"ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɪꜱ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴏɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ'ꜱ."
― ᴄᴀʀʟ ᴊᴜɴɢ
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Rook Parliament
-August, 1942-
The dust had settled; his head was empty as he stared up at the mouldy ceiling. Hoping that if he blinked harder, it would disappear.
The summer of 1942 was the dullest Tom could remember, uninterrupted by childish revenge plots, bombing, or hoping for his father to find him (he'd long given up on that filthy, betraying Muggle).
It hadn't been exciting in the least since the Battle of Britain two years ago when you could watch the planes soaring and diving from the rooftops. It wasn't as frightening and raw and desperate as the bombing this summer.
Now they were waiting for death or normal. Whatever came first.
They've sent me back here to die. They don't care.
The next time the Reaper's scythe came for his throat, Tom doubted he'd miss.
Tom flopped back down onto the pile of blankets that he had been sleeping on for the summer. Since he wasn't staying the year and the top floors were unusable after the bomb that had nearly killed him hit Wool's Orphanage, Mrs. Cole had put him in a room with someone else.
Roger was busy coughing his guts out, or at least, it seemed like it. He'd had whooping cough since June, and since Tom had it already before he could remember, Mrs. Cole didn't see any problem with putting him in the same room.
Not like the great Heir of Slytherin's opinion held any sway at Wool's Orphanage. Not like Tom would mind the room reeking of phlegm and vomit.
The arrival of an owl snapped Tom out of his not-so-idyllic daydream. But fortunately for his sanity, this one did not linger to beg food or affection.
For the first time, his Hogwarts letter was not addressed to Mr. Tom Riddle, Room 27. And it felt heavier than usual.
Concealing the letter inside his shirt (he'd open it later, somewhere less dreary so that he could celebrate properly), he opened the door and went out. The sound of Roger's coughing was only slightly muffled.
There was someone unfamiliar in the foyer— a man with an expensive coat.
Tom, despite himself, felt his heart give a wild, disobedient beat.
But it was not Watson, and he chastised himself for thinking so and getting excited.
Instead, he drew himself up to his full height and demanded of the strange man: "Who are you?"
"Timothy Browne," said the man, taking out a stack of Very Important-Looking Papers and glaring at Tom. "Mrs. Cole tells me you're the oldest here."
The oldest here. It seemed so ominous.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so rude.
Browne looked about, sneering at the shabby surroundings.
"Recruitment office. Home Guard. When do you turn sixteen?"
Tom tried to think of something clever to say. He moved his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Speak up, boy!" barked Browne. "Out with it."
"December thirty-first, sir."
Browne wrote something down.
"I'll be at school, then." Thinking quickly, Tom added, as arrogantly as he could: "I'm staying on for sixth form. Sitting my exams for Oxbridge."
Browne scoffed.
"What does a boy like you need with Latin and Geography? Should be learning a trade." He snapped his fingers. "Let's see those hands, then, Mister Oxbridge."
Glowering, Tom put out his hands, watching Browne as he examined them. The calluses where his quill rested. The stubborn remnants of ink stains.
And, now that the air raids had calmed down and fire-fighting wasn't so sorely needed, since No One Should Be Idle and Every Minute You Take Off Is Helping Hitler, he'd found himself pressed into odd jobs by Mrs. Cole to help the War Effort, like assembling switch gears for aircraft one week and going around salvaging scrap metal the next. He had a few odd bumps and scars from those experiences, too.
The history of his hands being revealed so brusquely felt like an invasion of privacy.
Going to read my palms, are you? But Tom held his tongue.
"Smooth," said Browne. "Scholar, are you?"
"Something like that," said Tom. And though shaken, he pushed past Browne and through the door behind them. Diagon Alley was as good a place to open his Hogwarts letter as anywhere.
He sat down on a quiet corner to open it. Inside was a small, silver-and-green badge that read 'Prefect.'
Numbly, he turned it over in his hands.
Lestrange won't be happy, was his first coherent thought. He felt mildly pleased.
But no one can have anything to say about it. Not even Dumbledore.
Tom thought of Timothy Browne, Recruitment Office, and shuddered. He'd rather take an army of Dumbledores any day.
"I don't think I could marry a Muggle," said Minerva, once they were in the Prefect compartment of the train, and both the Head Boy and Girl had left to deal with a fight that had broken out amongst the fourth years. "Not because of anything against them, but I'd have to pretend to be something I'm not."
