Malfoy felt as though he had entered a never-ending pipe. Darkness pressed in from all sides, and the air was thick and sticky. A cold yin wind born of convection scraped against his face like invisible blades, slicing past his ears. The passage twisted and coiled endlessly, some places steep as a well shaft, others branching into narrow pipes too small for anyone to pass through.
As a precaution, Malfoy cast a Levitation Charm on himself, hoping to soften any fall and avoid unnecessary injury.
But his fears proved unnecessary. The latter part of the tunnel leveled out, and soon he shot from the mouth of the pipe, landing steadily on damp stone. Before him stretched a dark corridor of slick rock, wide enough for a grown man to stand upright.
"Lumos," he murmured, raising his wand. Pale light flared, illuminating the tunnel ahead.
Even as he moved carefully, his footsteps echoed—pat, pat, pat—across the wet ground. The sound was the only thing that disturbed the suffocating silence. Each splash seemed to deepen the oppressive gloom, and from time to time he heard the brittle crunch of bones underfoot—skulls of small animals, long dead and yellowed with age.
"Is this the skin that thing shed?" he muttered, eyes catching on something gleaming ahead. A massive snakeskin lay coiled across the floor, dazzlingly bright green even in the dim light. The hollow inside proved that the creature that had shed it had to be at least twenty feet long—a six-meter behemoth.
Hunters often said, I'd rather face five hundred vipers than one python. The former might kill you with poison; the latter will strangle the life out of you slowly. Watching one's breath fade, consciousness blur, and life slip away inch by inch was a fate more terrifying than death itself.
And now Malfoy had to face the Basilisk—deadly fangs, monstrous strength, and a gaze that could kill at once.
He hadn't come here to die, of course. His identity alone ensured Riddle wouldn't attack him on sight. Besides, after lying dormant so long, Riddle was likely lonely. Lockhart was useless as company; Riddle must have found him insufferable. In the original story, Riddle had even wasted time bragging to Harry before attacking.
Malfoy walked past the immense skin and deeper into the tunnel. It twisted through several sharp bends before he reached a dead-end wall carved with two intertwined serpents. Their eyes gleamed with embedded emeralds so large and vivid they seemed to glow on their own.
"As expected, it's useless." He frowned. His attempt to transfigure a button had failed—magic was clearly suppressed here. Even a Howler letter he tore open hung limp, deflated. "He prepared for this," Malfoy muttered, chilled but not discouraged.
"Open," he hissed in Parseltongue, forcing the strange syllables he had painstakingly memorized.
The stone serpents stirred. Slowly, they slithered apart, the wall splitting down the middle to reveal a passage beyond.
Malfoy stepped through.
A vast chamber stretched before him, dimly lit and echoing with stillness. Towering stone pillars lined the hall, each carved with coiled serpents twining up their lengths. The columns rose to a ceiling lost in shadow, and their serpentine carvings seemed to breathe in the flickering light, casting long, greenish reflections across the floor.
Malfoy shuddered. No matter where he stood, the carved snakes' eyes seemed to follow him—cold, watchful, oppressive.
As he passed the last pair of pillars, a gigantic statue loomed ahead, pressed against the far wall. The stone wizard's ancient, monkey-like face was wizened, his long beard trailing almost to the hem of his robes. At the statue's feet lay a man dressed in emerald-green robes, his golden curls spilling lifelessly across the floor.
"Merlin's beard…" Malfoy sighed inwardly. He had expected it, but seeing it in person still stirred complex feelings. Lockhart—pathetic even in life—looked even more pitiful now. So much for Hogwarts' shining celebrity.
From behind a pillar, a shadow glided forward—a tall, black-haired youth, his figure faintly translucent, like a ghost carved from mist.
"Oh?" The boy's voice echoed through the chamber. "I expected Harry Potter. I didn't imagine it would be you."
He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Let me think. Ah yes, Lockhart admired you quite a bit. Said you once gave him a bottle of his favorite whiskey. How amusing." A cold smile touched his lips. "Draco Malfoy, isn't it?" His tone carried a mockery clearly meant for Lockhart rather than Malfoy himself.
"Lord Voldemort!" Malfoy exclaimed, clutching his chest and raising his face in feigned reverence. His expression burned with fanatic awe.
Riddle's eyes narrowed at the name, fury flaring for an instant. His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade, and for a moment Malfoy feared he'd pushed too far. But he pressed on, ignoring the tension, and darted toward the diary lying beside Lockhart's limp body.
"Stay away from that book!" Riddle barked, crimson light flashing in his eyes. But Malfoy didn't stop. He drew a small glass bottle from his robes and splashed its bright red contents over the diary.
