Chapter 3
In the hidden depths of Hogwarts, enveloped in the silence of the Chamber of Secrets, Harry sat at the center of the stone floor, his legs crossed, his back straight, his breathing slow and measured. The air was cold, charged with energy that seemed to dance around him.
Around his body, his aura manifested like a dense smoke, black as pitch. It moved with a hypnotic slowness, almost as if it possessed a will of its own, wrapping him in serpentine coils that pulsed with every beat of his heart. Every time he inhaled, the smoke contracted; every time he exhaled, it expanded, merging with the chamber's gloom and making him a part of it.
Encircling him, the basilisk slept. Its imposing body formed a perfect circle, its shiny scales glistening in shades of green and gold. Every so often, a slight tremor ran along its long tail—a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible, as if it sensed the energy he was channeling.
Tom's diary lay open before him, its yellowed pages vibrating imperceptibly, almost as if they were responding to his aura. The ink began to flow out of the letters etched on the paper, streaming in thin black filaments until it coalesced into a figure.
When Harry opened his eyes, two hypnotic green pools shone in the shadows, meeting another gaze without hesitation. Two crimson irises stared at him with predatory intensity, sparkling like liquid rubies.
Tom Riddle was there.
Tall and lean, his body draped in black robes that seemed sculpted onto him, he stood with an unnatural elegance—a dangerous sensuality reflected in every movement. His dark hair fell with an almost unreal perfection over his forehead, framing a face of pale, almost diaphanous skin that accentuated his chiseled features: high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, thin but seductive lips curving into a hint of an enigmatic smile. Not a trace of imperfection marred his appearance, as if he had been forged directly by the night itself.
«Do you have nothing better to do than just sit here?» he broke the silence with a note of irony, his tone relaxed and almost bored, tilting his head slightly to study him.
Harry smiled—a sharp, self-satisfied smile that only enhanced the dangerous beauty of his features. «Are you the one talking, Tom?» he replied, his voice deep and persuasive—a velvety whisper that seemed to glide through the air like sweet poison.
Riddle merely shook his head, his smile deepening as a mischievous glint flashed in his scarlet eyes. «What shall we learn today, my dear Harry?»
He moved through the corridors of Hogwarts with a confident stride, wrapped in his usual unruffled calm. He had received a summons to the headmaster's office shortly after the last class of the day, and although he wasn't surprised, he couldn't help feeling a slight annoyance at the disruption of his routine.
Arriving before the stone gargoyle, he uttered the password with indifference—a word that was the name of some treat—and the spiral staircase began to move. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing the old Albus Dumbledore sitting at his desk, his celestial eyes scrutinizing him with that intensity which Harry always found irksome.
«Harry, my boy, make yourself comfortable.»
He advanced without hesitation, sinking into the chair with effortless elegance, his legs crossed and his hands interlaced in his lap. Dumbledore studied him for a long moment before speaking in his serene, almost paternal voice.
«I've noticed that you tend to skip classes more and more often. May I ask why?»
Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint, enigmatic smile curling his lips.
«The scar.» he replied simply.
«It hurts, so I'd rather sleep.»
The old man scrutinized him, as if trying to read between the lines, but Harry was an impenetrable wall. His mind was too well-trained to let anything slip that he didn't wish to reveal.
«I see.» the headmaster finally said, nodding slowly.
«And have these pains become more frequent lately?»
Harry offered a faint smile, a mischievous glint flashing in his green eyes.
«Not more than usual.» he replied deliberately vaguely.
The headmaster fell silent for a few moments before leaning back in his armchair with a sigh.
«I hope you know you can always come to me if you need help.»
Harry stifled a laugh. Help? From him?
«Of course, Professor.» he replied, his tone perfectly controlled and respectful—devoid of that naive warmth the old man might have preferred.
Dumbledore studied him a little longer, then nodded.
«You may go, dear.»
