"Actually," Harry muttered, rubbing his nose, "you didn't have to make that so… clear."
Professor McGonagall frowned in disapproval. "Speaking Parseltongue doesn't automatically make someone a dark wizard. It's just that, statistically speaking, most Parselmouths happen to be. But you mustn't let that cloud your judgment about your classmates, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded so fast his glasses nearly slipped off. "Of course, Professor! I'd never become a dark wizard!"
"I believe you, Potter," McGonagall said with utter conviction.
Honestly, with that temperament and that level of chaos? She could hardly imagine Harry managing the kind of long-term scheming dark wizards were known for.
Harry didn't know what she was thinking, but her tone made him feel oddly pleased.
With a flick of his hand, Tom took hold of both of them and guided them straight down the pipe.
When McGonagall realized he was using flight magic, true, wandless flight, her jaw nearly dropped.
Aside from Voldemort, she'd never known another wizard capable of it.
They landed with a soft thud deep underground.
Tom's expression shifted, growing serious as he began recounting everything that had happened: the diary, its origins, and the series of events that led to this moment.
He was careful, though.
He omitted certain… colorful details, like how he'd tortured Voldemort's fragment, or some of his more "affectionate" remarks toward the Dark Lord.
Instead, he told the story with elegant precision, each word measured, each pause dramatic.
By the time he finished, McGonagall's face was flushed with outrage.
"Albus!" she burst out. "How could he possibly hand such a dangerous matter to a student! Do you know what that diary was? That was You-Know-Who! Even a fifth-year Voldemort is far beyond a child's level! How could Dumbledore be so, so reckless!"
Tom raised a hand modestly. "It's all right, Professor. I was willing to take the risk for the school's sake. In the end, it turned out well, Voldemort's fragment is gone, the Basilisk is dead, and no one was seriously hurt. That's more than enough for me."
McGonagall sighed deeply. "It's our failure, not yours."
It was supposed to be the professors protecting the students, ensuring a safe learning environment.
Yet for two years now, it had been Riddle solving the problems, Quirrell in first year, that fraud Lockhart in second, and now the Basilisk.
Honestly, Tom Riddle had been doing a better job as Headmaster than most of them combined.
Hic!
The echoing sound broke the tension.
In the confined chamber, Harry's hiccup rang louder than expected. He wrinkled his nose. "Why does it suddenly smell like tea down here?"
They finally stepped into the true heart of the Chamber of Secrets.
Harry suddenly remembered his wand, he'd dropped it earlier during the fight.
"Right!" He scrambled to the side, picking it up like a lost treasure.
Meanwhile, Tom led McGonagall beneath the towering statue of Salazar Slytherin himself.
At its base, where the ancient wizard's hand extended forward, yawned a dark, circular opening.
"Slytherin's legacy lies inside," Tom said quietly.
"Don't rush in." McGonagall swept out her arm, halting him.
With a flick of her wand, the broken stones on the floor transfigured into a handful of small creatures, mice, lizards, a rabbit or two, that scurried into the darkness.
Moments later, a faint green glow flickered within the tunnel.
Then she cast several detection charms in quick succession.
When none of them triggered, she finally nodded. "It's safe. We can proceed."
Even McGonagall, strict and stoic as she was, couldn't hide the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
The thought of uncovering one of the Founders' true legacies, it was enough to make any scholar's heart quicken.
She led the way in, her wandlight illuminating the rough-hewn walls.
Tom and Harry followed closely behind, the air growing colder with each step.
After only a short walk, they emerged into a wide stone chamber.
Every wall, including the entrance behind them, was carved with countless, squirming glyphs that shimmered faintly like living things.
McGonagall immediately began analyzing the markings, tracing her wand along one of the symbols.
Tom, meanwhile, moved faster, his eyes scanning, decoding, connecting invisible lines of ancient power.
Within minutes, he'd found four faint magical nodes embedded in the walls.
He tapped each one lightly, and the crawling runes began to whirl, linking and rearranging themselves in a dazzling, kaleidoscopic pattern.
It took nearly five minutes for the symbols to settle again.
When they did, the once-opaque writing revealed lines of text that shimmered like emerald flame.
McGonagall and Tom leaned forward to read.
Harry, on the other hand, stood there completely lost, staring at the glowing runes as if they were moving worms.
Noticing his baffled face, McGonagall took the opportunity to lecture.
"Mr. Potter," she said, "Slytherin lived a thousand years ago, long before English even existed. All the great wizards and scholars of that era used Classical Latin for their spells and inscriptions."
She gave him a pointed look. "If you ever wish to advance further in magical theory, you'll need to master Latin as well. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor," Harry said awkwardly, cheeks pink.
Once again, he felt like the class dunce.
Tom was effortlessly reading thousand-year-old magic, and he could barely tell one rune from another.
For a moment, he even remembered what Draco Malfoy had said at the start of term, about how some people were just born for greatness.
To his own surprise, Harry found himself thinking that maybe, for once, Malfoy hadn't been entirely wrong.
As he stood lost in thought, McGonagall and Tom's expressions began to darken.
The further they read, the tighter their brows furrowed.
McGonagall glanced at Tom, hesitating. For a moment, she almost told him to stop reading.
But in the end, she said nothing.
Whatever was written here, whatever Slytherin had left behind, they both needed to know.
And so, in the dim green light of the chamber, they read on.