"ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴇᴍɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ,
ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴍᴘ-ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴏ'ᴇʀ ʜɪᴍ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴡꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀ;
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪᴇꜱ ꜰʟᴏᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴏʀ
ꜱʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ—ɴᴇᴠᴇʀᴍᴏʀᴇ!" — ᴇᴅɢᴀʀ ᴀʟʟᴀɴ ᴘᴏᴇ
Chapter Nineteen: (Double, Double) Toil and Trouble
While some boys his age liked to look up naughty words in reference books, Tom Riddle liked to look up descriptions of particularly Dark and vindictive spells and fantasize about revenge.
His favourite so far was the Entrail-Expelling Curse, invented by Urquhart Rackharrow in the seventeenth century. While holding your wand a certain way would cause defecation, an alternate method of casting led to a more literal use for the spell — causing the victim's digestive tract to be violently expelled from their body.
Tom spent a long time staring at the wizard depicted on the page. He had an almost-comically pained expression, his mouth wide open and eyes bugging out from his head. Meanwhile, his intestines punched through his stomach, flying several feet into the air and landing on the floor with a dull splat.
Most of the enjoyment came from imagining Abraxas's head on top of the wizard's neck.
The Grey Lady floated past, reading a book of her own. Tom looked up and smiled, and she gave him a strange look.
"Were you not intending to bring company?" she asked imperiously.
"No," said Tom. He glanced up at the clock and groaned. It was ten to twelve. Mulciber was supposed to have met him in the library at eleven. "He was supposed to come."
"He is not punctual?" asked the Grey Lady.
"No," said Tom, getting up and hastily tossing his books into his bag. "Definitely not."
An hour. A whole hour late.
But of course. Mulciber thought it was a Mudblood's job to wait on him, after all. Tom would have to retrieve him personally.
The aftermath of the Boggart incident in Defence had been just as he feared. People laughed at him.
It was strange. Unsettling. He had never been laughed at before.
Tom knew what it felt like to be disliked. Mocked. Hated. Feared.
But this was worse. He walked quickly through the common room, hoping to blend into the shadows, and a few people pointed at him and giggled.
Abraxas met Tom's gaze and grinned. Even Carrow, who had gone out of his way to avoid Tom after the incident on the Astronomy Tower, cracked a smile.
This had to end. And Tom had a distinct feeling that it wasn't going to end nicely.
Sure enough, when he got down to the dormitory, Mulciber was sleeping.
Tom shut the door carefully behind him and looked around. The dormitory was otherwise empty, meaning everyone but Mulciber had bothered to get up.
Just my luck that I get to tutor the useless lump, he thought.
"Could you wake up?" asked Tom.
Lazy bastard. Mulciber was busy snoring away, and it was already at least ten past twelve now.
A week with Mrs. Cole might straighten him out.
Tom tried to imagine Mulciber in the Underground while London was being bombedand found he could not.
He wouldn't last a week.
Tom had gotten up, been to the Great Hall and back, and waited in the library for a good forty minutes before losing his patience and storming back down to the dormitories.
Well, now was the perfect time to practice non-verbal magic.
Tom sneered at nothing in particular. He was not to be laughed at. He was more powerful than all of them. Better than all of them.
(After all, he had cast that Shield Charm both wandlessly and wordlessly, hadn't he?)
He rolled his shoulders back, breathed out, and pointed his wand at Mulciber.
He focused on the Reviving Spell, and sure enough, Mulciber's eyes fluttered open.
"Ten more minutes, Mum—"
"No!" snapped Tom, snatching the pillow from his grasp and tossing it onto the floor; a gesture perfected, he realized with a shudder, from watching Mrs. Cole.
"Nuh-uh," said Mulciber, pulling the sheets over his head.
If Mulciber didn't study with Tom, he wouldn't improve. And if he didn't improve, Tom wouldn't be paid.
"Get up!" he said, through gritted teeth. Even the smallest children at the orphanage were easier to cajole.
Mulciber groaned. "What's in it for me?"
Now, bribery was something Tom could work with.