"Oh," said the Hufflepuff prefect, Poppy something or other. "But don't you think that's romantic, Min? Having it being… oh, I don't know… so forbidden."
Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"No," said Minerva. "I couldn't pretend not to be a witch for years and years. That would be horrid; I don't know how Mum did it."
Poppy pouted. "But what he was handsome and clever, and a total Prince Charming—"
Tom thought resentfully of his mother.
"No," said Minerva. "I wouldn't."
"McGonagall's right, Pomfrey," said Walburga Black (his counterpart, unfortunately). "Mudbloods and Muggle boys are for practice." She pinched Tom's cheek, and he glared at her. "They're so pretty and clueless."
"I am not pretty or clueless," spat Tom.
Walburga sneered at him, then laughed harshly.
"Yes, I do imagine Prince Charming has nicer shoes. Did the entire orphanage wear those before they got to you?"
Instinctively, Tom stiffened and drew his feet under the chair. Walburga laughed again, now running her hand, the nails scraping his face, down his cheek, and cupping his jaw.
"Leave him alone, Black!" snapped Minerva.
Walburga withdrew her hand, glowering at Minerva. Tom feigned sleep before they started to argue.
As the train began to slow, Tom reached up a hand to check that his new, shiny prefect badge was still attached to his secondhand uniform, right above his heart and mentally prepared himself for the school year. Walburga, to his relief, did not get into a carriage with them, instead making a beeline for a group of Slytherin girls whose names Tom didn't bother to learn.
Lestrange had been made Quidditch Captain, according to Walburga. That would make him unbearable. He'd need to be knocked down a few pegs.
Mulciber and Nott were still playing Beaters, like the Tweedledee and Tweedledum matching set of idiots that they were. Tom didn't know what a 'Beater' did, nor did he care, but it sounded like the most gleefully violent and least mentally demanding position, so he supposed it must suit them. Avery (the most good-natured and even-tempered of the lot, but that wasn't saying much) was swotting for his O.W.L.s, and Rosier had been 'in Vienna' (read, with his cousin meeting Grindelwald).
As tiresome as the little charges thrust upon him at the orphanage were, they were a hardy sort, used to work, war, rationing and being left to their own devices for hours on end and, as such, fussed little and generally did as they were told. Tom was sure the pampered little princes and princesses of Slytherin House would be the surest threat to his sanity this year, now that he was prefect and Abraxas was swanning around France.
"What are you taking, Tom?" asked Minerva, snapping Tom out of his thoughts and back into harsh reality. "Which O.W.L.s?"
"All twelve," he said coolly.
"How?" asked Minerva, her eyes wide as saucers. She strained forward in her chair, unable to believe it. "That's impossible! Even if you already took two years of Arithmancy and one of Ancient Runes before third year and you can place into the Muggle Studies O.W.L. class without having to take one of the years, that would cause a timetable clash! You can't take twelve! It's quite literally impossible, Tom ― you've got to be pulling my leg!"
"Well," said Tom, pleased with the aura of mystery he'd produced, "let's just say that I planned well in advance."
He settled back in his chair and gazed out of the window, revelling in the silence. He could almost hear the gears in Minerva's brain turning at top speed to figure out how exactly he'd managed to take all twelve O.W.L.s
Poppy spoke up first, however. Tom couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the small Hufflepuff. If Minerva was a cat, Poppy was the odd little trusting mouse that followed her around.
"Walburga shouldn't have touched you like that without asking first and called you names," she huffed, crossing her arms. "You were clearly uncomfortable. I've got half a mind to tell the professors."
Minerva whipped her head around to face them, her plaits swinging.
"Walburga's a slag," she spat.
She's a nutcase; that's what she is, thought Tom. Anyway, he remembered Mrs. Cole saying something to the tune of too much personality being unseemly in a girl. Of course, Tom was too 'odd' for any kind of child, but Mrs. Cole was thankfully a responsible woman and not the type to kick children out before they reached the age of majority for being difficult because they'd surely become either ladies of the night (girls) or dead in an alleyway (boys).
But Minerva wasn't done.
"And if she weren't a Black, they'd call her worse; she thinks she can just take whatever she wants. So she'd better keep her hands off you if she knows what's good for her."
"Minnie, no!" said Poppy, laying a hand on Minerva's in an attempt to calm her down. "You can't call her that just because of some rumours! It's uncharitable!"
