A/N: There's some... er... light gore? in this chapter. Warning because I am not a very squeamish person when it comes to blood et cetera but am aware that some are so I'm not really sure where the limit for squick is.
"ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀɪɴɢ, "ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴏᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ," ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʜɪꜱ ʀɪɢʜᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ."
― ᴄᴀʀʟ ᴊᴜɴɢ
Chapter Twenty-Three: Good Chaos, Bad Chaos
Mulciber was back.
They were all back.
Oh, joy.
Any more chatter and Tom's head was going to burst.
Splat. He imagined pale-grey brains and red blood sticking and slipping down the wall and shuddered.
Better yet, their brains, too.
Tom let his head fall to the side, his chin brushing his shoulder, and moved closer to the edge of the bed, gently peeling back the curtains.
"How was France? You never did tell us," Avery was saying while taking monogrammed socks out of his trunk, which he hadn't bothered to unpack in the past few weeks. Even though no one could see him right now, Tom was suddenly acutely conscious of the holes in his jumper that had gotten too large for Martha to bother fixing (and he'd never bothered with household spells, really).
Icarus Lestrange was lolling against the opposite wall, his golden curls glinting in the candlelight. His grin was sharp enough to cut metal.
"The usual," he said. "Rather droll. Rather warm. But I'd much rather be there than here. You know, boys, our parents send us to this prison to get an education—"
I can't believe this is their idea of prison.
"—and yet," said Nott jovially, "all we do is play. At this rate, Mother'll be asking Riddle for his services, too."
Tom groaned as he let the curtain fall back into place. He had momentarily forgotten (what sheer bliss ignorance was) that he was back to attempting to get the past four years of Potions through Mulciber's impossibly thick skull every other day.
Mulciber, the village idiot, he thought sullenly. Every day I wonder how it's possible to live this long and remain that stupid.
"Girls, Icarus," drawled Mulciber. "You've got to tell us how to talk to girls."
Lestrange was silent.
"But it's Valentine's Day!"
Tom put the pillow over his head to muffle Mulciber's whining. It didn't work, sadly.
"I haven't got a date. Help me, Icarus, please!"
I haven't got the patience.
He'd much rather stay here forever behind the curtains and let the world crumble to dust around him. Hidden. Cloistered. Safe.
The door creaked open, and Tom jumped.
Why? The dormitory was already full.
It must be Slughorn, he thought, pushing himself into a sitting position. Tom wondered who had managed to get themselves in trouble in the few weeks since term had started.
Slughorn's footsteps grew closer, and Tom was sure that he was standing right in front of him.
Actually, it didn't sound like Slughorn. The footsteps were too light.
Then, without ceremony, the curtains shot open. Tom winced in the light.
He wasn't sure if the light looked colder and crueller on the sharp edges of the metal badge or Abraxas's grey irises.
"Miss me, Riddle?"
"No." Tom kept his eyes on Abraxas, all the while inching his fingers back towards his wand. The other boys had gone quiet.
His scar itched. But maybe that was imagination.
"What are you doing here?"
"Head Boy duties," he said, sitting down beside Tom. Close enough to threaten, but not close enough to touch. "Thought I'd come say hello."
In a flash, Abraxas's hand was closing around his wrist just as Tom's fingers closed around his wand, and he let out a low chuckle in Tom's ear, digging his nails through the cloth of Tom's sleeve and into the permanently fresh scars.
Tom gritted his teeth, refusing to make a noise or drop the wand. He wasn't going to give Abraxas the satisfaction.
Then, without any explanation, Abraxas got up, and waltzed out the room. But Tom knew why he had come. It was very clear.
Abraxas had come to assert his dominance. It was that simple.
And I, thought Tom, as he watched the others return to their conversation, need to stop that from happening again.
He turned his head again, this time watching Lestrange.
"I haven't got a solution to your, ahem, female problem, but I have got something that will cheer us all up," said Lestrange.