"Let's make a deal, then," he said carefully.
"How about this?" asked Mulciber, poking his head out of the sheets. Tom walked around to the side of the bed.
"I'm listening," he said.
"You take the Potions exams for me," said Mulciber. "You could certainly duplicate them — you're the class genius, after all."
Flattery would get you everywhere but asking Tom to risk himself to help someone else. He was Slughorn's favourite. He was most of the teachers' favourite, actually. But he needed Slughorn on his side, oblivious as he was.
"No," he said firmly. "You study with me, or you fail, and your mum will be angry at both of us."
Mulciber blanched.
"She might send another Howler," he said in a trembling voice, sitting up and running a shaky hand through his hair. "All right, then. Let's go. Just five minutes. Clean up a bit. Put something nice on. Just wait a minute."
Tom blinked back at Mulciber, bewildered. He was at a complete loss.
"Put something nice on?" he repeated as Mulciber stood up and began to rifle through the contents of his trunk. "To go to the library?"
Mulciber paused, turned, and looked at Tom.
"There will be girls in the library," he said earnestly.
"And?"
"There will be girls in the library."
Somehow, repetition did not have the enlightening effect that Mulciber thought it would, and Tom remained almost wholly in the dark about how fancy robes related to the existence of girls in the library. Just as Mulciber remained ignorant of the sanctity of other peoples' time.
"What is Grindelwald fighting for?" asked Tom, as he looked up from marking Mulciber's Potions essay. "Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant. We learned that first year."
"Apologies," said Mulciber, giving Tom a winning smile. Winning smiles would not get him paid, and Tom had half a mind to write the bloody essay himself at this point. He knew Mulciber was thick, but not this thick.
"The Greater Good. Merlin, Riddle — where have you been the last four years?"
Tom could ask the same of Mulciber. To have been here four years and learned nothing, he must have been sleeping right through Slughorn's classes. And Tom could see why Mrs. Mulciber would resort to having her son tutored by a Mudblood; Mulciber was in imminent danger of having to repeat his O.W.L. year, perhaps more than once if he didn't manage to improve his performance drastically.
"I have been listening," he stressed. "I just don't understand. Everyone just quotes things that Grindelwald says — but what does he mean?"
Mulciber lifted an eyebrow. "Für das Größere Wohl. That's German."
"I know," hissed Tom. I was brought up by Muggles, not complete idiots! "The Muggles are fighting a war against Germany; didn't you know?"
Mulciber pulled a face at the mention of Muggle politics; Tom changed the subject back to Grindelwald. That was what he had wanted to know about, anyway.
"But what is the Greater Good?"
"To end the Statute of International Secrecy. We wizards and witches will rule over the Muggle world as well as ours—" His smile faded. "Well, not Mudbloods like you. You'll probably be somewhere in the middle — but better off than the Muggles, at least."
"That's all?" asked Tom. "That simple? You would fight for that? Die for that?"
Is that all it would take to get them on my side, too?
I could lie to them. Promise to give them what they want most.
Mulciber grinned.
"I would pledge my firstborn son. I would give my whole line to Grindelwald in exchange for a place in his new order, and every other decent family would be proud to do the same." Seeing Tom's look of shock, he added, "A magical line is untouchably precious. Worth more than any gold or jewels. Magical blood is pure and special, above all else. It is a gift from our ancestors." He gave Tom a pitying look. "And I suppose you... just got lucky."
Lucky's one word for it.
He despised the very idea of luck. Of fate.
Heads I do, tails I don't. There's no method to it. Just madness.
"And you would — you would let him decimate it?"
"Gladly."
Mulciber whistled lowly as if to diffuse the tension. The librarian shot him an icy glare.
"Got your eye on anyone?" He was glancing past Tom to a group of Ravenclaw girls sitting behind them.
"No," said Tom tightly. "Can we go back to studying?"
I've got my own things to do!
"Why not?" asked Mulciber.
"I don't see the point," said Tom, annoyed.
"Why?"