Minerva did not look the least bit contrite.
"Rumours are often a little bit true, Posy," she said, using her childish nickname for Poppy (Tom wrinkled his nose, but Poppy merely giggled). "It's not only her mouth that The Grand Duchess Walburga Black has problems keeping shut. The boys in the Gryffindor Quidditch changing room discuss all her dirty little secrets; the harpy's got some nerve calling Tom filthy."
Tom bit back a laugh. "I can defend myself, you know."
But on one hand, Minerva was right. He didn't want a reputation, and he certainly didn't want to get involved with anyone's pureblood daughter. For one, he didn't need the distraction.
"Looks like we've arrived," said Poppy, smiling at both of them. "Let's go face the music, shall we?"
When he and Walburga appeared before the first-years, Tom was sure his appearance was beyond reproach. His hair was neatly combed, his prefect badge gleaming in the light of a thousand candles, and the collar of his shirt folded to a delicate point.
He swept a glance over the first-years and straightened his posture even more.
I am the Heir of Slytherin.
Tom didn't think that sentence was ever going to cease sending a thrill through his spine.
"I am Tom Riddle," he said. Just like in first year, he'd practised this. Wringing every trace of a common accent from his voice. Sounding mature and commanding, now that his voice had started to settle. "This is Walburga Black. We are your prefects." Remember to say the 'H.' "Welcome to Slytherin House."
"Are you a half-blood?" chirped one of his snotty-nosed charges.
"That is irrelevant," said Tom. "Congratulations on memorizing the names of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That will only get you so far, Little Miss Burke. The name does not always make the witch or wizard, as you may learn if you slack on an exam and allow Muggle-borns to beat you."
The crowd of children tittered, and Tom felt relieved. It was a good thing that he had been keeping track of the names during the Sorting.
Walburga muttered "Muggle-loving prick" in his general direction, but that'll change, that will certainly change.
But no one could question his right to be here, at least. The Sorting Hat had placed him in Slytherin House without a second thought. Even when he was the Mudblood of Slytherin House, he belonged.
The rest of his duties went relatively smoothly. The children seemed sufficiently intimidated.
And just as Walburga warned them, as was the necessary tradition, of the number one rule; not to ask the Bloody Baron about his bloodstains (some idiot managed to forget about every other year, which resulted in the ghost screaming the entire castle down and trying to murder the questioner), Tom couldn't help but butt in and add:
"Number two. Look after your own. In-fighting will be punished swiftly and severely."
My ancestor's house, my rules, thought Tom, smiling at Walburga over the heads of the first-years. I'd like some peace and quiet this year.
"No patrols tonight," said Walburga, after the children had been sent off to bed. She placed a hand on his knee, smiling lasciviously. "Fancy finding... oh... I don't know... A nice broom cupboard? You could... give me an early birthday present!"
Tom fought down the bile in his throat and turned towards her, smiling.
Walburga's beady eyes lit up with pure mischief and excitement.
Sometimes, thought Tom, the truth is a very effective punishment.
"The thing is," he breathed, barely louder than a whisper, still smiling, "I find you vile to look at, Walburga. And I find your personality irritating. Short of a love potion or the Imperius Curse, rest assured that there is nothing that could possess me to find myself in a small space with you. I suggest you remove your hand from my leg and save whatever little dignity you have left."
She did, glowering at him.
"You chauvinist pig! I'm sure you've been through your fair share of Muggle whores in the meantime! And you turn down a pureblood? I won't be spoken to like that by some filthy boy from a — a dosshouse!"
In its bombed-out state, Wool's Orphanage wasn't far off from a dosshouse, he supposed. It did little use as an insult.
And chauvinist pig? Tom had a slew of much filthier words to call her back that he'd picked up from the dockworkers and the army men, all of which would get her to either sod off or combust from rage. But now wasn't the time. He should not take any risks that weren't calculated.
"Walburga," said Tom, his tone desperately pleasant, as if he were teaching a very stupid child. "Continue this topic, or worse yet, raise it again, and you may regret it."
Tom hoped she would remember Abraxas and Selwyn lying injured on the floor of the common room. He hoped that lesson had been seared into the minds of everyone in Slytherin House and that it would be passed on to the later years. He wasn't afraid to hurt girls. Walburga was no helpless flower. Tom wanted her to know that if she crossed him or tried to undermine his authority, she would suffer the consequences. He was intent on doing exactly what he pleased this year, and no one, least of all some brat born with a silver spoon in her mouth, was going to stand in his way.