Tom slunk back behind the curtains and watched the others gather around Lestrange, desperate for approval.
I won't give up. I won't change goals.
I should change tactics. Change targets.
Tom cleared his throat.
"Lestrange," he said, as the others prepared to leave, "would you mind if I came with you to Hogsmeade?"
Lestrange stiffened, his lips pulling back into a snarl. But Mulciber whispered something in his ear, and he seemed to soften.
"Come on, then," he said. "Get your cloak."
Surprised and wondering what Mulciber had said to Lestrange to change his mind so quickly, Tom nodded, wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, and slipped out the door behind them.
Fifteen or so minutes later, and he was following them across the snow-covered ground to Hogsmeade. Mulciber and Nott were jostling each other as they walked and chucking snowballs at the seventh-years (especially Gryffindors) as they passed and returning the resulting jibes with a litany of swearing that would have made their mothers faint. Avery and Rosier were virtually glued to Lestrange, who smiled benevolently at them and looked back to give Tom an evil glance every so often as if to make sure he was following far enough behind.
The weak seeking protection, he thought. But who from?
Which, of course, only served to make Tom more curious about what Mulciber had said.
He rarely went into Hogsmeade; even so, he was surprised when they walked right past what he was told were the usual places, although Nott gazed longingly at Honeydukes only for Lestrange to snap at him.
They went past a bright pink, frilly, and very cramped looking tea shop. The windows were opaque with steam; overall, it didn't look very pleasant inside, although that didn't stop Mulciber from turning to shout at someone in there.
"Where are we going?" asked Tom.
It was Rosier who answered, his nose reddened with cold and looking every bit as weedy as Mulciber was stocky.
"You'll see."
He gulped. Perhaps this had been ill-advised.
Maybe Abraxas had something to do with it. Maybe it was a trap.
Tom reached for his wand, studying the four of them.
Was it best to pick off the weakest first? Avery and Rosier shouldn't take him long.
Or perhaps taking out the leader would demoralise them. Yes. It was settled. Lestrange first.
Where to strike first, though? He had read lots about it, but Professor Merrythought wouldn't let them practise duelling until their O.W.L. year, and Tom wasn't going to risk getting caught putting a toe out of line merely to satisfy his curiosity.
"Riddle?"
That snapped Tom out of his daydream. They had come to the back entrance of a slightly dilapidated building.
When he looked up, there was a rook perched high above them, sipping melted water out of a hollow in the ledge. What looked like a hundred more sinister birds skittered about the roof and the nearby trees, cawing loudly and occasionally leaping off their perches to forage, returning with grubs or worms in their beaks.
There was a pile of old bricks and a bunch of wilted poppies. An old wooden sign, swinging on its rusty chains in the bitter wind, read The Sign of the Rooks, with a clumsily-drawn bird painted below the peeling letters.
Well-spotted, thought Tom ruefully. He winced at the noise. What's a group of rooks called? A flock? A school?
One stared up at Tom, wheezed, and trilled a solitary, human-like note. Another had a stick in its beak and was nudging at the ground as if to move some of the rocks.
Mulciber sneered. "Vermin," he spat.
"They're nasty," Avery agreed. "Spread disease. Creepy hanging out in trees like that. Ergh."
"Bad luck," said Rosier.
"Didn't know you went in for Divination, Leo," said Lestrange, laughing and flashing another smile with all his straight, shiny white teeth. "Maybe we should see if you've got the Inner Eye."
Nott, laughing beside him, shot a Severing Charm at the rook staring at Tom, and its head flew clean off of its body mid-caw-caw, sending a crimson spray of blood up in the air and splattering against the uneven pavement. The noise continued.
Tom stared at the rook's severed head and wondered if he could keep it. It was very pretty. The bird's feathers had a bluish-green sheen in the sun, and its face was bone-white. It seemed a shame to leave it lying there.
No, a parliament. A parliament of rooks.
Mulciber crushed the rook's head under his shoe, sniggering. Tom flinched. Now, the beautiful head was a bloody mess of feathers, bone, blood, and brains. Clear liquid was oozing out a crack in the rook's skull, along with white, goopy brains. There was a sticky trail of blood on the stones, marking where Mulciber had drawn back his boot.
Funny. I was just thinking about oozing brains this morning.
"Yuck," said Avery, sniffing.
"What are we doing here?"
"You'll see." This time, Lestrange spoke. He pushed the door open, holding it open for each of them, including Tom.
As soon as they had gone in, the space around them filled up with darkness. The air was thick with cold tension as if the six of them were inside of a stoppered bottle.
Tom realised, as he focused on the black outline of Rosier's cloak-covered shoulders in front of him and not tripping over his feet that they were in a theatre. Although he could barely see an inch in front of him, Tom kept moving as they went up a narrow, twisting flight of stairs, the dim theatre lights shimmering pale and purple above them, and emerged into a balcony at the very back of the house.
One of the seats squeaked. Lestrange had sat down. In the faint light, Tom noticed that he had taken out and put on a pair of white gloves and was lifting a pair of black and gold opera glasses to his eyes.
Pompous dickhead.
He considered the amusement he would get from calling Lestrange a toff to his face. Not worth it.
Not that he was scared or anything like that.
Undaunted, Tom sat beside him. Rosier immediately took the other chair next to Lestrange, and Avery sat beside him, giving Tom a dirty look. Mulciber sat beside Tom, and Nott beside Mulciber.
They weren't here to see Swan Lake. That much was clear.
But instead of asking questions and appearing foolish, Tom sat back in his seat, determined to make himself at home. The red velvet curtains were still shut tight, a golden rope swinging between them. He leaned over the front of the balcony. The house was packed downstairs, and the thunderous whispers floated up.
Why didn't we buy tickets? he wondered. They could afford it.
The answer was obvious. They were about to see something Hogwarts students weren't allowed to.
He listened to Nott and Mulciber's excited whispers but gleaned nothing useful.
There was nothing to do but sit and wait to be enlightened. So he did.
The red curtains rustled. Tom sat up straight, and the others did, too.
A tall witch with dark hair crimped and twisted artfully out of her face and with rouged lips and cheeks stepped out onto the thin line of stage between the curtain and the empty orchestra pit. Her olive-green robes made her stand out against the scarlet background, especially with the spotlight shining down on her.
She seemed to tremble with excitement, and Tom felt it too.
Even though Rosier was on the other side of Lestrange, Tom still heard him breathe "Vinda."
Vinda. The word wandered through his head, looking for the context that he knew was there.
Yes. Mulciber. The platform. Rosier's cousin. Grindelwald's most trusted follower.
His heart shot against his ribcage. Like a hammer.
If she was here, was he? Was that why they were here?
Were they here to see Grindelwald?
Vinda cleared her throat, and the chatter stopped. She raised her arms towards the crowd like an embrace.
"Friends," she said, and her voice filled the house. It was warm, the kind of voice you could listen to, the kind of voice you could trust. "Welcome. Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for your support and for your presence. But it is not I who you are here to listen to tonight."
As if to enhance the dramatic effect, the lights on the stage cut out. The house gasped.
They started clapping before the lights came back on, and despite himself, Tom did too.
Then came a voice. It was not particularly warm or cold or unique in any way. It seemed to have no accent, no region of origin. But it cut through the darkness and stillness, and there was something deeply familiar about it.
"My brothers. My sisters. My friends. The great gift of your applause is not for me. Even in this time of fear and chaos, you remain faithful to the cause. It is you who should be applauded."
Rosier didn't have to whisper a name. Even before the lights came on once more, they all knew who it was. It was a moment that Tom was sure he would remember forever.
