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Chapter Text

It should be revolting, reading the name over and over until you can no longer avoid it. The name is one you have heard for the past twelve years, spoken in hushed tones and whispers. Harry Potter, the boy who lived. His surname is famous, the death of his parents ringing in your memory, shocking the entire wizarding community. Not only had his parents passed away, but his closest family treated him like a rat, a nuisance.

By now he would be guaranteed a position in the school for witchcraft and wizardry, his second year already about to begin. A child waiting for the moment to rise up and take the crowd by storm.

"Miss (L/N), are you listening to me? We have a busy school year ahead of us, there will be no time for dawdling..."

Right when you catch a train of thought, Snape is there to interrupt it. Just like a Slytherin to annoy another Slytherin. Standing from your desk, you flick your wand at a pile of papers. They organize themselves alphabetically, making it much easier to sort them out. Still, the hard work is bound to mean nothing when someone else knocks them over.

"Really Severus, I'm your superior! I'm taking the tasks you guys push aside before you can throw it on me! My sabbatical is done, and I intend to teach these kids real information."

He sighs at your argument, still unsure of how you are technically older than him. The chalkboard is your next mission, turning on your heel with the eraser in hand. The chalk is wiped away, powder falling and disappearing. You wouldn't like to call this a classroom, a study is a better term for it, partially due to the fact that it's an area for you to gather your wits.

 "Yes I know, but the rules still stand that in this department, I outrank you. Overall you may be my superior, but I manage all potions and you are just beginning."

Annoying indeed, not to mention arrogant and rude. Self-control is a blessing, one he should be more grateful for. 

"I have five decades of experience and more, so don't take it for granted. Like it or not I'm teaching the future of wizard kind, and I won't be budging from this position anytime soon."

The chalk hits the board with a thud, scratching the artificial surface with each movement of your hand. Clearly the conversation has impacted your mood, pace picking up as you sign your surname.

Professor (L/N), Assistant Teacher of Potions and Charms

This will be a new journey, not only as your first introduction to the students that have been born generations after you, but an introduction to a new beginning. The students would walk in expecting Snape, dreading class, only to see an unfamiliar face. 

"There are expectations to uphold in the classroom, ones that cannot be broken or interrupted. These children need a firm instructor to teach them, not a carefree advisor."

You're barely listening to his monologue, looking forward to getting the school year started. A stack of papers floats upwards before spreading out, one document assigned to each seat. A quill and ink pot is nearby, ready to be used by the students when they get settled. 

"Severus, have you ever considered that the students need someone to be comfortable around? If they see a wicked instructor, they won't be open to the information, and subsequently, they will be unprepared."

He doesn't answer, irritation flaring up. Just because you were his instructor does not mean he still considers you as such. This year is already off to a bad start, but when has it ever been good?

Already the room seems less daunting, the atmosphere changing with the new decor. You must have used transfiguration on the area, a new layout that makes the air lighter. Bookshelves line one wall from floor to ceiling, textbooks, ingredient lists, scientific observations and more among the literature. The furniture stands sturdy, a sliding ladder nearby in case a particular book is hiding.

Glass jars rest on a table in the center, butterflies twirling in the container. Their wings vary in color, each shade significant to one creature. They crawl among the surface, legs sticking to the material with ease. 

The student tables are surrounding the center one, four chairs at the ready. Candles give light, a soft purple light emitting from the flames. Yes, this is not the dreary class of the last year, but a new environment for your personal studies.

"Now that I'm finished, I suppose we should head to the Great Hall, correct? We wouldn't want to keep the others waiting…."

Unfortunately for him, you are right. Of course he will never admit that, a grumbling sound is the closest thing to an answer you will get. His cape follows behind his lanky form, acting as a trail for you to follow.

The corridors are as grand as your days at Hogwarts, more paintings resting on the brick. Each face you pass blinks at you, some smiling in a genuine fashion. A string of greetings is then given, to which you can only attempt to say back in the same chipper tone.

Occasionally you have to help a masterpiece that has been tilted to one direction, begging you to save it before it falls from the frame. You comply, they say thanks, and it continues until you reach the destination. Faculty doors allow you to slip inside without a commotion as you walk towards the table, sitting near your preferred coworker.

"What took you two so long, Miss (L/N)? The feast is just about to begin."

The older woman gives you a stern look, brows furrowed before you can come up with an excuse. Her hat leans to one side, a mossy green that reminds you of the greenhouse for herbology.

"Don't blame me for Severus's slowness when he practically refused to follow my instructions! I was organizing my classroom, but he kept complaining about the ceremony, and the student's return! If it were my schedule, I would have been here long before!"

She doesn't continue her lecture, hoping you won't make the same mistake again. 

"Minerva, could you point out the young man everybody is talking about? Mr. Potter, specifically?"

She points you in the right direction, your eyes moving from one table to the next. At last you look towards the red and yellow banner, the designated area of Gryffindor. Supposedly, these are the brave ones, but that's hard to believe as you see the small food fight brewing. 

They're so wrapped up in their petty game, one of them using Wingardium Leviosa to float food around the table. These teenagers are so clueless, not even realizing you are staring from afar. Unsurprisingly, James Potter's son is easy to recognize, the circular glasses and lightning bolt scar making him stand out.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts, this will be your second year of many, an opportunity to reconnect with your unique talents!"

Every student claps or yells, voicing their excitement for the headmaster. Draco Malfoy rolls his eyes, muttering that this ceremony is a waste of time. 

"As you grow your education in the wizarding arts, certain classes will become a key aid for your futures. I am sure you remember your potions teacher, Professor Snape, but I would like to introduce you to another faculty member…"

McGonagall turns her attention to her superior, waiting for your queue. You slide out of the chair, careful not to bump into your colleagues. As you stand you fix your witch's hat, the pointed fabric draped to one side. 

"This teacher is to be treated with the highest regards by each of you, no less will be tolerated underneath the castle roof. She will act as a Potions and Charms Professor, just like Snape, and will frequently have the task of training you all. I know you must find this a strange situation, but her presence was needed elsewhere, so greet her with a warm welcome, as she is a great alumni of our school. Please welcome, Professor (L/N) of Slytherin House."

Louder claps echo throughout the space, a sign for you to step in front of the podium. The headmaster steps aside after patting you on the shoulder, the focus now on you.

Murmurs can be heard from the students, each trying to identify if you are a friend or foe.

"Good morning to all of you, I hope your first day back at Hogwarts is going swimmingly! I won't take too much of your time, but I am going to say that I cannot wait for you to be in my class."

Three Gryffindor students catch your speech with awe, specifically the Weasley twins and Oliver Wood. Slytherin is rival territory, but damn do you make bad look good! 

The quidditch captain takes a swig of his beverage, an attempt to make his outward appearance calm.

"I hope this opportunity is treated with care, as not every witch or wizard can learn directly from the best of the best. As you progress in your studies, remember what a privilege you have, and pay respects to your professors. Each and every faculty member of Hogwarts is on your side, so be on your best behavior."

You end your speech to prevent any boredom in the Great Hall, but it's clear from a few distant wolf whistles that you are anything but boring. The behavior has a warmth spreading in the back of your neck, not disappearing until you find yourself back at the table with your colleagues.

Hermione Granger does little to hide her shame, smacking the back of Ron's head in protest. 

"Owww, what was that for?"

The young adult places his hand to feel for any bruising, surprised at how bold his studious friend is. 

"Making comments about our superior in such a daft way! We are supposed to be on our best behavior since last year, but we won't last long if you mess it up!"

Fred and George stop laughing after catching their breaths, a tad worried she might attack them next. The trio is in their technical adulthood, but the twins are older, along with Oliver, meaning that they have the upper hand of seniority.

"Slow your roll, Granger, these lads are just being fools. I highly doubt they would actually attempt courting a girl like that, especially a Slytherin."

Harry chimed in, the involvement of his new acquaintance giving him courage.

"She doesn't seem as malicious as Malfoy, and especially better compared to Snape! Now that I think about it, she seems awfully young for a professor…"

They looked back to the front of the room, seeing you chat with McGonagall. You must have been deep in conversation, not noticing the spying eyes. She rambles in about what the students put her through last year, earning chuckles from you.

"This year they crashed into the Whomping Willow in an enchanted car, Filch was prepared to send them to the dungeons! You would think two young men would have common sense, but they always get into trouble!"

She hasn't forgotten about any of their mischief, but tries to hold back her worries. Discouraging you is the last thing she wants to do, but you need to be prepared for the youth's crazed adventures.

"You act as though you didn't get into trouble as well, Minerva. I remember our schooling days quite well, and you had a reputation of your own."

By the time you look at the squabbling Gryffindor students they have turned to a quieter conversation, one that you would have no chance of interpreting accurately.  

"You have a reputation yourself, (Y/N), one that would precede you if uncovered. Cautiousness may be your best option at this time, so stay vigilant while you're attending to your duties."

You nod to the woman, someone you would consider a colleague if not for the strange circumstances. She was your peer fifty years ago, but now time has aged her, while you remain at the peak of your twenties.

"I understand your concerns, but the likelihood of my past being dug up is slim to none. I haven't seen a trace of his presence since that night-"

She stops you with a hand on your shoulder, a silent agreement that displays her trust. When she removes her hand, she nods back to you, the conversation unnecessary for either one of you. 

Slowly you pull back the fabric of your robes double-checking that the locket, the horcrux, remains hidden from wandering eyes. After all, why would it be strange for you to wear the crest of your house, the green serpent of ambition? 

Chapter Text

The second day of the school year has begun, students rushing to their classes with anticipation. You on the other hand are trying to not get knocked over, the hallway full of new faces. Just like the day before, the portraits wave and tip their hats to you, kind as ever.

Among the students is a peculiar blonde, one that acts among his own posse. Confident and snarky, a Slytherin among Slytherins.

"Are you three on your way to class, or are you simply lost in your convoluted thoughts?"

The three individuals turn, not expecting to be caught so early in the morning. The blonde is still smirking, but you plan to wipe it off his face. He doesn't recognize you, and due to his vanity he lacked the patience to commit your speech to memory. 

"Are prefects supposed to be this uptight or is it just a coincidence? You must have made some mistake, being a fellow Slytherin, you should understand that I am not somebody you can push around."

A circle of people have gathered around the commotion, waiting to see what awaits the school bully. 

"Let me see your class schedule, it'll make this a lot easier to get over with."

Begrudgingly he pulls out a folded paper from his coat pocket, a list of names and locations. You read them over with haste, glancing back at the student calmly. 

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are indeed your father's son. Blonde hair, no respect for authority figures, and a love of causing trouble. My classroom is just around the corner, and the name is Professor (L/N)."

He doesn't know what to say, Crabbe and Goyle laughing at the blunder. The pureblood elbows the both of them, forced to follow your lead. He thought for sure you were a student, but his assumption has done more bad than good.

"You know my father, but how? He didn't say anything about a witch like you, not even when I got the letter from Hogwarts."

Your steps are faster than he can keep up with, heels clicking along the tiles. He will continue his arrogant behavior for years to come, but it's expected of a Malfoy. He nearly stands above your height, head stopping just at your eye level.

These students are new to adulthood, naïve to what a chore they are in for. If only you could be young forever……oh nevermind! That wish was going to be your calling card, the girl who wished for youth only to be tricked. 

But you didn't wish for it. Who would? Youth was more than you could have bargained for, the hourglass in a constant cycle of chaos.

When the voices are hushed and class has begun, that's when you remember your duty. There's so many of them, each pair of eyes holding a different curiosity. Some want power. Some just want to understand their potential.

"Students you may be seated wherever you like, but any trouble caused by arranging yourselves foolishly, will not be tolerated."

The same trio of Gryffindor students are sitting near the front, already inseparable from the newest bonds. They are just as young as their parents were when they attended Hogwarts, practically spinning at the faintest magical contact. You don't recognize one student however, her surname is still fresh in your memory from reading yesterday's roster. 

Not far behind is the Slytherin gang, stirring up negativity with abhorrent jokes. They seem to be the only ones that don't notice your staring, completely confident that they will get away without a scratch. 

"Since you think it appropriate to meddle around in my class and waste time, perhaps I should ask for your dismissal, Mr. Malfoy? Better yet, you can start by telling me the answer to a question. This potion controls the drinker's sense of infatuation and is known to be looked down upon by our community. What potion am I talking about?"

Crabbe and Goyle are stunned, brain cells deteriorating as the conversation goes on. They won't be much help, but Draco never depends on them anyway. He was already put through the most grueling tutoring by his father. What more could an amateur teacher do?

The blonde does what he does best, raising his chin up high and preparing for applause. 

"The love potion is named Amortentia. It can be composed of Ashwinder eggs, rose thorns, peppermint, powdered moonstone, pearl dust and rose petals. I thought a professor would have more interesting questions…"

You click your tongue in agitation, carrying on with the lesson while pacing the room. What he misunderstands is the authority you bear, the locket still hidden under your robes. If Slytherin house were truly wicked, you may have hexed him just for his glare.

"Congratulations Mr. Malfoy on your analysis. It seems that after all these years your family still knows how to force grandeur upon themselves through false means."

His ears burn at the backhanded compliment, but he says nothing. Harry waits for the lesson to continue, writing down the important notes. Naturally, Hermione already knows about the basics.

"As your classmate has mentioned, Amortentia is made of a variety of ingredients, originally invented by Laverne de Montmorency. Now as I'm sure you are all familiar with wizard history I won't bore you to death with the specifics. You need to know that certain potions, while appearing harmless, can cause potentially irreversible effects. Ms. Granger, tell me why this potion is forbidden?"

The girl brightens at the opportunity, clearing her throat. Her curls are tucked back as she formulates a sensible definition. When she looks you in the eye a silent message is given, you may be a professor, but you are far from the others. 

"Amortentia, also known to be the strongest love potion, is forbidden due to its ability of falsifying emotions. If the potion is consumed the individual will become totally ensnared by the potioneer. Those who drink it will upon effect be able to smell and taste characteristics similar to that of the caster or soulmate. For example if one consumer likes the scent of old books, that may accompany the potion."

Her explanation is succinct, a smile already adorning your lips. Hogwarts always gets a few worthwhile students, and this trio is no exception. A swirl of smoke turns into the number 20, floating above her head. She earns a small congratulations, thankful for your attention to academics. Ron on the other hand is anxiously slouching in his seat. Getting picked on by teachers is not on his wish list, yet it always happens to him. 

"Like I began earlier, this potion adopts a dangerous mindset for the subject. A little crush can turn into a hypnotized delirium, so you'd better not try anything on Valentine's Day. If any one of you however needs assistance in crafting an enchanted bouquet, I'd be happy to oblige. Now for the rest…"

A few students chuckle at your insinuations, enjoying this refreshing experience. You aren't badgering them with work, and to top it all off you're giving them real advice. 

"So you guys agree this is much better than Snape's class right," Ron whispers to his two companions.  

Hermione rolls her eyes, not appreciative of his lack of work ethic.

"She's definitely more accommodating than he is, but we'll have to wait until the real lesson begins. Snape may seem unnerving, but we know he's a good teacher."

Your back is to the class as you organize the bookshelves. Someone must have rearranged the books before class, and they didn't bother to fix it. One slips from your hand, landing on the floor with a thud and cloud of dust. Before you can reach it, Harry has obliged to grab it for you, careful not to drop it again though it is heavy.

"Silly me, huh? I swear these shelves must be against cleanliness, that or one of your peers is a jokester."

The book rests on your palm, spine secured by your fingers. The book has seen time fly by, the pages yellowing. As you repossess the item, the sleeve on your robe slides, revealing a faded ink that he cannot comprehend. 

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was Fred and George, Professor. Those two have a knack for pranking, but even if it was them, they didn't mean anything by it."

You hum along with his assumption, making an attempt to hear through his reasoning. James was tricky sometimes and Lily had an honest heart. If this is their son, you already have faith in his actions. 

The class has begun to clear at passing period, young people conglomerating in private groups. Hermione and Ron decide to wait in the hallway, wondering what is keeping their friend.

"Those boys must be the Weasley twins, correct?  Every generation has a group of troublemakers, but I can handle a few now and again. By the by, I wanted to meet you in person, not just as another teacher. I knew your parents, they were students of mine, and when I heard the story…"

He waits for you to continue, hoping this conversation is better than others.

"Look, I'm no expert on living life and I won't tell you what to do with yours, but you are more than a celebrity. More than a young man with a woeful past. If you have any questions, concerns or something of importance, please don't hesitate to talk to me."

 When looking back down at his hand he sees a photograph of his father, younger, holding a potion that seems to emit lightning. Next to him is a girl that he assumes to be his mother, a flower pot in her hands. The smiles on their faces seem to light up the room, delighted to engage in wizardry.

He nearly doubles over in shock, eyebrows rising until the feeling floats away. 

"Wait–you said you also taught my parents!? But how? You're already so young, but if it's true, you're well over fifty years of age!?"

Yes, maybe allowing him to discover one of your many dilemmas on the second day of school was a misstep, but he was going to find out eventually. You didn't need Dumbledore to blow your cover in one of his elaborate lessons, and Snape could always use blackmail. The quicker you make a clear-cut point, the better.

"I'm not that surprised you figured it out, it was bound to happen. Fifty years ago I was a student here, I graduated at the top of the class and began conducting my own research. When I least expected any malevolence, someone slipped an anti-aging curse on me."

The explanation sheds a new light on your appearance, a mature soul within. This conversation could make him late to his next class, a piece of paper taken out of your pocket and used as a note. The young man watches your scripture, black ink containing an excuse.

"Professor, can't curses be undone with other spells? Surely there must be a way to reverse it."

He's optimistic despite the information presented, a good soul brightening at the opportunity of aid. If only his parents could see this.

"Weren't you paying attention to the lecture, Mr. Potter? Certain magical creations are finite in their application, no matter what you may have heard. The example of Amortentia can be reversed but seldom is it ever. One wrong flick of a wand or mumbled incantation can be the difference between life and death."

You pass him the late slip before returning to your duties, placing the book on your desk. 

—-----------------

"So how was the new teacher? Did she hex you for being a Gryffindor?"

"No, she probably hexed him for not being a Slytherin!"

The twins are at it again, this time trying to get as much information as possible. They have sat on each side of the boy at lunch, smiling as wide as possible. The ghost of Nearly Headless Nick is flying about per usual, occasionally tilting his ear towards the conversation. These new students are already getting into mischief.

The feast before them is delectable as always but there's a more pressing matter. Harry waits for Hermione to settle in her seat and Ron to finish stuffing his face. When he believes they are in the clear he goes over the information in his head. 

"No, she didn't hex me or anyone else. The only student she has a qualm with is Malfoy, and not even Slytherin blood can save him."

Cheeky grins are back in action, Fred looking over his shoulder at a muttering Draco. 

Sheesh. He looks peeved. Being scolded by the hottie teacher had to sting.

"Professor (L/N) held you after class though, what did she say," Hermione asks. 

The twins both stand from the table, grabbing the nearby figure of Oliver Wood. He wished he got the opportunity to catch a break after a rough Quidditch practice, but luck has different ideas for the young man. Each twin is talking over the other, supposedly giving him advice or directions. All he understands is that it has got something to do with you. Oliver leaves the fools with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, intent on getting to know the new professor.

You are not in the dining hall, meaning you must be having lunch in your office. His odd sense of dedication has him miraculously stumbling past your door before reading “Professor (Y/N) (L/N), Assisting in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts.” 

Knocking on the door is his first move, politeness going a long way with faculty members. He stands still for a few seconds, then knocks again. Footsteps can be heard from the other side until you open the door, examining this student with caution.

“Hello, may I help you, young man?”

Your voice is perfect like it was during your small speech yesterday, so much so that it catches him by surprise. He is the golden boy that knows every detail of this school, that means he needs to know you like everyone else. 

Clearing his throat he begins, “Good afternoon Professor. My name is Oliver Wood, I’m the Captain of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team, along with being a Keeper. I wanted to greet the new Slytherin and-”

You’ve already stepped aside before he gets the chance to finish his introduction, admittedly interested as to why this 7th year is standing nearby. Evaluating is your first action as he steps into the classroom, eyes flicking from his expression to his posture. He continues to investigate your use of the classroom, not aware that underneath one cupboard rests a basket of snakes which slither closer. 

“Mr. Wood, you said that this is your seventh year at Hogwarts, meaning it will be your last? Do you have any plans after the school year ends, like continuing your Quidditch career professionally?”

You sit on your desk’s edge, the perfect perch to sit on while watching. He looks over his shoulder at you, doing his best to stay neutral.

“Yes, Quidditch is my dream career, but the expectations put upon the pro players can be impossible. Right now I have Professor Hooch as a reference, but if for some reason it doesn’t work out, becoming a referee would be brilliant as well! Have you ever played?”

The question is relatively easy to answer, and gives you the perfect opportunity to brag about your own schoolyard days. 

“Funny you should ask that, I was a Keeper like you. I didn’t make Team Captain, but everyone on my team would tell you I played with a mean streak.”

Reminiscing makes you smile, the olden days coming back like it was yesterday. You had to juggle playing Quidditch and keeping your academics up, a challenge when Tom Riddle was your primary associate. He didn’t understand why you would compete in that game, not when overthrowing the school was his plan of action. 

“(Y/N), we have more important things to be doing than getting covered in dirt! If we don’t act fast we will miss our shot at–”

“Yeah, yeah, you have fun studying for the both of us! I have a big game coming up against the Gryffindor team, I can’t stay tonight.”

You two had a history of missing the other’s events, not because you didn’t want to support him, but because your schedule didn’t match up. He would usually get irritated and not address you until a later time, but that night, he was there in the stands. It was a vicious standoff between the two teams, Slytherin was getting the short straw as of late, making the will to come out victorious even stronger. It was your move as the ball came closer to your goal post, spinning in a continuous cycle. 

“GIVE ‘EM HELL (Y/N), SCORE THAT POINT!”

In the corner of your eye you saw the brunette cupping his hands over his mouth, actually cheering you on the sidelines. Holy shit, Tom Riddle was being nice. His encouragement gave you the final push, resulting in you spinning on your broomstick and scoring the incoming ball back towards their hoop. The game was won by a singular point, your point. At first came silence due to the shocking turnaround, then a loud cheering by your comrades. 

“THAT’S IT FOLKS, THIS MATCH GOES TO SLYTHERIN! THE WINNING POINT SCORED BY (Y/N) (L/N), A POINT SCORED THROUGH RIGOROUS EFFORT, AND NOT THE GOLDEN SNITCH!”

The memory faded, but this conversation would continue to flourish like your new relationship with Oliver Wood. In the coming months, you would need to keep an eye out for these types of things. Just because a discussion seemed rather bland, didn’t mean it necessarily lacked value.

Chapter Text

Darkness surrounds the entire perimeter of Hogwarts, a putrid fog rolling among the hills. With each gust of air, the cloud would move closer than before, growing to cover the whole grounds. The Forbidden Forest, although known for housing its own share of evil, was losing its creatures to this disaster. What could be so strong that all life forms, no matter their characteristics, would die if this miasma was touched. Arguably the toughest tree, the Whomping Willow, was no match as it began to disintegrate. Not even a stray apple left behind.

Window-panes rattle incessantly, almost ready to blow away with the weather. The noise is emphasized with raindrops, the kind that hit heavily against your body when they fall. This is a storm of unfathomable danger, one where going outside is impossible. Your body can't stand this restlessness anymore, waking you up after a cycle of tossing and turning. No one is in the room besides you, the other beds in the dormitory are empty. Had the students gone off to an assembly? If so, why didn't they wake you? 

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. The Purebloods shall reign supreme again…"

A disembodied voice registers in your mind, cold and familiar. The sound of hissing and slithering can be heard throughout the walls. You don't know why but you begin to walk down the halls, following that mysterious voice. It's almost a siren call, luring you through the ancient architecture without a hitch. 

The candle flames are flickering down the path, orange hues painted on the walls. None of the paintings are moving, simply staring as you descend. 

"We were meant to be, (Y/N), you know that. Our fate is intertwined forever, don't you see?"

Goosebumps rise on your skin as a cool breeze rolling through broken windows. Glass shards are everywhere, crunching underneath your shoes. This can't be possible, he's gone, right? How could he be able to do this?

You have walked into the Slytherin girl's bathroom, the door closing itself behind you. The tile flooring is chipped, and maybe even scratched off, likely the work of a beast. The hidden space underneath the floor is not a secret to you, but it is worrisome.You never liked this contraption, this wicked room made for heinous acts.

The opening is still covered, meaning it needs the command to open it. You look over your shoulder to the door, making sure that no one walks in. Parseltongue was uncommon and rather rare among the wizarding community, often looked at as evil. It helped that you were a Slytherin, but your ability to master the language wasn't just due to your house selection.

"Open the Chamber of Secrets."

Just like every other time that Tom had invited you to his lair, the sinks began to maneuver themselves and create a passage. He would meet you at typical locations for practicality, but when something was important, it was always the chamber. You didn't miss the damp environment, doing your best to dodge puddles and debris. This place was always crumbling, a concerning feature when you knew your companion was in its depths. The winding tunnels serve your muscle memory, each location coming back to you. 

That same slithering sound can be heard, growing closer as you explore the cavern. The interior shakes violently, bricks falling from the walls and nearly hitting you in the shoulder. It stops as you exit the tunnel and enter the main chamber, a large statue of Salazar Slytherin's head in the center. Cobwebs are spread around the room, but no spiders are seen, most likely eaten by the colossal reptile for a snack.

As your shoe lands in a large puddle, the splash of water is heard. You remove your foot, and look upwards, not expecting to make eye contact with him of all people. Dark brown eyes look through your soul, ones you haven't seen in a very, very long time. He's just like you remember him, tall and regal with the ability to put your mind in a daze. His hair is mostly pushed back, but certain strands fall over his forehead. Pale skin and emotionless save for the small grin.

"Hello again my love, it's been awhile. You're still helping those foolish witches and wizards alike?"

You straighten up, coming face to face with him. He apparated so quickly that you couldn't have seen it. How could you forget his innate talent for magic so easily? You reach for your wand, pulling it from an inner pocket and pointing it towards the young man. Your stance is perfect, a prime example of dedicated work and training. He does not return the action, strolling around the chamber with his hands behind his back. 

"What are you doing here, Tom? Are you planning another attack? Maybe getting revenge?"

He doesn't answer right away, humming in thought. This is rather amusing, how not much has changed. You're automatically on the suspicious side of him, ready for some elaborate lie. Despite being his girlfriend, you are always getting something other than the truth.

"I wouldn't say I'm getting revenge, more so repaying a favor."

His explanation gives you no peace of mind, ruffling what little confidence you had. Your wand is still following his figure, but it does little to intimidate him. What spell would you even cast against him? What would work against the Dark Lord?

In your brainstorming you don't sense the fluctuating aura, sweat dripping down the back of your neck. He's so calm it makes you sick. When he holds his own wand in hand, you barely realize the situation you're in. 

"Expelliarmus!"

Just as he had hoped, the wand in your hand goes flying to the ground, bouncing twice before rolling away. Most wizards and witches are completely reliant on their wands for magical conjuring, but when it comes to you two, that's not the case.

Quickly you reach your hand towards the object, fingertips outstretched in urgency. 

"Accio," you utter the spell confidently, almost smiling as the item is propelled back to your hand. Tom isn't surprised, awaiting your next move with interest. The last time you two dueled with this much vigor, he was left with chills. 

"Obscuro!"

Another spell is fired, this time towards him. A piece of cloth covers the brunette's eyes, temporarily blinding his vision as you appear behind him, placing your wand directly at his back. You mean business, that's evident in your movements, so he raises his hands. The blindfold vanishes immediately, his spellcasting more refined compared to yours. He turns when you allow him the space, eyes narrowed in your direction.

"Bravo, (Y/N), you continue to surprise me. Next time, use immobulus, or something more challenging. I wouldn't mind seeing you bare your fangs either."

At his snide comment you debate using Bombarda, a vein rising in your neck. He carefully reaches over, barely cupping your jaw. When his thumb hovers over your bottom lip you grab his wrist, not in the mood for these petulant games. 

"Don't forget I could bite you, Riddle. My bite isn't something to be trifled with, especially now," you retort, pushing his arm away. He still doesn't get the point of your threats, finding this display as the opposite of frightening. Back in your heyday, a little bickering was an example of your pride. You attempt to turn from his presence, but cannot as he reaches for you, holding you by the wrist. A faint pressure of his wand is held against your skin, a black and inky substance drawn on your skin. The previously bare inner forearm is now the canvas for that accursed symbol, one you always hated. You meet his eyes again, a shiver overtaking your body. The Dark Mark. 

"Keep your eyes open and your wits about you, (Y/N). The Chamber will open once again, and a Muggle will be the catalyst."

The figure is fading away from your senses, a blurring image that makes you feel drowsy. His voice is ever changing, repetitive with several echoes behind it. You reach out for his shoulder, fingers barely able to grasp the clothing.

"Wait-Tom! Don't go yet! What are you telling me!"

The young man smiles at your anxiety, devious as he watches it grow. He clasps the charm around your neck, watching as the horcrux shimmers in the darkness. He trusted you with the charm because he knew you would protect it. You wouldn't misplace it. Wouldn't drop it. Wouldn't forget its existence. The only sight that gives him that same reassurance is your eyes, those iris' that combat the light of meteor showers. 

"I'm telling you to keep yourself alert. Keep yourself as sharp as a blade and sturdy as a soldier. I trust you, a faithful witch, and a resilient Naga. Those fangs will protect you when I cannot."

The words fade away with the dream, swept underneath the rug as you resume your consciousness. The blankets around you are spread out, the only comfort as your heart pounds. The necklace is still hanging around your throat, silver cold against your skin.The mark on your arm is gone but you can still feel it. It's a reminder of a promise, as well as a sacred path. You are not just a Slytherin. You are not his pet. You are the only one who knows the workings behind the mind of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Chapter Text

Oliver Wood, the Weasley Twins, and other Gryffindor students are struggling with this game of Quidditch. The captain typically has no problem facing off against Slytherin; they're the scumbags who think hard work is useless when they can pay money to cheat. Every time a green cape passes his peripheral vision, he's left queasy as though someone has kicked him in the stomach. What's worse is that he showed the other guys that he's not influenced by your persona when, in reality, you have got him pinned. The Scottish man accidentally crashes into Harry, his mind on the fritz since your conversation. 

McGonagall notes the star player's odd behavior but cannot decide the cause. She sighs at the catastrophe, baffled that the opposing team could be winning. The Transfiguration teacher repositions her hat, the accessory drooping as the breeze arrives. Hermione Granger clears her throat, hoping to ask for clarification on recent events and distract herself.

"Professor McGonagall, does Oliver seem a little off today? You don't think he's caught a cold, do you,” Hermione asks. The professor quirks a brow at her student’s question before humming nonchalantly. 