"How dare you!" Riddle's fury spiked. He raised Lockhart's ornate wand—a ridiculous piece of craftsmanship covered in gold filigree—but froze midway. His expression shifted. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Oh… the taste of life," he whispered, almost shuddering with pleasure. He lowered the wand, eyes half-lidded. "What is this?" he asked, voice thick with intoxication.
"Dragon blood," Malfoy stammered, realizing how rash he must have looked.
"Perfect!" Riddle's voice grew eager. "Far stronger than this fool's pitiful life force." He glanced disdainfully at Lockhart. "How do you know these secrets?"
"My father told me everything," Malfoy replied, bowing his head.
"Lucius, then," Riddle murmured, his spectral features thoughtful. From Lockhart's stolen memories, he could easily connect the dots. "It seems your father once served me well." A thin smile appeared on his lips.
"My father never believed you were truly dead," Malfoy said earnestly. "He always held faith that the Dark Lord could not perish—that even without a body, your spirit endured. He has been preparing for your return ever since, quietly rebuilding our family's influence within the wizarding world. You may already know from Lockhart's memories that our family remains wealthy, capable of supporting you fully." He bowed deeper. "So please, forgive his earlier actions that might have seemed disloyal."
Riddle ran a finger along Lockhart's wand, clearly pleased. "Your father and you have both proven your loyalty through action. How could I blame you?" His tone softened, almost indulgent. "If not for my trust in your family, I would never have revealed such vital secrets to him."
"Raise your head," Riddle commanded, his voice suddenly heavier, brimming with authority.
Malfoy obeyed.
"Do not be so tense," Riddle said with a faint chuckle. "I am always generous to the loyal—especially to those who bring me such gifts." The words sounded oddly archaic coming from the mouth of a teenage boy.
"Yes, my lord." Malfoy lifted his head slowly, playing the obedient subordinate perfectly.
"Relax," Riddle said again. "Tell me—will that man die?" Malfoy pointed hesitantly toward Lockhart, his voice trembling just enough to sound convincing.
Riddle smiled thinly. "An interesting question. The real reason he's like this is simple—he opened his heart to a stranger he could not see, pouring out all his secrets."
Having been trapped too long, or perhaps craving the pleasure of boasting, Riddle began recounting how he had manipulated Lockhart.
"I've lived many years," he said with an amused sneer, "but I've never met such a ridiculous fool. He told me, quite tearfully, that his class had been ruined by Cornish pixies—dozens of them! He was humiliated before his students. I comforted him, of course. Told him he was capable—just unlucky."
Riddle chuckled darkly. "Honestly, Dumbledore must be senile to choose such a charlatan for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Malfoy almost snorted aloud but restrained himself. If only you knew, you're even worse in this timeline, he thought privately.
"Lockhart confessed more and more," Riddle continued. "He admitted he feared people discovering his secret—that he was nothing more than a fraud relying on memory charms. He told himself he'd stay low-key, but he couldn't resist flaunting borrowed glory. I simply guided him along—told him he was powerful, only lacking opportunity."
Riddle's grin turned feral. "I even made him kill chickens. Told him sacrifice would grant him strength. He believed it. Pathetic."
He paused, lost in thought. "That day was a Quidditch match, if I recall. Such a dull sport."
"Agreed," Malfoy thought, though he kept silent, heart racing.
"He even managed to vanish the bones of the boy who defeated me," Riddle said, laughing aloud. "So I rewarded him."
His laughter echoed coldly through the chamber. "He wrote in the diary that he could no longer bear the shame, that he wanted real power. And I gave it to him. But nothing in this world comes without a price—he paid with his life."
He looked at Lockhart's body with clear disgust. "He'll die soon enough."
"I'm satisfied," Riddle went on, eyes glittering. "It seems the assistant he defeated once served under me as well. Draco, do you know anything about that?"
Malfoy shook his head quickly, feigning ignorance.
Riddle sighed. "I suppose I can't expect a child to understand everything." He turned away, voice softening. "My power isn't fully restored yet—it will take time. You may leave for now. I will find you again."
He licked his lips slowly. "The next time we meet, I trust there will be no mudbloods left at Hogwarts."
Malfoy's heart gave a triumphant leap. Mission accomplished. All he had to do now was reach Dumbledore's office, report everything, and the nightmare of this year would finally end.
But before he could move, Riddle's tone darkened. His eyes flicked toward a pillar behind Malfoy.
"However," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "it seems you've brought a guest. A filthy mudblood."
Malfoy froze, blood running cold.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow