Chapter 352: In the Girls' Bathroom
Is this really the man Dumbledore favors?
Is this Fudge?
From a certain perspective, Cornelius Fudge was actually quite remarkable.
In the eyes of the wizarding world, he was merely Dumbledore's obedient yes-man.
In Dumbledore's eyes, however, he was a competent Minister—honest, compliant, and only slightly too fond of gold.
Every one of these impressions had been carefully crafted by Fudge himself, presented to the world exactly as he wished to be seen.
Had he not begun expanding his authority so inexplicably of late, his greatest weakness might have remained hidden forever.
"This is the most efficient way to avoid responsibility," Riddle said flatly. "You only need to look busy—appear attentive. Even I find it irritating."
"Which is precisely why you must work harder," Dumbledore replied with a faintly mischievous smile. "When the day comes that you no longer wish to remain at Hogwarts, I may already be dead of old age. At that point, you could always try becoming Minister of Magic yourself—ensure the train of the British wizarding world stays on the proper tracks."
"So you still intend to die peacefully of old age?" Riddle snapped, his irritation finally bleeding into his voice.
He had completely forgotten that the soundproofing spell had already been lifted.
"Tom," Dumbledore said calmly, "don't think I'm unaware of your intentions."
He was about to continue—
When a shrill scream cut through the air, accompanied by the loud rush of splashing water.
"Who's there?!" Myrtle wailed. "A man's voice?! My body and heart belong to Harry Potter!"
"Have you come to mock my foolish dreams again? A toad dreaming of swan flesh?"
"Only I know that Harry cares about me. He even stopped that red-haired boy and the little vampire next to him from reporting me to the Ministry! Harry… oh, Harry…"
She suddenly noticed someone standing behind her and immediately launched into even more incoherent rambling.
"Poor Harry," Dumbledore and Riddle said at almost the same time.
They exchanged a brief glance.
Riddle inclined his head slightly and stepped aside, gesturing for Dumbledore to open the door.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Myrtle shrieked, vanishing back into the toilet bowl with a dramatic splash that soaked the entire bathroom.
The door swung open.
The bathroom lay in near darkness—most of the candles had been extinguished by the gushing water, and the stone walls and floor were slick and damp.
Riddle grimaced in disgust. With a flick of his wand, the candles relit one by one, and the water retreated, leaving the ground dry once more.
Myrtle cautiously surfaced again, half her translucent head peeking above the water.
"What did you see?" Dumbledore asked gently.
His tone was so natural, as though his presence here required no explanation at all.
Perhaps because of that, Myrtle gradually calmed down. After all, Dumbledore had been her headmaster when she was alive.
"I didn't see anything unusual," she said hesitantly. "Everything was the same as always… though, if you're here, then maybe something is wrong. I was distracted earlier."
"Distracted?" Dumbledore smiled, as if he had expected nothing else.
"Professor," Myrtle said shyly, fluttering her eyes, "do you know Tom Riddle? He's a very handsome Slytherin boy. He looks a bit like you."
"He's my father," Riddle replied smoothly.
In the wizarding world, fathers and sons sharing the same name was hardly unusual—middle names usually distinguished them, a detail lost on those unfamiliar with the family.
"It really does seem that way…" Myrtle muttered. Then she shook herself. "No! I have Harry! How could I ever—"
"Myrtle," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "please leave us for a while. We suspect someone has broken in here and need to investigate."
Reluctantly, Myrtle cast one last lingering glance at Riddle before sinking back into the depths of the toilet bowl, vanishing to parts unknown.
"Here," Dumbledore said, stepping forward and examining a copper faucet beneath the sink.
"It's obvious," Riddle replied, rolling his eyes. "The only faucet that never produces water—and the only one carved with a snake."
Before Dumbledore could respond, a strange hissing sound escaped Riddle's lips.
"Open."
The faucet burst into a brilliant white glow and began spinning violently.
The sink trembled, then slowly shifted aside, revealing a massive pipe—wide enough for a person to pass through.
"So Slytherin entered this way," Dumbledore murmured. "Did he crawl? Or perhaps… was he an Animagus? A snake?"
"I suppose—well, maybe."
"You should try not to be surprised," Riddle said. "And I suggest you follow me."
Before Dumbledore could ponder why that sounded like a warning, Riddle had already leapt down.
Sliding down would have been a more accurate description.
Only then did Dumbledore understand.
The slide was utterly revolting.
A thick, sticky substance coated the walls, and with his magical vision unobscured, he could see every strand of yellow-green mucus—along with the countless insect corpses trapped within it.
The only consolation was that the slime allowed them to descend at remarkable speed.
As they slid, thinner pipes branched off in every direction. Dumbledore suspected the basilisk used these passages regularly.
The tunnel twisted and plunged downward at a terrifying angle.
By his estimation, they traveled for miles, descending far beneath the school—possibly even beneath the Black Lake itself.
Eventually, the slope leveled out.
Dumbledore shot out of the pipe and landed heavily on wet stone.
They were in a vast stone tunnel, tall enough for a man to stand upright. Riddle was already there, calmly pointing his wand at himself and performing a cleansing charm.
"I still don't understand why the Chamber of Secrets was built like this," Riddle muttered, staring at the ground.
The stone floor was damp and littered with small animal bones.
"Perhaps it reflects Slytherin's origins," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "It's said he came from a swamp."
"And environments most people find repulsive can still feel like home to some," he added.
At the same time, Dumbledore's pale blue eyes glimmered faintly as he searched for any trace of a third presence.
"Have you considered that whoever entered this place might have flown?" he asked quietly.
"Then why didn't you fly down?" Riddle shot back. "Did you want to experience the texture of the slide?"
"Flying has its merits," Dumbledore said mildly. "But caution is wiser in Slytherin's Chamber. Conserving magic is never a mistake."
There was no sign of anyone else.
Then—
Dumbledore paused.
What… is that?
(End of Chapter 352)
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