The tunnel yawned open before him like a throat. Damp, dark, and pulsing faintly with ancient magic, it felt less like a passage and more like a living thing. The echo of his footsteps bounced off slick walls as he walked, keeping his wand lit, eyes sharp. Behind him, Lockhart was still whining.
"I say, Arthur, old boy—perhaps we should, you know, wait. Reassess the situation—"
Arthur didn't even glance back. "Then wait."
He pressed forward. Lockhart hurried to catch up, muttering about lawsuits and life-threatening environments. It was only when they reached a split in the tunnel and the smell of death thickened in the air that Lockhart made his move.
Arthur had seen it coming.
The professor lunged for his wand, but Arthur ducked sideways, sidestepped, and shoved him hard against the stone. Lockhart scrambled for a rock, wielding it like a dagger.
A short, absurd scuffle followed—an adult wizard swinging wildly, a boy dodging with brutal efficiency. Then—crack. The rock connected with the side of Lockhart's head.
Silence.
Arthur stood over him, chest rising and falling calmly, the brick still in hand. "Should've stayed in your classroom."
He dropped the rock and walked on.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The path narrowed, the walls tightening like the insides of a throat. Up ahead, something pale gleamed under his wandlight. He crouched.
Shredded snakeskin. Massive. Gleaming. Dry and curling like parchment.
He ran a hand along it, grimacing. Recently shed. Still warm. Whatever it belonged to—it was still alive.
He stood and kept going, tension building like a hum beneath his skin. Something was wrong. The walls vibrated with memory and magic, and as he reached the stone door—carved with snakes coiled around a central mouth—he didn't hesitate.
"Open," he whispered in Parseltongue.
The mouth opened.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The Chamber was vast. Colossal stone serpents lined either side, jaws agape in silent warning. The air was damp, heavy with mold and the rot of forgotten things. Water pooled along the floor, reflecting eerie shapes above. At the end of the chamber stood a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin.
But that wasn't what stopped him.
It was the two bodies on the floor.
Ginny Weasley. Elena Potter.
They were crumpled near the base of the statue, unmoving. Arthur sprinted forward, falling to his knees between them. Both girls were pale, lips tinged blue, eyes fluttering—alive, but faint.
He pressed fingers to their necks. Weak pulses. Magical suppression. Drained.
He reached for his wand—
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Arthur froze.
A voice echoed through the chamber. Calm, composed. Cold.
He turned.
Tom Riddle stood behind him. Not a memory now. Not quite flesh. A perfect echo of a sixteen-year-old boy—hands behind his back, eyes shining with cruel amusement.
"I was wondering when you'd come. You've been poking your nose in for weeks, haven't you?"
Arthur stood slowly. His grip on his wand didn't tighten. It didn't need to. His magic hummed around him.
"You've been controlling them," he said, voice like a blade.
Riddle smiled. "Very good. But you already knew that, didn't you? Clever Arthur. Or should I say, Lord Fredrick. Always watching. Always a step ahead."
He began to circle.
"But cleverness doesn't save anyone in the end. And you… you're just a boy."
Arthur didn't blink. "You're just a ghost."
Riddle laughed. "Not for much longer."
A low rumble echoed behind the statue.
Arthur didn't flinch.
Riddle grinned wider. "You've always wanted the truth, haven't you? Well… let's see if you survive long enough to hear it."
Riddle stepped into the dim light, shadows licking across his face like smoke. He gave Arthur a small, self-satisfied smile as if he'd just walked onto a stage prepared for an audience of one.
"Do you know how long I've waited for this moment?" he said, hands behind his back like a professor preparing a lecture. "I opened this chamber before—fifty years ago. No one ever suspected it was me. Not even Dumbledore."
Arthur tilted his head slightly.
"Of course, he grew suspicious eventually," Riddle went on, beginning to pace slowly. "And I had to... improvise. Blame someone else. Frame a Gryffindor half-giant. Disgusting. I had to cover my brilliance just to keep the illusion alive."
Arthur blinked once. Riddle kept talking.
"But I always knew I was destined for more. Stronger than Dumbledore. Greater than Grindelwald. I would be the greatest wizard the world had ever—"
Arthur was already tuning him out.
His fingers dipped into his pocket.
Empty.
A flicker of realization.
His wand was gone.
Riddle droned on.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He shifted slightly, focusing, feeling rather than searching. Magic thrummed like a thread in the air—thin, familiar. He muttered in his head: Accio.