The young man rose with his usual feline grace, adjusting his uniform with a slow, measured gesture. Before turning toward the exit, his green eyes rested once more on the headmaster's.
«Good evening, Professor.» he said with a slight smile.
Then he left, leaving behind a pensive Dumbledore and a sense of satisfaction that slid beneath his skin. He had played the game, as always. And now he could return to his true pursuits: devising the trial that Dumbledore expected him to face.
When he had acquired the diary, something within him had whispered that it could be more than a mere tool—he had created a perfect copy, an indistinguishable fake of the original but devoid of its consciousness.
He had somewhat expected that the copy would end up in the hands of Ginny Weasley, Ron's little sister. But as soon as he realized the unexpected coincidence, he understood he could exploit it. He waited for the perfect moment, observing and studying until he found the ideal opportunity to swap the diaries.
And so, Ginny became the key.
He had manipulated the diary to gradually wear her down, as guilt and terror made her the perfect puppet. And when the time came, he swapped the two diaries, allowing her to open the Chamber of Secrets and unleash the monster. It wasn't a risk—he had already given the basilisk clear orders: do not kill. Only petrify.
After all, what was needed was a threat, not a massacre. Corpses attracted too much attention, but fear... fear seeped under the skin, grew, and spread like a subtle poison. Hogwarts had to tremble, the students had to believe in the legend, and Dumbledore had to buy into it.
He would be the hero.
The one who, at the right moment, would "discover" the secret, confront the danger, and save the school—a script written to perfection for his role as the Chosen One.
The students had gathered in the Great Hall, the tables removed to make way for a wide platform illuminated by flickering torches. Professor Allock, with his usual theatrical flair, had introduced the lesson, while Professor Snape watched with his customary disdainful expression.
He found himself dueling with a sixth-year—a Slytherin of undeniable talent, yet not even close to his level. Their spells clashed in the air with flashes of light, energy slashes tearing through the space between them. Harry moved with feline grace, his body perfectly balanced between tension and fluidity. Every move he made seemed designed to captivate onlookers: a half-amused smile, an elegant slide to dodge a spell, a magnetic gaze that promised victory with minimal effort. He evaded spells with innate grace, his wand moving with confident, almost lazy precision, yet with lethal effect.
The audience was mesmerized, unable to look away. Even Snape, who usually observed with detached indifference, seemed more attentive than usual. Hermione watched him with admiration, Ron with pride. Malfoy... Malfoy stared at him with an intensity that one could almost feel on the skin.
The sixth-year, frustrated, pronounced «Serpensortia!» and a huge hissing snake materialized at the center of the platform. The creature writhed, and instead of attacking, it pointed at the blonde Slytherin.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and he didn't hesitate. His gaze fell upon the creature, and without realizing it, words flowed from his lips—a seductive, hypnotic whisper.
The snake froze instantly, its coils relaxing. Harry's eyes shone with a magnetic green as he observed the creature, maintaining absolute control over it. A murmur spread among the crowd—a mixture of amazement and terror.
Then, with an elegant flick of his wand, he crisply pronounced «Evanesco.» and the snake vanished in a puff of smoke.
The silence in the hall was deafening.
Everyone stared at him—some with fear, others with suspicion. The title echoed in the whispers of the students: the Heir of Slytherin.
He paid no heed to the terrified glances. His gaze settled on Draco.
He was not frightened. His light eyes were wide and surprised, but there was no fear in them. He could see Draco clearly through his aura: white, even brighter than before, with subtle splashes of silver that made it almost hypnotic.
Ron and Hermione were equally startled. But the brunette recovered first, giving him a meaningful look and an imperceptible nod.
He clenched his jaw, revealing nothing. He knew it would be difficult to explain—he had just altered the script at the last minute by improvising, and all because of Draco Malfoy.
He wasted no time. He knew he had to find a quick solution, a way to deflect suspicion from himself before things escalated.