He dares come this close? Tom wondered. This close to Dumbledore? Right under his nose?
Like a wolf scenting his prey, Grindelwald seemed to look directly at Tom. Look through him.
And, as if in answer to his question, he smiled.
Then, before Tom could process what had just happened, he turned away.
"Even as we speak," said Grindelwald, "the Muggles are tearing each other apart, exactly as I have predicted. I am no false prophet. I speak the truth. I have seen the horror with my own eyes. They are destroying their great cities. Burning their own people with machines from the sky that send great explosions."
He drew a trail of sparks in the air as if to represent the bombers flying. Tom knew no one in the audience probably understood; yet, the house filled with nodding and murmurs of assent.
Someone in the crowd jumped up, screaming: "And let them burn!"
Once the chatter died down, Grindelwald spoke once more, turning his attention towards the balcony lights.
"I do not hate them; I do not."
Grindelwald might have been a real wizard rather than a mere master of illusion, but even so, Tom could tell this was a real master of the dramatic arts at work. Playing the crowd. Never rushing them. Letting them work for his approval. Speaking diplomatically and letting others threaten violence.
"They are no lesser than us," said Grindelwald. "Of other value. Different value. Not suited for certain things... but of value to us yet."
"Of value to us dead!"
"Magic is a gift," he continued, his tone light and benevolent, yet not condescending. "Granted to those who live for higher things. Higher goals. Higher ends. We are higher beings meant for higher things."
This time, the shout came from behind them, in the balcony.
"And the ends justify the means! I say we eliminate them!"
The crowd screamed, and Mulciber screamed with them so hard that Tom had to cover his ears.
"...Oh," said Grindelwald, "and what a world we could make for all humanity, we who live for truth, for freedom... and for love. It is not we who are violent. It is not we who inspire senseless wars and leave behind orphaned children. We only wish to defend ourselves—"
"Kill them all!" someone jeered. "Let their streets run red with their filthy blood!"
"I want to kill one," said Nott, his eyes glinting cold in the darkness. "I want to kill a Muggle."
Me too, thought Tom, but he knew it was all bravado. Nott had gotten lucky with the rook. His aim was usually awful.
But the more he let that slick, slippery thought roll around in his head, the more he clung to it. Was it any different from hanging Billy's rabbit? Would he feel guilt? Regret? Or would he feel proud of doing what was right?
He should have asked the RAF men at home.
But he might have to look into their eyes when he killed them. Like how he watched Peter die.
Mrs. Cole. Martha. Watson. He was not sure he could. Maybe there was a neater way to do it that didn't require gushing blood and screaming. Human screaming was awful.
"The old ways serve us no longer. We can hide no longer," said Grindelwald. "The time has come."
"The time has come to fight!"
"The time has come to rule over them," amended Grindelwald. "The beast of burden will always be necessary, so temper your anger. We are wise. We will be merciful. We will remake this shattered world in our glorious images."
How?
The others turned to stare. The light right above them had flickered on.
In a terrible, tense moment, Tom realised he had spoken aloud.
"How, young man?" asked Grindelwald. A strange, Dumbledore-like gleam had come into his eyes. "Yes. That is the question, isn't it?"
Turning to the audience with a flourish of his robes, he added: "Spread the word. Advance the cause. Devote yourself to advancing those of magical blood."
Vinda was climbing the steps on the side of the stage.
"When we've won, they'll flee cities in the millions. They've had their time."
"Vinda," said Grindelwald. One word. Like a thunderclap. A warning.
But the crowd cheered, nonetheless.
"It is for the Muggles' own good."
"And the Mudbloods!" someone jeered. "Kill them, too!"
"Crush them!" shouted Mulciber, leaping from his chair. Nott grabbed him around the middle, trying to pull him back down to no avail. "Crush them under our boots!"
They don't even know what they're saying, thought Tom. I don't think Grindelwald even cares.
"Now, now," said Grindelwald, smiling wickedly. "They've been gifted magic for a reason and lifted above their Muggle forebears, even if we do not understand it yet. They have been brought to our side for a reason, and if they show great promise and loyalty, why not reward their efforts."
Lestrange bristled. Tom smiled.
"Yeah, we know why! They stole it!" the person shouted back.
Tom wondered if it was Abraxas.
"Maybe so," said Grindelwald, looking up towards the balcony again. Their eyes met in an exhilarating, terrible moment. "But yet... power may come from the most unlikely places. Perhaps we all are capable of great things."
"Come on," said Lestrange, standing up just as everyone started to shout. Tom saw wands drawn and lights ricochet about the theatre as cries went up. "Let's go before it gets too rowdy."
Tom, who thought this was an immensely intelligent idea (perhaps the best Lestrange had ever had in his life), began walking towards the stairs.
Mulciber hung back.
"Icarus," he said forlornly. "I want to stay and watch."
Tom could see Lestrange's snarl even in the dark. He cuffed Mulciber on the ear and shoved him forward, hard enough to stumble into Tom.
"Get a move on, you blithering moron! Haven't you got a brain in your head?"
Tom had wondered the same many times before. What a merry carousel of fools this was.
As they were going down the stairs, Avery said carelessly: "Did you know Grindelwald is a Seer?"
No one seemed to pay attention, but Tom filed this way for future use. It might be important. He hadn't elected to take Divination; he didn't go in for tea leaves and crystal balls. But perhaps he should do some self-studying.
He wondered if Grindelwald had visions of his success; if that was why he was so confident.
Avery pushed the door open, and the five of them stumbled out into the light, disorientated and rubbing their eyes.
If Pringle could see them, he'd probably do them for drinking.
It was a miracle he hadn't done Tom for smoking yet.
"Where to next?" asked Avery.
"Honeydukes," said Nott, before Lestrange could stop him.
Tom had never been inside Honeydukes before. The shop wasn't small, but very crowded, which he very much disliked. The shop smelled like sugar, which he very much liked.
He hadn't seen much sugar outside of Hogwarts since the war began. And this shop was filled to the brim of most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Fudge. Chocolate. And some things he didn't recognise at all as he walked very slowly around the shop, wanting to remember the smell of sugar.
There was a large barrel of Every Flavour Beans and another of Fizzing Whizzbees.
On the far side from the door, there was a wall lined with Drooble's Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-coloured bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps ('breathe fire for your friends!'), Ice Mice ('hear your teeth chatter and squeak!'), peppermint creams shaped like toads ('hop realistically in the stomach!'), fragile sugar-spun quills and exploding bonbons.
Even if he had brought it with him, he couldn't afford to spend his precious tutoring money on silly things like sweets.
"Not buying anything, Riddle?" asked Lestrange, his arms laden with brightly coloured sweets.
"No," said Tom. He hesitated. He didn't want to look any more pitiful. "I don't like sweets."
"More like we don't have them because of rationing," someone interrupted sharply.
They both turned. It was Minerva, of course.
Tom groaned.
She dusted snow off of her cap and cloak and shook the water out of her plaits, then frowned at both of them.
"Just because you live under a rock, Lestrange doesn't mean we all do."
"Filthy little harlot," rasped Lestrange.
Minerva didn't miss a beat. "Big boy, aren't you? Do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth, too?"
Lestrange sneered. "Out of my way, you half-Muggle bint, before I rearrange that ugly face of yours."
"Maybe you should watch out, Lestrange."
It was only when he saw their shocked expressions that Tom realised he had spoken aloud once again. Another second later, and he realised that his wand was an inch from Lestrange's right eye.
He wasn't sure what had set him off. Anger at being treated like 'filth.' A need to challenge Lestrange's authority. Boredom, maybe.
As it were, Lestrange gave Tom an enraged look, then stormed off.