“Miss Granger, I agree that something is amiss, but to say what is uncertain. It’s always possible that Mr. Wood has an off day, no matter how rare. Come to think of it, I’ve only seen him act this way twice before, the first before the Quidditch championship and the second after he played his first game on Hogwarts grounds.”

The woman continues to ramble on about the strange display, caught up in memories and leaving Hermione to herself. As a Keeper, it is the young man’s job to block any incoming shots at the goalposts, and more often than he would care to admit, getting the wind knocked out of him in front of you was not doing him favors. He had been stuck dodging the bludgers and quaffles as he kept thinking back to your story about playing Quidditch. You were a Keeper, too, which meant that you would judge every action he took in the future. Speaking of your reactions, you were crossing your fingers that the student would avoid another injury. 

The Gryffindor student moved at the last second as a ball flew from above, your voice interrupting his foggy mind. 

“Oliver Wood avoids another painful meeting with the bludger, and Harry Potter grabs the golden snitch, ending this game! Gryffindor wins!”

The winners immediately land on the field, each wearing a wide smile. During the excitement, Harry is lifted onto the twin’s shoulders, being carried by the team. Every house except Slytherin is cheering without fail, screaming praises at the group of bruised young men. Oliver sees you in the stands, clapping with vigor despite your rivalry. He waves his arms towards you, hooting and hollering a victory chant. You chuckle at the display of grandiose machismo, heart swelling with happiness. Quidditch is always a challenging experience, especially when you're covered in mud, and to this degree, you understand his plight. 

Draco Malfoy scoffs at the transaction, muttering and scowling in his seat. Crabbe and Goyle offer their services, but the blonde only shoos them away. If he were in that field, failure would surely never happen. Pansy Parkinson notices his sour mood and attempts to lighten it, yet that only causes the boy to storm off angrily. As the crowd begins to disperse, you make your way down to the field, inspecting the scene for the Gryffindor golden boy. Instead of the Scottish brunette, you run into the ginger snap twins, both of them talking over each other. You cannot make sense of their ramblings as one pushes his counterpart, instigating a light brawl. The captain rushes over to reprimand his foolish teammates, but stops dead in his tracks as he comes face-to-face with you. 

“Oh, pardon me, Professor, I wasn't expecting to see you. I mean, I saw you in the crowd—you look spiffy as always—but I thought you would be off to class after the game. Ignore me unless you're supposed to help Madame Hooch with something.”

He is obviously nervous, though you can't imagine why. Is he embarrassed about the game, or is it something else? 

“Why, thank you for saying that, Mr. Wood. No, I am not assisting Madame Hooch in Flying class; I only came to congratulate you on your Quidditch play. Remarkable moves for a Keeper.”

He feels his heart stop beating, and he finds that the world has slowed down for a limited time. You wave your hand as you stroll off, intending to say a silent goodbye. Oliver places a hand on your shoulder, an idea in his mind.

“Don't tell me you'll leave me in suspense after your story. I hoped to see Slytherin’s prime Keeper in the air, not walking away.”

You turn to face him, a smug aura turned on as you place your hands in your pockets. It's been at least fifty years since you've had a real competitive streak, and in that time, you had forgotten the thrill of playing. 

“As much as I appreciate your offer, your team is in no shape to compete. I suggest a hearty rest before you engage in this activity. After all, you are in Gryffindor, and I advise you to avoid any more reckless behavior.”

The young man looks at the rest of his team, waving them to get changed and head back to class. One of the twins offers you their broomstick, but you politely dismiss it, snapping your fingers to make your broom appear. Most of the object is painted black, but the edge of the brush transitions to a brilliant white, imitating an ombre shade. 

“Reckless behavior, aye? Slytherin seems to be the troublemaker, not us. I'm willing to spare a race if you want a competition.”

“You’re the one who is asking for a race, not me. Don't get too confident because you won an easy game, and don't complain when you chase my dust.”

Without further ado, you kick off the field with your broom and send yourself flying. Oliver never hesitates as he follows close behind, disappointed that he let his guard down. You race ahead above the school grounds, passing through tight passageways from muscle memory. Wind rushes against your face, blowing your robes backward and disheveling your hair. Hogwarts had plenty of lessons that you enjoyed, but the feeling of riding the wind without care was unlike any classroom lecture. Underneath you was the Black Lake, its waters shimmering with the afternoon light. In the distance, some Merfolk were surveying the area and noticed the two of you flying. You dip down until you hover over the lake’s surface, waving toward the inhabitants. 

“Do all the professors take such big breaks!?” Oliver yells behind you. 

“No, but I'm not the same as the others! If anyone asks, I’ll say I borrowed you to run an errand, alright?”

You focus on your broom's speed, leaning forward as you see Hogsmeade in the distance. It should be a clean break for you, but Oliver slips past you, his shoulder making contact with you. The light shove regains your attention, and you intend to win this competition. Unfortunately, both of you are going at an intense speed, eventually forcing you to crash into each other on the cobblestone. Your fall is softened by the young man underneath you, who, unbeknownst to you, placed himself there to catch you. He's breathing quickly as he takes in the scene and, more importantly, the sight of you on his chest. 

You brush the dirt from your clothes as you quickly stand. Oliver is prepared to get up by himself, only to see your extended hand in his direction. He takes the offer, grimacing as a dull ache resides in his leg. You notice the reaction and try to locate the injury.

“I'm very sorry, Oliver. Is your leg alright?”

He struggles to find his words, contemplating if he can hide his discomfort. Before he can explain away the scrape, you have your wand in hand and effortlessly cast Episkey. In seconds, the pain is gone, and now he has no idea what to say.    

“It's much better thanks to you, Professor. Sorry we collided back there; I tried to break your fall in case you got hurt, but it may have been in vain.”

You weren't expecting this response, so you said nothing, smiling. 

“I'm okay, so there's no need to worry about it. I'll buy you a Butterbeer to apologize. Similar to Gryffindor’s acts of bravery, Slytherin’s ambitious nature can be risky, to say the least.”

The brunette nods, finding his heart beating quicker than usual. He's still recovering from being so close to you, the fragrance of your perfume tainting the air. To hide his flustered persona, he clears his throat. The sound causes you to raise an expectant brow in return.

“You are nothing like any Slytherin I've met. Sure, you're ambitious, but not to the degree you intimidate me.”