Mulciber was beginning to remind Tom of Peter, and he didn't like it because Peter was dead below the smouldering sky, the bombs were shuddering above his dead body and filling the library, and all the books were burning and turning to ash.
"What are the twelve uses of dragon blood?" asked Mulciber, tapping his hand.
Tom started. The air was no longer burning, but the world around him with blurry.
"Oven cleaner," he said automatically. "Cure for verruca. Spot remover. Pain relief." He felt suddenly calmer; the words were soothing. "Healing wounds. Repairing the core of wands made with dragon heartstring. Component of the Philosopher's Stone. Lighting fires. Enhances intelligence. Substitute for ink. Substitute for human blood in potions. Can help to restore lost memory."
"Riddle," said Mulciber with a short laugh. "Are you mental? I was only joking."
His vision had come back.
"Those are the twelve uses of dragon blood," said Tom staunchly, attempting to regain his dignity. "Professor Dumbledore discovered them."
"Ah," said Mulciber. "But of course. What professor haven't you charmed, Riddle? How do you do it? No matter how often Mother invites Old Sluggy round for tea, his opinion of me doesn't seem to budge."
Well, you could start by making an effort in his class and not calling him a horrific nickname. That might help.
"A good magician never reveals his tricks," said Tom simply.
"Sorry?"
"Never mind."
"Secrets, actually. Not tricks," said someone behind them. Tom turned around and gaped.
"Well," said Minerva, putting her hands on her hips. "Aren't you going to say hello, Tom? I'd expect that from Mulciber, but not you; I thought you knew better. Anyway, the phrase is, magicians never reveal their secrets..."
"Forgot you were half-Muggle," said Mulciber, looking her up-and-down. "You, Riddle... what a waste."
"Waste?" Tom saw Minerva's hand tighten on her wand. "Waste? Mulciber, take that back right now!"
"Minerva, maybe you should—" Tom started. Though his throat was stinging with the same near-unbearable venom, he had spied Dumbledore amongst the stacks.
"No!" snapped Minerva. "Just because you let them walk all over you doesn't mean I have to, too!"
"At least I'm not a pathetic little girl afraid of ooh, I've gotten a Troll in Potions; whatever shall I do?" said Mulciber.
Tom ignored their bickering, and he caught Dumbledore's knowing gaze. The professor carefully extracted a book from the shelves and disappeared into the shadows. It was not an invitation.
"You shouldn't argue with Mulciber," said Tom. And, under his breath, he added: "He could make life very difficult for you."
Minerva's expression became cruel and pinched.
"Well, I never — Boys! You all support each other at the end of the day, don't you! Typical!"
And with that admonishment, she stormed off. Mulciber turned back to Tom and let out another low whistle.
There was something of his mother in Mulciber's gaze. Analytic. Appraising.
"Well, look at that! You've tamed the shrew. Given the circs, Riddle," said Mulciber. "You're not too bad."
"Thanks," said Tom, feeling his cheeks and the tips of his ears grow hot. He cleared his throat. "We should get back to the essay, now..."
Besides, now he had a lot to think about.
Unexpectedly, Flamel was visiting their Alchemy class today. He usually came in the spring rather than the fall; perhaps he had dropped by to meet with Dumbledore.
Tom sat up straight, determined to impress him. Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science was open by his elbow, and Flamel was walking between the tables.
"When was alchemy made illegal, and when was the act repealed — Riddle?"
"1404, sir," he parroted. "The act was repealed in 1689 due to lobbying by Robert Boyle, a half-blood wizard who was extremely influential to Muggle science."
"Very good," said Professor Aureus. "Ten points to Slytherin. Now, this is an easier question." He smiled at Flamel, who nodded back.
"What is the name of the process of turning base metals into gold?"
Minerva's hand hit the air before his, and Tom scowled.
"Chrysopoeia, sir. It can only be accomplished by manufacturing the philosopher's stone, which requires magic. It cannot be done with Muggle science."
"Excellent!" said Aureus beaming. "Ten points to Gryffindor."
Flamel looked impressed.
Not to be outdone, Tom raised his hand and added: "Actually, it can. Muggles have done it by shooting particles at mercury."
The room became so still and silent that Tom could have heard a pin drop. Aureus's eyes were bugging out of their sockets, and the other students looked decidedly uncomfortable.
At least Flamel would remember him.
"Ah," said Flamel, and the tension broke. "You raise an interesting point."
He stepped closer to Tom, who sat up straight and gazed back at him. The alchemist's face was lined with six hundred years of smiles and frowns, but he was the furthest thing from frail; his movements were sure, and his eyes were wise and knowing.
"What, Mr. Riddle, is the point of alchemy? Of course, many wonderful things can be done with alchemy when combined with more ordinary magic — cleansing fire comes to mind — but what is the aim, in the purest sense?"
Tom cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. Turning base metals into gold. Creating the Elixir of Life. The development of alkahest, the universal solvent."
Flamel nodded. "All very well-put; you have clearly been studying. May I?"
He shut the cover of Tom's battered copy of Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science, and raised it in a sort of demonstration.
Icarus Lestrange was wearing a heavy, ugly smirk that distorted his porcelain features, and Tom saw him turn and whisper something to Rosier (probably about the state of Tom's book).
"Tell me, Mr. Riddle... would it do much good for a Muggle to read your Transfiguration textbook?"
"No, sir," said Tom. "They might find it interesting. But it wouldn't do any good."
"Exactly. And in a similar sense, though Pyrites gives an excellent summary of the practice, reading this textbook will not do you much good."
Minerva had swivelled around in her chair to stare at him and Flamel, and so had Lestrange, brushing his golden curls off of his forehead with a look of pure, pampered arrogance. Aureus looked miffed about his lesson having been usurped.
"I don't understand, sir."
"Well, Mr. Riddle," said Flamel. "It is not so simple as you may be led to believe, by Mr. Pyrites especially. The Stone is not made by recipe, like a potion, but by finding joy, self-love, and self-enlightenment. It is a piece of the very stuff of the Universe. If I were to tell you how to make it, were you to follow my instructions to the letter, you would yet end up with a lump of lead. Though," he added with a quick grin, "if you were to produce the Stone successfully, Professor Aureus would have to give you full marks every year, I believe!"
"How did you do it, sir?"
Flamel smiled. "The journey is different for everyone. But begin with what makes you happy."
Happy?
But instead, he asked: "The journey, sir?"
"What are the fourteen stages of the magnum opus?"
That was easy. Tom saw the page in his mind's eye.
"Purgation, conjunction, sublimation, putrefaction in sulphur. Calcination, solution of bodily sulphur, exuberation, solution of sulphur of white light. Fixation, fermentation in elixir, solution. Multiplication in virtue, separation, multiplication in quantity." By the time that he finished speaking, he was nearly out of breath.
"Precisely," said Flamel softly. "Now, tell me, Mr. Riddle — have you ever attempted to follow these steps?"
Flamel, like Dumbledore, was not easy to lie to.
"Yes, sir," he admitted, feeling everyone's gaze on him. "It didn't work. I must've made a mistake somewhere in the interpretation, but I couldn't figure it out. Anyway, I couldn't get the nigredo dark enough, so it was ruined from the start."
"I see," said Flamel. Strangely, he did not sound disapproving. "Clever boy like you; I am certain that your technical application was absolutely correct. Can someone tell me what the last stage, rubedo, represents?"
"Wholeness, Mr. Flamel," said Icarus Lestrange, and Tom did not fail to notice that he very purposefully sounded as French as he could.
"Exactly. The Self. Wholeness. Unity. Fulfilment. Do you understand a little better, Mr. Riddle?"
"Yes, sir," said Tom, at the exact same time that Aureus, who was clearly getting impatient, said: "Mr. Flamel, I believe we may move on, though this discussion has been riveting."
"And I must take my leave," said Flamel. But before he left, he drew even closer to Tom, who shivered.