"Thank you," said Minerva, taking off her mittens. "You didn't have to do that, Tom. I can take care of myself."
"I didn't do it for you," said Tom. "Just so we're clear."
Minerva shook her head slightly as if to clear her thoughts, and looked as composed as she could manage. "I know. Would you like anything?"
"Sorry?"
Minerva sighed. "Look, Tom. I'm not a pubescent boy, and thus, I'm not an oblivious idiot. Here. Get over yourself."
And with that, she chucked something at him.
"Thank you," he said, embarrassed.
"I don't pity you if that's what you're worried about. I know you can take care of yourself. You're still in one piece, aren't you?"
"Why, what happened to the last Mudblood in Slytherin House?" he quipped, unable to help it. "Did they fall down the stairs?"
"Very funny, Tom," said Minerva. "And don't use that word; it's horrid."
"All right, Prefect McGonagall."
"Don't say that, you'll jinx it!"
"Jinx it? Really, Minerva? Jinx it? What now, are you going to throw salt over your shoulder, too? Make a black cat cross in front of you from left to right?"
"Oh, shove off, Riddle!" said Minerva, flinging the door open and stomping out. He followed. "Like you don't want the same, too!"
He hadn't thought much about it, actually. But taking points off Lestrange and that lot? Handing out punishments? Waltzing around Hogwarts wearing a stupid badge?
Yes, Slytherin Prefect Tom Riddle had a really nice ring to it. And Head Boy Tom Riddle even better.
"Actually," he said, "I think I'd like that."
"Good," said Minerva, as they headed up the path towards the castle, "because if I was forced to do rounds with any of those twats, I'd seriously consider throwing myself off the Astronomy Tower."
And despite the fact that he really didn't want to admit that Minerva could be entertaining sometimes and perhaps he liked the familiarity of her Muggle-ness and that maybe he liked the fact that she liked him more than the other Slytherins, Tom allowed himself a tiny smile as he followed her up the path towards the castle.
Not bad, McGonagall. Not half bad.
Tom had neglected to remember that it was Valentine's Day, and not only was the Great Hall covered in a monstrous amount of pink decorations, but people were scurrying around with cards and gifts, and there was a disturbing amount of kissing and hand-holding going on. Mulciber, at least, seemed to be in his greasy, saliva-filled element amongst a group of girls sitting at the Ravenclaw table.
Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen, but even that failed to entice Tom to go inside.
"Are you not going in?" asked Minerva.
"No," said Tom. "I'm going to the library."
"Oooh, good idea. I think I'll join you."
He very much wanted to say no but wasn't in the mood for a Minerva-tirade about rudeness, so he nodded.
The main reason he had wanted to get rid of Minerva was that he wanted to go looking for the Chamber of Secrets. Perhaps he couldn't go around talking to snakes now, but he was determined to do something productive.
If not the snakes' version, he'd have to make do with the official legend in Hogwarts: A History. And legends were always partially true.
He settled down in the sunniest part of the library to read (which happened to be the window seat) while Minerva wandered about the shelves as if she was looking for something very specific.
Tom looked down at the book in his hands. Maybe he could buy himself a copy after graduation. Even though it was a sentimental purchase, books weren't silly, frivolous things to have, were they?
Anyway.
"The legend of the Chamber of Secrets is the most enigmatic of all tales concerning the establishing of Hogwarts. When the four greatest witches and wizards of their age, Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin, came together to establish a school for those with magical abilities, it was logical that they chose a location far away from the eyes of non-magical people due to the climate of persecution prevalent at that time. Records show that the Hogwarts founders worked together for several years, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. However, a rift grew between Slytherin and the others when he criticised the number of students being admitted who came from non-magical families. Slytherin believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families and that students not of this parentage were untrustworthy."
That sounded close enough to Slughorn's version. He skimmed the following few lines until he came to this.