His explanation nearly throws you off-kilter, butterflies floating in your ribcage. You walk alongside him toward the center of Hogsmeade, passing various shops and stalls. A gust of wind blows past you two, carrying leaves and rubbish. You put your hands in your coat pockets and huddle underneath the warm fabric. A shiver runs down your spine, causing goosebumps on your skin. 

The Quidditch Captain watches how you bury your chin in your scarf, the green and silver fabric worn down with time. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Contrary to what most believe, Slytherins aren't all evil. We’re calculating and determined, but those assets make it incredibly difficult to bond with others. Honestly, Slytherins and Ravenclaws often get along because of our competitive nature.”

You’re about to open the door for him when he approaches you. It seems both of you have the same idea. He gestures to the door and grabs the handle, allowing you to walk in. Immediately, the air is heavy with warmth and the smell of dessert. You give him a quick thank you and head to a table, trying to avoid glancing at other customers. Despite your avoidant eyes, some of the bystanders take notice of your clothing colors. 

The waitress approaches your table, raising a brow as to why you're here during school hours. You pull out your teaching license, explaining how you're currently running an errand. Within seconds, she scribbles down the order. You reach into your pocket again, pulling out the necessary payment and a tip. 

“Are you cold, Professor? If so, you should drink up. After all, you can't get sick in the first month of the school year.”

You blow on the warm beverage, watching the foam move to the cup's rim. It tastes exactly like it did fifty years ago: sweet with the tiniest kick. Being here is bittersweet, as though you're caught in a memory. You notice your reflection on the liquid’s surface before looking somewhere else. 

“I'm doing better. Trust me, I want to teach you, kids, for as long as possible. Am I meeting your expectations so far?”

He smiles in silence, unsure of how to phrase his opinion. 

“You’ve got my support if that's what you mean. Comparatively, everyone likes you more than Snape, but that shouldn't surprise you. He's a pain in the arse, meanwhile, you teach because you care. I bet you'll give him a run for his money. Not only that, but you squared Malfoy away without blinking, and that deserves applause.”

The Scotsman drinks his beverage before raising it, giving you a silent toast. You wave off his gesture but smile in return. 

“I have personal experience with entitled brats; he's another one that comes from the Malfoy lineage. I've never understood the pureblood debacle in our society; it serves no purpose other than causing unjust fear. A true witch or wizard can see past familial ties, and I hope that's the case for Draco.”

When you finish your Butterbeer, you get ready to leave the establishment. Oliver gives you a skeptical once-over. 

“You should head back to Hogwarts, tell Minerva—I mean—Professor McGonagall that you were helping me with an errand. Tell her I'm at Ollivander’s Wand Shop if she asks, and I’ll be back shortly. It was a pleasure to talk to you.”

You let out a large sigh when you're out the door of The Three Broomsticks, a cloud of mist escaping your mouth. A searing, hot pain runs up your forearm, almost as though a fire burns through your veins. Not again, this can't be happening again. You remove your left hand from your pocket, rolling the sleeve of your robe up. What you see is unmistakable, but your eyes blur, and tears cloud your vision.

 The Dark Mark rests atop your skin, black ink moving like water, slowly becoming more apparent. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't an illusion. He's back and expecting your allegiance. 

Chapter Text

Tattoos are permanent for a reason, and when someone wants a needle to poke their skin repeatedly, the result should be worth the pain. It can be anything, from poetry stanzas to elaborate portraits; the design is flexible. The mark on your arm, however, brings nothing but pain. What many don't know is how the Dark Lord created his symbol. Why did he choose the combined image of a snake and a skull? 

You know the answer as you pull on the thread of your robe’s sleeve, watching as the dark material stretches and snaps. It's all you can do to ignore the burning sensation. At this rate, your sleeve will have a hole in it. It’s a bad habit that developed somewhere between your fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts. 

Fifty years hasn't dulled the burn. No, it hurts the same as when he gave it to you, and as time passed, you learned to manage it. Even now, as you feel your veins throb and pulse in tandem with the Mark, you resist the pull. As of now, you’re leaning over the counter of Ollivander’s Wand Shop, impatiently waiting for the old man to appear. 

A ruckus from the back of the shop piques your interest, but all you can do is tilt your head to look. Another wave of pain causes you to bury your face in your arms. 

“Stop it, please. I can't….I won’t do it. I'm not going to let you control me….”

Another noise echoes throughout the small space, accompanied by a distant mumbling. As you close your eyes in frustration, you fail to see the shopkeeper's approach. Immediately, the elder rushes to your side, observing how you clutch your arm to your chest. 

“Good heavens, what are you doing here, (Y/N)? As much as I like seeing a prodigious alumni like yourself visit, you should be at Hogwarts.”

You shrug at his observation, trying to remain capable of conversation. Carefully, you lay your forearm on the counter, revealing the symbol to your trusted colleague. Ollivander grimaces, aware of what this predicts. The snake on your skin weaves its coils up and down, constantly moving as though it has awareness. 

“I was in the area, and I thought you would understand where I'm coming from. Not only that, but I wanted to ask what you thought of Harry Potter.”

The shopkeeper pulls a chair from out of nowhere, using Accio with a quick maneuver. You sit down without resistance, still grasping your arm in pain. He sighs as the thought of the Dark Lord crosses his mind, now comparing your love with that of Lily and James Potter. In Ollivander’s eyes, you're still a student and child, but he knows better. Fifty years may have passed, and with that, your maturity has developed, yet you still look so young—a professor who can't age but can still die from mortal injuries. You had to watch your friends grow old as disease and fragility broke them down. 

He carefully grasps your arm, rotates it, and observes its condition. He is confident that the worst has come true. 

“The boy has a striking resemblance to his father but the empathetic nature of his mother. There is, however, something troubling me.”

Ollivander scratches his head in thought. It worries you quite a lot. Still, you have come here to get answers, even if they bring bad news. He slowly lifts his view to meet you, dread apparent as sweat rests on his brow. 

“When his wand chose him, the young Mr. Potter knew nothing about the Dark Lord. Yet, both wands contain a Phoenix feather core from the same Phoenix. At my age, I know when something is a coincidence, and this is nothing but fate.”

A cold sweat rests on your neck as you listen to your senior. Despite your recent excitement at the start of the school year, now everything is dreadful. 

“I’ll keep my eyes out for any suspicious activities. In the meantime, we cannot panic unless we want to cause more trouble…”

You maneuver yourself off the chair, gripping the counter as you regain control. The shopkeeper watches in anticipation, waiting for you to request his help. Unfortunately, you never ask. He can't decipher what you are planning as you leave the exit. 