He traced his finger down the scars beneath his sleeve.
Remember why you hate them.
"I understand," she said. "Good night, Riddle."
A very good night, indeed. He waited a few minutes, walked over to where the boys were sitting and inserted himself into the conversation.
"How are you, Avery?" asked Tom, selecting his most willing target and smiling and nodding at Avery's response.
Lestrange congratulated Tom on becoming prefect, and in exchange, Tom commended the obvious skill and commitment that must have won him the Quidditch captaincy. However, he noticed that their interest had worn off since the end of last year. They didn't look at him with any more respect, except that they treated him a little bit more like a live wire.
Maybe no one would call him Mudblood to his face anymore, but they still believed he was one. And if he was a half-blood, he was raised, to their sensibilities, in so much filth that his veins must be clogged with it. If not fully Muggle-born, Tom was close enough. It didn't matter how powerful he was, even if he had defeated Abraxas and Selwyn.
After all, it wasn't as if he had presented a scrap of proof to the contrary. The truth was too precious, too delicate to share.
Then, the image of a responsible prefect, he added: "I'm getting an early night tonight."
But what Tom planned to do the following day was far from responsible. It was indulgent. Selfish.
After a summer of being selfless and worrying about the fate of the free world, he couldn't wait.
He took a shower, brushed his teeth, crawled into bed, and hoped desperately for a good night's sleep. A reprieve from the black curtain.
His wish was not granted, and he woke in the middle of the night, soaking with sweat and convinced that he'd been forced to swallow a gallon of cyanide.
Still trapped in the half-daze of sleep, Tom stumbled to the toilet, stuck his fingers as far down his throat as he could, and retched until the insides of his mouth and throat were raw and burning.
Now fully awake, he watched his blotchy reflection and bottomless, haunted eyes. Was his skin hot and red from fear? Or a deadly fever?
His whole body trembled, overcome with emotion, and he slumped to the cool, tiled floor, staring up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity. Once a slither of sanity returned, he went back to the dormitory, retrieved a vial of Calming Drought (low-quality and illegally purchased in Knockturn Alley with a small fraction of his tutoring money), and drank until he felt numb. Draught of Peace would have been better, but Tom wouldn't trust it bootleg; it was a notoriously tricky potion to make.
Giving in to temptation, he measured out enough Sleeping Draught to knock himself out for the next four hours.
It will get better, Tom told himself. I will get better. But he knew that was a lie.
He couldn't survive much longer like this, a twitchy nervous wreck that jumped at shadows. Tom was barely keeping it together as it was.
He needed safety. Security. Some sort of lifeline, no matter the cost.
If there were some way to sell his soul like Dorian Grey, he would do it in a heartbeat. Let someone else perish like the painting's beauty.
But maybe he'd try the Philosopher's Stone again. One more time.
Tom felt dreamless sleep creeping in and let go of the waking world.
Tonight, sleep. Tomorrow, the Chamber of Secrets.
And the Restricted Section.
Tom wasn't quite sure what to expect. Of the few students with unfettered access, the Heads were both Hufflepuffs and thus most likely goody two shoes, the Hufflepuff prefects were out for the same reason, Minerva and the other Gryffindor prefect were categorically against Dark magic on principle, and Walburga had the intellectual curiosity of a watering can.
Which left, of course, the Ravenclaws, who would try anything once and probably most things twice.
Tom stood there for a few minutes in utter silence, revelling in it all.
He felt starving. He wanted to grab all of these books and keep them for himself. Read them all cover to cover.
But he resisted the instinct to fill his hands with stacks of booksand instead selected a sufficiently Dark looking tome, titled Magick Moste Evile, all the while imagining Dumbledore's face if he caught Tom reading it.
I am a prefect, Professor, he would say. I've earned the trust required and demonstrated that I know the difference between practice and theory.
And he did. But he still fully intended to practise, anyway...
He flipped through the index, noting the most interesting entries to revisit later, mostly any particularly nasty curses in case he ended up in another duel.
But something else caught his eye.
"Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction —"
Horcrux. Tom knew it must have some great significance. The silvery, sinful word rolled around in his head, making his tongue tingle with its awful power.
But who would he consult? Slughorn?
"Professor, I was wondering — I came across it while reading — could you tell me about…" he whispered to the empty library.