"Mr. Riddle," he said, too quiet for anyone but them to hear and spearing Tom with his sharp, hawkish gaze. "The stage of nigredo represents spiritual death, and to reach it, one must confront the shadow within. I suggest you take that as a warning. A young, unblemished soul would be expected to fail at the second stage. For one so young to struggle with a shadow so difficult to overcome... I am afraid that is truly worrying. You will endeavour to understand this?"
Tom smiled weakly. "Yes, sir. I will."
Please don't tell Dumbledore. That's the last thing I need.
"Excellent, excellent," said Flamel jovially. "I expect to see you further along next year, yes?"
"Yes. Take care, sir."
Flamel smiled and stepped away.
"À bientôt!"
"Goodbye, Mr. Flamel," the class chorused, punctuated by a loud "Au revoir!" from Lestrange.
As Aureus steered the class into more ordinary topics, Tom let his mind wander.
Yes, Flamel was unsettling. Really unsettling.
But he could not tell why.
The uncomfortable feeling persisted through class, lingering around him like an unwelcome storm cloud. When he arrived at Slughorn's first gathering of the term, Tom quickly found himself a cup of tea, sat as far from anyone else as he could manage (particularly Lestrange), and resigned himself to sulking for an entire hour.
"Tom!" said Slughorn loudly as he bustled around the table to sit beside him.
"Good evening, sir," he said, nudging the long-gone-cold cup of tea in front of him to the side.
"I see you've made a full recovery, m'boy."
It was a shame that his dignity was still in pieces, and he was currently the laughingstock of Slytherin House. And he was no closer to resolving the situation than he had been in the hospital bed.
"Yes, sir."
He ignored Slughorn for the time being and turned his attention towards a clump of sixth-year boys further down the table discussing something that was probably meant to be private, but they were talking so loudly that Tom couldn't help but listen.
"—there's always the Chamber of Secrets."
Someone else snorted. "Wishful thinking, Shafiq. That doesn't exist."
"Might solve our Mudblood problem, though. Let the beast off a couple of them, and they'll all go scrambling back to their filthy little holes—" Shafiq turned his head and caught Tom glowering at them. "No harm meant, Riddle."
"Certainly," he said, and did not attempt to keep the bite out of his voice.
Tom turned back to Professor Slughorn.
"The Chamber of Secrets, Professor?" he asked politely. "What's that? I've never heard of it."
Slughorn seemed a little reluctant. He took a sip of whatever was in his glass before he spoke.
"An unsavoury legend surrounding the founder of our House — now, don't mind it, Tom, times were different then. The story goes that Salazar Slytherin, who, as you know, disagreed with the other Founders on a great many things, had secretly built a hidden chamber in the castle not long before he left. Legend has it that he sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it but one of his descendants."
So... he could open it? This could prove that he was a half-blood all along!
Slughorn must have seen the questioning look on his face but misinterpreted it completely.
"I doubt it will ever be opened, Tom — here's a bit of a quandary with the semantics, but nevertheless — the legend says that his true heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic."
"Unworthy?" He glanced, unable to help it, towards Nott and Mulciber.
Slughorn gestured awkwardly, his face twisting in pity.
"In Slytherin's view, Muggle-born wizards and witches."
"Oh."
Tom lifted the cup, listening to it clink against the saucer. "I see."
Slughorn shook his head. "It never has been opened, Tom, and I doubt it ever will. Anyone with a legitimate claim to Slytherin's bloodline is long dead and buried, and furthermore, generations of Headmasters have searched for the Chamber, to no avail. It simply does not exist."
But here I am.
To conceal the amused twitch of his mouth at Slughorn's assumption, Tom took a sip of tea.
The tea was barely lukewarm. He didn't know what he had been expecting.
"Oh," he said again. A little of the tea had spilt onto the saucer, and he watched the reddish pool of liquid slip from side-to-side. Tom felt strangely disappointed. He ran his finger around the rim of the cup, where the condensation from the steam and the wetness from his mouth had gathered.
Then, something occurred to him.