“Hslshe Hsahsk. Turn back. Shiehsj Hshhha Ssthhii Shehhu Shlshiehszsse Ssshsahshsra. Remember the power you left behind.”

Words swim effortlessly through your mind as you walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. You used to think the ability to speak and translate Parseltongue was a gift. It could have been considered your private conversational tool with Tom until some of your colleagues heard you say it. Then, it was another cruel joke that spared joy at your expense. 

Unlike Tom, you found the comparison between you and Salazar Slytherin to be a treacherous insult. You were always proud of your chosen House, but the same could not be said for your peers. 

“Tom, where are we going? We’re not supposed to be wandering around the castle!”

Fifty years. Five decades. Half a century ago. Yet you remember it vividly. His warm and secure hold on your palm reassured you. You were sure he had never held you this tightly before, prompting you to recognize the urgency in his actions. The Fifth Year Prefect continued leading you down the vast corridors, scanning the shadows for any bystanders. When the coast was clear, Tom pulled you into one of the bathroom alcoves, still giving no information. 

Impatiently, you turned on your heels, nearly colliding with his chest. 

“I’ve found something I need to show you. Something that only you or I could find. Watch closely, won’t you?”

The young prodigy stepped away from you briefly, walking to one of several sinks in the Slytherin Girl’s bathroom. You were still confused, ready to reach toward him, when he glanced in your direction. Those brown eyes and that wicked smile told you everything you needed to know: trusting him was the key. 

“Ayaeeh aaah ssss seyythaa. Open.”

As he spoke the password, the sinks began to emit a low hum, trembling and moving to reveal a secret passageway. A few feet away from you was a dark pit, and if you squinted, you could see the edges of a ladder. Hesitantly, you looked up at him, unsure if embarking below the castle was a good idea. 

“Ladies first,” he spoke with a wry smile. You rolled your eyes, taking a small step closer. 

“Nice try, Riddle, you're going first. Who else will catch me if I fall?”

He began descending the ladder with an exaggerated sigh and signature smile. When he was partially down, he waved a hand, instructing you to follow. The metal bars creaked underneath you two, making your heart race with anxiety. When he landed below, you looked over your shoulder, ensuring he awaited you. Carefully, you let your shoes hit the damp stone, ignoring the uninviting atmosphere. The closer you looked at the winding tunnels and passageways, the more your stomach churned. 

And like the lovestruck fool you were, you followed. When befriending Tom Riddle, there is no such thing as walking away. Fear doesn't exist when you stand beside the Dark Lord—only when you stand against him. Never did you believe a day would come when that applied to you.

“I'm trusting you with the knowledge of this place's secrets—mine and those of Salazar Slytherin’s. Do you know where we are?”

His cold voice cut through your thoughts without hesitation. You knew the answer but didn’t know what it entailed until you heard the sounds of scraping ahead. Automatically, you reach for your wand. Tom shakes his head in warning, grasping your wrist and halting your movements. 

“You won't need your wand. Here, take my hand. Please walk closer to me until she gets used to you.” 

Both of you arrived at the central room hand-in-hand. The entire space had multiple tunnels, likely connecting to the rest of the sewers. You glanced around, taking in every detail, from the blue hue of the air to the giant statue commemorating the original wizard who created this labyrinth—the scraping sound from earlier repeated, growing closer with every second. Slowly, your gaze drifted across the flooded area, and you saw the creature’s reflection. 

As you processed the serpent's identity, you immediately covered your eyes. Tom, who was still beside you, chuckled in amusement. 

“Tom, that's a Basilisk! You know what she could do to you if you look, right?”

Again, your friend smiled, although you couldn't see it. With your entwined fingers, he guided your hand. The reptile continued watching the scene vigilantly. 

“You can open your eyes, (Y/N). Not everyone can, but because of your lineage and gift, you can see past her abilities. You are half snake, aren't you,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. 

The creature, understanding her master’s fondness for you, slithered closer. Her scales rested underneath your fingertips, allowing you to pet the protected shell. When you saw her, what little anxiety you had disappeared. 

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you? No, I'm not half of anything; you're thinking about a different form of mine. Just because I appear human doesn't mean I'm any less of a Naga. We wouldn't exactly be accepted if we roamed around without hiding ourselves.”

While hearing your account, Slytherin's heir frowned. He knew you didn't like assumptions, yet he spoke without a filter, crossing the singular line you had. His fingers twitched at his side, uncertain if you would welcome his touch after the accidental comment. Water dripped down the chamber walls, echoing in the darkness. Each droplet fell uniquely, mirroring the silent tears many had left behind. 

Picking up on your somber reaction, the serpent continued to bow her head, gently offering her support.

“You don't need to hide yourself from me, not ever. " I'm not someone easy to deter,” Tom said softly. Still, you turned away from him, undecided about your emotions. He wanted to express his frustration with the misunderstanding, but somewhere in his pitch-black heart wouldn't let him. 

With a sigh, you pulled your arm away from the creature and turned to face your trusted friend. He stared at you perplexingly and approached you with his palm outstretched. Despite the wicked plans he set in motion, you couldn't understand why he was so keen on your wellbeing. 

Why did Tom Riddle put you above the rest of his colleagues? Was he posturing to convince you to join him, or was a tiny fragment of love genuine? Even now, you cannot say. 

You shake off the conspiracy theories running through your mind and try to portray a calm demeanor as you return to Hogwarts. You're a blank slate on the outside, contrasting the inner turmoil of recalling Salazar Slytherin’s hideout. The sound of grinding scales and gnashing fangs echoes in your distant memories. 

“I need to see the Headmaster before anything else happens. Please, this can't end like last time.”

As you walk through the halls and dodge unfocused students, the hair on your neck stands up. The further you head into the castle, the more students flood the area. Hurriedly, you push them aside and approach the front of the crowd. Harry stands uncomfortably beside Filch before he sees you and smiles. You follow most students’ eyes and find yourself staring at a petrified Mrs. Norris. 

The commotion causes McGonagall and Dumbledore to arrive. When they recognize the situation, it isn't long before they give you a worried glance. A shiver runs down your spine, worse than a Dementor’s touch, and you know the problems are only beginning.

“The Chamber of Secrets is open. This time, I will succeed.”