He spoke it to the hallowed halls. The terrible word.
"Horcruxes?"
No. Too bold. Slughorn might get suspicious.
The book let out a ghostly wail when he slammed it shut.
In a stroke of pure pettiness, he concealed Magick Moste Evile inside his Transfiguration textbook, waved goodbye to the librarian, and went on his merry way to class, where he managed to collect a few House points.
Dumbledore, he noticed, didn't seem his usual self. Instead of sky-blue or teal with garish patterns, he was wearing utilitarian grey robes. His smile seemed plastered on.
But Dumbledore's problems were none of Tom's concern. He had far grander dragons to slay.
A quest that led him to a girls' toilet on the second floor, and now he was standing in the middle of the Chamber of Secrets.
Tom had figured out the riddle. He was sure of it.
"Speak to me, Slytherin," he began, as he had before. Then, he added, his heart beating as fast as Billy's rabbit, clutched tightly in his hand: "Greatest of the Hogwarts Four."
Tom heard a faint whirr and the ancient creak of stone and metal.
His blood was rushing in his ears, but even that sound was soon drowned out.
The mouth of the statue began to open, slowly but surely.
The slithering, the rumbling. He could feel them deep inside his bones.
Tom immediately screwed his eyes shut. Even if he was supposed to be immune to its stare and its venom, he couldn't risk the consequences of his research being incorrect.
The Chamber shook, and Tom heard enormous coils slam onto the ground in front of him.
Then a low whine.
"Hungry…"
The word shook Tom and the entire Chamber with him.
"I am," Tom began shakily, afraid in spite of himself, "the Heir of Slytherin."
"Blood, I smell blood… let me…"
"Do you understand?" he pressed, nearly shouting. "I am your master."
"Blood… let me…"
My blood, Tom realised. She needs proof.
Gritting his teeth as he acknowledged just how foolhardy this was and with his heartbeat in his ears, Tom thrust his hand out in the direction of the basilisk.
He felt the rush of wind as her head dipped above him, cold scales pressing against his skin.
The pain came before anything else, like an electric shock and a dose of liquid fire combined. Tears stung his eyes, and he screamed loud enough to make his ears pop. Warm, wet blood trickled down his arm and dripped between his fingers.
After anguish came fear (the rhythm of his beating heart).
How much longer?
I will make them remember me.
He counted all one hundred and twenty seconds it took the bombs to pass, and at the end, he breathed. The pain clung to his nerves like a phantom tree, but he breathed (and that is all that matters, really).
Tom peeled his eyes open carefully as if the speed would save him.
The basilisk lay before him, sixty feet of poison-green scales, prostrate and staring up at him with large, yellow eyes. The puncture wound was already healing.
Tom stared into its lethal eyes, but nothing happened. He was the true Heir of Slytherin. He wiped his bloody arm on his robes, revelling in this wonderful knowledge. Holding its stony, ancient gaze without flinching made Tom feel wildly giddy with power, the same glorious fury as the day he hung Billy's rabbit from the rafters in the attic of Wool's Orphanage.
Then, a great booming voice spoke, in some ancient mix of accents that Tom could not quite place:
"You are not her master. I am."
If he were speaking in English, Tom would have called him Sir or Your Honour or My Lord, but there were no honorifics in Parseltongue.
So he knelt and bowed his head, hoping to at least convey respect that way.
For the first time in a long while, Tom felt small and powerless and insignificant.
"Sorry," he said quietly.
Salazar cleared his stone throat.
"Look at me," he ordered. Tom obeyed.
"So you are my heir."
"Yes," said Tom.
Salazar's grey lips pulled back in a sneer.
"Nearly ten centuries! And this is what I am sent?"
His stone fist slammed against the wall, and the whole Chamber shook. Tom scrambled backwards, gripping his wand.
"A sniveling half-blood brat? You dare to come before me, filth?"
He wouldn't be spoken down to. The Sorting Hat, imbued with Salazar Slytherin's own magic, had whispered, "You will be great, Tom Riddle."
"This is all you have," said Tom. "Unless you'd rather wait another thousand years?"
Salazar appeared to be thinking.
"I'm the best you've got," Tom added, suddenly glad that he had never managed to learn humility. "I'm all you've got, actually. And I've fought tooth and nail to get the Sorting Hat to put me in our House; I must have had enough cunning and ambition to make up for my filthy Muggle father. Enough to stand here, where no one else has stood. I will be great," he insisted. "Greater than you, even."
Salazar laughed. A great, booming, mocking laugh.
"Come, little heir. Let us talk."
"About the basilisk?" asked Tom.
"About the purpose of this Chamber," said Salazar. "Purging the Mudblood filth smearing the halls of this great school. The filth that drove my forebears out of Vasconia and made magical blood pour like the waters of the Ebro. They shall pay with their own filthy blood!"
Salazar's rage made the whole Chamber shake once more, and Tom scrambled backwards, his back flat against the far wall.
"Purge?"
There was a sharp, furious look etched into Salazar's face.
"Whatever means necessary."
"You mean?"
"Petrify, frighten. Kill, if needs must. The ends justify the means."
Tom could not help but think of the Sorting Hat's song. Funny what things run through your head when you're nervous: "Or perhaps in Slytherin, you'll make your real friends; those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends."
"Indeed," said Salazar. "Of course, it is up to you. You may leave this Chamber and forget all about it if you have not the stomach for what must be done. But if you like, there is a way to become my true heir. To cleanse your veins of the filth that birthed you. To continue my noble work. To make me proud. In my name... as my heir... as my son. You know what must be done. At least one must die before the year is out."
Son... The seductive little word rolled around in Tom's head. A father. Like he'd always dreamed of, because this wasn't betraying Muggle Tom Riddle, this was the great Dark wizard, Salazar Slytherin.
So his dream had come true after all. Maybe Salazar hadn't found him as a child and said those magic words (I want this one) and scooped up Tom when he was still small and impressionable and taken him away from this stupid Muggle war that was doing its best to annihilate him in body and spirit.
But Tom had found him.
Salazar was his father. He must obey. Tom would never die for anyone, so he'd kill for him instead.
If anyone was killed, the whole affair would lead right back to him, and Tom couldn't have that.
But… looking at a basilisk's eyes indirectly would lead to Petrification, not death. That would be enough to get rid of the Muggle-borns at Hogwarts, to purge the school as they realised that they were not welcome here… yes, that would do. And the cause would be mysterious. There were many things more common than a basilisk that could lead to mass Petrification. Tom was no stranger to hurting others if he thought they deserved it.
But to kill another human... Tom saw the rabbit spinning in the morning light, fuzzy and limp.
Could he?
Kill a person with the same lack of remorse ― no, no, no, not a person, a Mudblood.
You can, said a little mean voice. You're special. You're better than them, that's why they hate you, that's why they're scared of you. They can't take you.
"Killing is distasteful, yes," said Salazar, as if he knew that Tom was thinking. "And not so easy as the innocent believe. But necessary. This is noble work."
"But that's murder — and some things are worse than others, aren't they?"
"Meaning?"
Salazar sounded disapproving. The way a father might.
"Meaning," he continued, pushing through the dread and realising, with a cold sort of shock, that there was quite a lot he had yet to understand, "if I kill someone with full knowledge and deliberate consent, what will happen to—" He felt very silly for some reason, but still "to my soul?"
"There are ways to use unnatural effects to achieve unnatural purposes. Do you want to kill Death, my half-blood heir? You may want to look into the discoveries of our fellow Parselmouth."
Maybe... yes.
One day, I'll kill you. And you'll never come for me again.
This was not a chance he could pass up. An opportunity to scrub his skin clean of the nightmares and the fear and the Muggle filth that ran in his veins. The promise of not feeling powerless ever again. To be safe. And maybe revenge, too, while he was at it.
It was priceless. He'd give up anything; yes, sell his soul, if need be.
"I'll do it," said Tom, and even though every nerve in his body was screaming No! he ignored the compulsion. This is the right thing to do. "Whatever means necessary. In exchange, you will teach me what you know?"
"Good," said Salazar, his voice warm and approving. "You have already learnt much, I see."
Just Petrification, this time. He wasn't ready yet; he couldn't think of murder without his stomach turning at the thought, whatever the lingering fear and fascination.
He was about to fill every Slytherin's greatest desire; to see Mudbloods suffer. He'd suffered long enough; it was time for others to share his pain.
Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.
"Come with me," he told the basilisk. "We have work to do."
Endnotes:
Took some liberty with dates, again. The minimum age of Home Guard soldiers in WWII (*provided parental consent) wasn't lowered to 16 until 27 September 1942.