"How could he have kept it a secret, sir, if it does exist? Weren't the other three Founders powerful, as well?"
Slughorn sighed heavily. "Yes," he said. "But Salazar Slytherin was particularly learned in the Dark Arts... he spoke Parseltongue, the language of snakes. I suppose you've learned about it — in Defence, perhaps — or Care of Magical Creatures."
"Neither, sir," said Tom, thinking fondly of the ouroboros ring in his pocket and the snakes in the cave. "But I've heard about it. It allows the witch or wizard not just to communicate but to command snakes... isn't that right? And only serpents, not reptiles like Western dragons, for instance?"
Slughorn smiled. "Right you are on all counts, m'boy. But just to be safe... I know boys such as yourself are particularly curious at this age... though it is rare enough to be unlikely that you will ever meet a Parselmouth, be very wary of them."
Tom hadn't heard this before. But he supposed that Dumbledore had reacted strangely, strangely enough, to make him keep his mouth shut about it at Hogwarts.
Until now, it had just been his special little secret.
Would the other students fear him if he told them? Would it fix all of his problems? Or should he continue to keep it to himself?
"I would be highly suspicious of anyone who could," Slughorn continued, nodding meaningfully. "Used in the worst kinds of Dark magic — and Tom, there is a difference between practice and theory."
The worst kinds of Dark magic? Tom resolved to ask him that question later.
Slughorn was well-versed in the theory of Dark magic. Tom knew that — everyone did. But he had never quite been able to work out just how powerful he was.
He didn't dare to go poking around in Slughorn's head; Tom had been told that he was an accomplished Occlumens. It was best to be careful.
Tom frowned. "But sir," he said. "I don't understand what that's got to do with m—the Chamber of Secrets." Flustered, he barrelled on. "I didn't think noth—anything of it."
He chewed the inside of his mouth, hoping Slughorn hadn't noticed either of his slips.
He hadn't.
"The place is teeming with snakes," said Slughorn. "Per'aps not exactly noticeable in the common rooms, but in that water closet of an office—" He shook his head. "They must breed in the moisture and the damp — nasty creatures, always wriggling around in the corner after it rains."
"Should have Dippet set a few mongooses on the school and have them all killed."
Tom bit back a cry of outrage. Snakes weren't the ordinary vermin people though they were. They were clever. They knew things. They could help him.
"At any rate," said Slughorn. "I'm certain there's been some magic done to the snakes, in the wild hope that Slytherin's true heir does show their face. But fortunately, that nightmare is over before it could begin."
"I see, sir," said Tom, but he did not see anywhere near eye-to-eye. In fact, he was surreptitiously eyeing the corner. He hadn't seen any snakes at Hogwarts before, but now, he would look closer.
He nodded and drank the rest of his tea.
"Are you fond of animals at all, Tom?"
Other than snakes? He thought of Billy's rabbit, with the grey twine around its neck, spinning in the morning light.
"No, sir. Not really."
Besides, his Hogwarts money only just about covered his uniform, books, and things for lessons.
"Ah, just as well," said Slughorn. "The school is teeming with enough owls and toads as it is."
When he returned to the dormitories, he opened the diary and flipped open the cover, flicking past pages of shaky, angry penmanship — I AM NOT A MUDBLOOD — first year — Tom Marvolo Gaunt — second year — and Tom Marvolo Slytherin — third year.
Tom wrote the date at the top right corner of the page, admiring how neat his handwriting had gotten over the past few years.
Glancing over his shoulder (a silly precaution, because the curtains were drawn), he wrote, The Chamber of Secrets, and drew a line under it.
It looked incomplete. He added, find entrance, and drew another arrow pointing to 1. Talk to snakes.
Perfect.
He went out in the pouring rain, and it wasn't long until he saw a long rope of white, motionless in the wet grass near the Black Lake.
"Very funny," said Tom, kneeling in the grass and soaking the knees of his trousers instantly. "Stop playing dead."
The snake ignored him, so he went to grab it around the middle and was rewarded with hissing and spitting (pointless posturing, because grass snakes didn't have venom).
