didn't say you could."

"I didn't say I couldn't," the head snapped. "Quirrell said no one knew, but my aptitude in potion-making far exceeds his own."

"You implied it. And how would you know how to make it, anyway? If you're saying this just so I'll go with—"

"I've researched more ancient manuscripts than all the half-wits in this castle combined. You'd be a fool to underestimate my prowess."

There it was again, that deep, purposeful gaze that seemed to drill into Harry's heart. His scar began to throb, and he shoved his shaking hands into his robe pockets.

"And as for why I didn't say anything before," the head continued, softer. "It's simply because I wasn't sure how much of my knowledge to reveal. I'm rather selective when it comes to those I trust. Surely you understand what that's like."

Harry hesitated, then nodded stiffly.

"Now, shall we be off?"

He bit his lip, then nodded again.