And felt the tug.
A gentle vibration across the chamber.
His wand… was tucked in Riddle's belt.
Arthur stared flatly at him. So teenage Voldemort is a pickpocket now. Lovely.
Riddle, oblivious, kept speaking.
"And then I hear," he said, stepping closer to the fallen girls, "that Lord Voldemort was defeated by an unknown assailant."
He turned to Arthur, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.
He got silence.
Arthur just looked at him.
Emotionless. Unimpressed.
The diary lay near Riddle's feet, lying open, its pages softly fluttering as if disturbed by breath.
Riddle's jaw clenched.
"I said," he repeated, voice hardening, "Lord Voldemort was defeated—"
Arthur interrupted, voice like a whisper of frost:
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, you son of a biscuit..."
Riddle stiffened.
Arthur stepped forward slowly, cold eyes gleaming.
"I thought I was done with you. I thought the diary was just a relic. But no—you had to crawl out of the past, didn't you? And I'll admit… when I found your diary, I was intrigued. Shocked, even."
He smiled darkly.
"But now? I'm just… disappointed. At least your older self has wisdom. You?"
He gestured lazily.
"You're all talk and teenage drama. It's embarrassing, really."
The temperature seemed to drop.
Riddle's face twisted in fury, composure cracking for the first time.
Arthur smiled wider—colder.
"Go on. Summon your snake.
Show me what's left of your legacy. Let's see if disappointment is fatal."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Riddle's expression darkened, a gleam of amusement flickering in his eyes.
"But before we begin, Arthur..." he said, voice now low and intent, "let me show you what's at stake."
He gestured toward the girls on the ground.
"They're not asleep. They're fading." He knelt beside Ginny and Elena, placing a hand just above their chests. A faint red glow pulsed beneath their skin.
"I'm absorbing their life force. Every heartbeat, every breath, brings me closer. Once I've finished..." He smiled. "Lord Voldemort will live again. Fully. Not just a memory—flesh and blood."
Arthur's eyes didn't blink.
"Then let's hope you come back sooner. I'd hate to miss the party."
Riddle's smile faltered.
Arthur tilted his head.
"I figured out how you controlled the girls. But not how it became two."
Riddle straightened slowly, his tone taking on a teacher's cadence.
"It began with Ginny," he said. "Pouring her heart into my pages. Giving me her secrets, her doubts, her thoughts. In return, I offered comfort. Advice. Little notes. A friend in her pocket. She never suspected. I told her to kill the chickens, to open the pipes. She did everything. And when I gave her enough of me... I took what I needed from her."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"Then came Elena Potter. Curious girl. She suspected my hold on Ginny. Took the diary, tried to destroy it. But not before I got to her. She resisted me—stronger than I anticipated. Managed to break free and dispose of me. Or so she thought."
Riddle's grin widened.
"Then you found it. Arthur Reeves. The mind I couldn't crack. Too strong. Too... aware. So I waited. I planned. When Ginny stole the diary back, I made her cast a compulsion charm on someone you knew. A Slytherin girl. One you fought in the Dueling Club. Thought it might break you. Instead, it got you the title of Slytherin's Heir."
He took a step closer.
"You and I aren't so different, Arthur. Parseltongue. Slytherin ties. Magical instincts others would kill for." He smiled thinly.
"That I killed for."
He stopped, inches from Arthur.
"So... what do you say to an alliance?"
Arthur laughed, but it was hollow, cold. His eyes, storm-grey and sharp, didn't blink.
"It seems no matter the version of you, Tom, you always want me as your convert." He took a step forward, eyes narrowing.
"So I'll give you the same answer I gave you last year."
Then in Parseltongue, voice hissing and full of venom:
"Why should I join you, a mere memory, when I can be greater than you?"
Riddle's smile finally cracked.
With a snarl, he yanked Arthur's wand from his belt.
"So be it, Reeves."
He turned and faced the giant stone statue.
"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."
The grinding of stone echoed through the chamber as the statue's mouth began to open. Something stirred inside—huge, and slithering.
But Arthur didn't flinch.
Without breaking eye contact from the darkness beyond the statue, he whispered:
"Accio."
Riddle barely had time to register the motion before Arthur's wand snapped back into his hand.
Arthur tied his green-and-silver tie over his face, covering his eyes.
"Guess I'm doing this perception-style," he muttered, wand rising.
From the gaping maw of the statue, something hissed back.