"Enough!" he said, attempting to lift it. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You speak it?" asked the snake. Speak. A long, hissed, serpentine s.
"You don't have to sound so surprised."
The snake continued to ignore him, and instead of responding, merrily wound its way around his hands.
Tom was suddenly self-conscious as he remembered Slughorn's words. He glanced behind him. Dumbledore already knew, but he seemed to have kept it to himself, and he couldn't be seen speaking to snakes, apparently.
"There hasn't been a Parselmouth at Hogwarts... not for a very long time," said the snake.
"And how do you know that?" asked Tom, taking care to keep his voice low.
"We remember," said the snake, curling around his wrist. "Put me down now."
We remember? What did this snake take him for, a fool?
"You remember what?" hissed Tom, annoyed. He shifted the snake's coils into a less awkward position. "What's a long time for you, anyway? A few years?"
The snake flicked out its little pink tongue, displeased. Clearly, it did not think Tom needed to know.
"How do you remember a few hundred years?" asked Tom. If his memory didn't fail him, snakes were splendid liars and even better exaggerators.
"Ask the Great One," said the grass snake, so quietly that Tom barely heard the words under the hiss.
"Do you mean Salazar Slytherin?" he asked, bubbling with excitement.
"Perhaps," said the snake, regarding him with a beady yellow eye. "Ask the adders instead. Not my secret to tell. I know my place."
The snake was wriggling hard, so Tom assumed it wanted to be let down.
"I hope you know you're insufferable," he said.
"I do," said the snake, and it promptly went back to playing dead.
"I'm Slytherin's heir."
The snake did not respond.
"Oi. I'm talking to you."
"Congratulations."
Tom thought he heard sarcasm.
The conversation was clearly intended to be over. Tom was not sure that he liked being ordered about by a snake.
"Where can I find the adders?"
"Places."
"Placesss?" he mimicked sarcastically. "What placesss?"
"Shh. You are attracting the badgers."
It half-heartedly flopped towards the water, and Tom followed it.
"In the sun. Not often. Try when the students have gone back to their nests."
"Do you mean during the holidays?"
"Yes. Now leave me alone."
Perhaps the snake was right. Tom was going to catch a cold if he stood there any longer. "All right. I'm going."
The snake didn't respond and continued flopping towards the Black Lake.
"Bye," he said and turned back to trudge towards the castle. Tom shuddered at the thought of Pringle catching him dripping mud on the castle floors.
Not only did the caretaker enjoy caning to an undeniably sadistic extent, but he was also famous for his creative discipline, such as hanging up students by their wrists and letting them dangle for hours.
Tom had to wonder why Dippet employed him in the first place — but the answer to that was the answer to nearly everything dysfunctional about Hogwarts — Dippet had long gone senile, and he didn't care.
He was just there for decoration at this point.
Speak of the devil.
"Professor Dippet?" he said, smiling. "How are you?"
"My dear boy," enthused Dippet, the corners of his eyes crinkling like tissue paper. "How have you been? Horace told me all about Defence — simply a word, Tom, and I'll have Professor Merrythought make an exception for your missing assignment."
Tom suspected that Dippet's fondness and the multiple 'special arrangements' that had been made for him over the years was some intersection of his immaculate record and sympathy for the poor dear little orphan boy.
"Thank you, sir," said Tom, trying to decide on whether or not to take him up on the offer.
Dippet seemed to have noticed Tom's hesitation.
"Not to worry, Tom, not to worry. Neither of us will breathe a word. Consider it taken care of."
"Thank you, sir," he said again. Dippet smiled, and Tom remained frozen as he disappeared down the corridor.
It was like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but it was cowardice, and his problem remained yet unsolved.
Still, it wouldn't do to stand around dripping mud on the floor. He was making himself an easy target for Pringle.
With that last macabre thought lingering in the air, he turned and went down the stairs towards the dungeons.
A/N: There are no grass snakes in Scotland, but... eh... let's assume that Salazar started a colony of them at Hogwarts