"The legend itself concerns a chamber supposedly constructed by Slytherin deep beneath the school that he kept a secret from the other founders and sealed so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The story goes that when Slytherin's true heir returns they alone will be able to open the Chamber of Secrets and release the horror within — a horror that will purge the school of those whom Slytherin believed were unworthy of studying magic."
Ominous. But not enlightening.
Tom turned the page and scowled. That was the end of the chapter.
Back to the drawing board, then. Maybe he could find a blueprint of Hogwarts. Study it for abnormalities.
Yeah, right. Like no one's tried that in the past nine hundred years.
Think. Think.
What did he have that they didn't? He, Salazar's true heir?
Nothing he could get from reading books.
The answer was so obvious that it made him roll his eyes. Parseltongue.
But even so, he couldn't walk around hissing at every available surface, nook, and cranny. That would actually take him nine hundred years. Out of the question.
He muttered the Sorting Hat's song under his breath, half-mockingly.
"Or perhaps in Slytherin,
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means,
To achieve their ends."
Real friends — ha! He supposed Gryffindors weren't all daring and chivalrous anyway. Besides, Nott and Mulciber were the furthest thing from cunning.
An heir, at least, should set a good example.
He recalled his own words to Slughorn. Parseltongue allows the witch or wizard not just to communicate but to command snakes.
Ask the Great One, the grass snake had told him.
The Great One. Never mind Nott and Mulciber; Tom was an idiot.
The Great One was a giant snake. Of course. The king of serpents. A legendary wizard-killer. A basilisk.
As ridiculous and as far-fetched as it sounded, it made sense. How could he ask the Great One if they didn't speak the same language? And who else would the snakes refer to as such?
Of course. Of course, the snakes wouldn't tell him. He almost regretted getting angry with the adder. It wasn't her fault; what good was he as an heir if he wasn't clever enough to figure it out?
Without alerting Minerva that he'd left, Tom slipped out of the library and down to the deepest, quietest layer of the Dungeons. When he went past Headmistress Elizabeth Burke's painting, as usual, she hissed at him to be "Nasty to Mudbloods."
Charming woman.
And there, buried beneath hundreds of feet of rock and dirt and water (because it made sense that the Chamber must be hidden under Hogwarts, far from the influence of the other Founders' magic), he called, as loudly as he could: "Wake up! Speak to me!"
And then, he listened for something great and terrible to happen. He waited for what felt like hours and listened to the steady drip-drip and the ghost-like sounds of the Black Lake around him.
Something was stirring, deep in the belly of the castle. Something huge was moving, slithering sleepily up from its depths.
Something was awakening. The basilisk. The Serpent of Slytherin.
Then came one rasping word. It seemed to shake the foundations of the castle.
"Hungry..."
Tom's heart leapt.
"There's something moving," he said, mostly to himself, but a little bit to Hogwarts, too. "In the pipes."
Of course, it seemed obvious now. The basilisk had to have some way of getting around the castle to find its prey.
Perhaps he could lure it towards him?
Now, a black swarm of spiders was crawling out of every nook and cranny, spilling up towards the light and away from the predator that they most feared.
Maybe he should check that there were no roosters around. Just in case.
The castle seemed to approve. If any pale imprint of Salazar Slytherin had been left behind, Tom imagined it would have been proud, too. He'd gotten further than anyone had before; he'd confirmed that the Chamber of Secrets and the 'horror within' were more than legends.
Happy Valentine's Day to me.
The basilisk was awake. It was under his command.
And before Tom got too pleased with himself since he'd only managed the easy bit so far, he added:
"And now I've got to figure out where the pipes open."
Rooks are actually very intelligent birds, capable of tool use in captivity and can best chimpanzees at some tasks. Building, parliament, clamour and storytelling are all collective nouns for a group of rooks, and rookery is a colony of (talkative) breeding animals, generally birds. Parliament because sometimes the group will stand on a rock and make a circle around one or two individuals as if they are on trial.