After the incident at the Duelling Club, he had noticed that the looks directed at him had changed—less admiration, more fear. Even Ron, though trying not to show it, seemed less at ease.
One evening before bed, he spoke to Ron in a low voice: «For a while, you should stay away from me. Just until the waters calm down.»
Ron looked at him uncertainly. «But—»
«Trust me.»
Ron hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded.
Yet he couldn't cut everyone off. For that, he needed Hermione.
«Hermione, do you trust me?.» he told her one evening while they were doing homework in the library.
She stared at him, studying his face with her keen, attentive eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, but then she nodded without asking any questions—she didn't need to.
And so, a week later, Hermione Granger was found petrified.
The news spread through the school like wildfire. Harry Potter's best friend—the person he spent the most time with—had fallen victim to the basilisk. How could he be the Heir of Slytherin if even his most loyal ally had been struck?
Slowly, the whispers about him changed. He was no longer "the Heir of Slytherin" but "another victim of this curse," an unfortunate student who had lost his best friend in the chaos. And when Harry and Ron were seen together again, no one dared openly accuse him.
In the end, he saved Ginny and did his part.
He found her lying on the cold floor of the Chamber of Secrets, her face pale and her eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. The basilisk—loyal to his orders until the very end—lay inert not far away, its gigantic body now devoid of life. Killing it had been necessary, not only to make his version of events credible.
He did not weep for it. He felt nothing as he watched the dark green blood slowly seep through the ancient stone cracks. However, before turning away, he bent down and ran a light hand over the snake's cold scales—a gesture almost affectionate, like a whispered farewell.
Then he rose again, the diary clenched in his hand, and approached the girl. With unnatural ease, he lifted her in his arms and made his way toward the exit of the Chamber, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the damp, serpent-carved walls.
Once outside, everything unfolded exactly as he had predicted. The adults gathered around Ginny, torn between concern and relief, while Harry simply handed the diary over to Dumbledore—presenting it as proof of his "victory."
«I destroyed it.» he said, allowing the headmaster to take the copy he had prepared.
Dumbledore examined the object for a few moments, running his fingers over it with care. His blue eyes scrutinized it over his half-moon glasses, as if he wished to peer into its very depths.
Harry slowly opened his eyes; he was in the infirmary, with the soft hues of morning light filtering through the window. Ron and Hermione sat beside his bed, silent—as if they wanted to say something but couldn't find the courage.
He raised an eyebrow, his voice low but laden with subtle tension.
«You have something to tell me, don't you?»
Ron shrugged, and Hermione seemed to avoid his gaze, focusing instead on the edge of the bed. For a moment, silence filled the room, but then it was the Ravenclaw—steady and determined, yet shadowed by concern—who spoke.
«Dumbledore asked us to keep an eye on you. To report everything... but we haven't done so.»
He looked at them, a spark of understanding lighting his eyes. He knew it was true; their auras had revealed it without the need for words. He didn't need them to admit it aloud—the weight of the truth was evident in their glances and in their auras, which now shone with a loyalty that could no longer be hidden.
Yet he did not step back; he neither grew angry nor felt betrayed. He knew the game, understood the rules at play, and although he didn't like it, he recognized the necessity of the move. He sighed, crossing his hands over his chest.
«I already knew...» he said with a surprising calm, his tone impassive—not anger, not disappointment, just clear, cold analysis.
«And I know that you tried to follow me. There's nothing to apologize for.»
They exchanged looks filled with uncertainty, but none dared reply. Then Harry smiled—a smile neither too cold nor too warm, but radiating a reassuring intensity.
«But...» he added, his tone softening,
«I trust you. And I know you've always supported me. We're a team, right?»
The redhead finally spoke, his voice firm and decisive. «Yes... we trust you.»
He said no more, instead leaning back comfortably on his pillow as his head drooped into rest. He knew that things had changed, yet deep down he had no doubt— their loyalty had never been in question.