Moaning Myrtle's lavatory had been dead for fifty years.
Not in the way ghosts were dead. In the way a place becomes unusable, rejected by habit until even the air feels stale. Students didn't avoid it because of fear. They avoided it because nobody wanted a pale face rising out of a toilet mid-squat to sob about betrayal and loneliness.
Even other ghosts kept their distance. Myrtle's talent for misery made Peeves look charming.
The place sat empty.
Elijah slipped inside. Myrtle was absent—probably flushing herself down a pipe to the Black Lake for dramatic attention.
Good.
He crossed to the sinks. The mirror showed Ginny's face: round, soft, still too young. He ignored it.
His eyes dropped to the taps. One stood out—tarnished, etched with a tiny, subtle snake. Tom Riddle's memory had never let that detail fade.
Elijah leaned closer.
"Open."
The word slid from his mouth as a hiss. Parseltongue came naturally to him now, not as an affectation, but as instinct.
The snake glowed.
White light burst from the tap. It spun violently, faster and faster, until the entire sink shuddered. Stone shifted with a low groan. The basin sank out of sight, revealing a dark pipe wide enough for a person to crawl through.
Elijah dropped in without hesitation and sealed the entrance behind him.
The descent was long, slick, and claustrophobic. Pipes branched in every direction, but only one tunnel remained wide enough to follow. The slide spat him into a cavern of black rock.
Before he could hit the ground, he murmured a levitation charm and drifted down lightly.
The tunnel was damp, the air heavy with moisture. Mud clung to the stone. Water dripped from the ceiling with steady persistence.
Elijah raised his wand.
Light blossomed above him, bright and harsh, driving back the darkness. The cavern revealed itself in layers of wet stone and shadow.
He moved forward without touching the ground.
Riddle's memories mapped the path precisely. Every curve of the tunnel, every narrowing turn, every wrong passage discarded decades ago.
Ahead, something pale lay coiled in the gloom.
Basilisk skin.
It was enormous, split and discarded like the husk of a giant serpent, its scales dull yet faintly iridescent under the light.
Riddle had never cared about it.
Elijah did.
Basilisk hide was rare, resistant, valuable. Armour, enchantments, potions. Even a single piece could be traded for favors or protection.
He studied it briefly, then filed the thought away.
"...Later."
A trunk expanded by magic. A quiet opportunity. Hogwarts was careless during holidays.
He passed the shed skin and continued deeper.
The tunnel twisted once more, then ended at a wall carved with two intertwined serpents. Emerald eyes glinted from their sockets, catching the light with unsettling clarity.
Elijah stepped closer.
"Open."
Parseltongue flowed again, low and commanding.
The serpents slid apart. Stone split with a grinding roar. The wall withdrew into darkness.
The Chamber of Secrets opened before him.
Pillars rose from the floor like the ribs of some buried beast, each wrapped in carved serpents that seemed almost alive in the shifting light. The ceiling vanished into shadow. A faint green glow permeated everything, thick and ancient.
Elijah walked between the pillars as if returning to a familiar place.
At the far end stood a colossal statue, pressed against the chamber wall.
Salazar Slytherin.
A face carved in stone, elongated and severe, beard flowing down to the hem of a wizard's robe. The monument was ugly, archaic, indifferent to beauty.
Elijah looked up without reverence.
Power mattered. Appearance did not.
"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!"
The statue moved.
Stone cracked. The mouth opened wider and wider until it became a vast black hollow.
Elijah closed Ginny's eyes at once.
Something shifted inside the statue.
A slow, heavy sound. Scales dragging against stone. Then impact.
The chamber trembled.
He felt the air change before he heard it fully. A massive body coiled across the floor, circling him in silence.
When the movement slowed, Elijah opened his eyes.
The basilisk rose behind him.
Its scales were deep green, shimmering with faint colours under the light. Its body was vast, ancient, coiled in a ring around him. Its head lifted high, eyes larger than lanterns, fixed upon him without hostility.
"Are you the Heir?"
It did not strike.
It waited.
Parseltongue was more than language here. Blood commanded blood.
"Yes," Elijah hissed.
The basilisk lowered its head.
Silence stretched across the chamber.
"You will move freely soon," Elijah said calmly. "Not yet."
His lips curved slightly.
He had not come to unleash it today. Only to confirm that it was real, awake, and obedient.
Halloween would come.
Hogwarts had a habit of requiring disasters.
...
Ginny woke with a dull ache behind her eyes.
For a moment, she did not understand why the light felt wrong.
She sat up too quickly. The room swayed.
Her dormitory looked normal. But... She dressed, washed, and returned for her books.
Her roommates were still asleep.
"Wake up," Ginny said, confused. "You'll be late."
A curtain rustled. A sleepy face appeared. "Ginny, what are you doing? It's the weekend."
"The weekend?"
The word felt unreal.
The girl yawned. "Yesterday was Friday. You said you felt ill. You even had Colin Creevey tell the professor."
Others stirred, voices full of concern.
Ginny forced a smile. "I'm fine. I must have mixed up the days."
They accepted it easily.
She did not.
Her gaze drifted to her desk.
Nothing lay on it.
But she knew what was in the drawer.
The diary.
Is it you, Mr. Riddle?
She did not speak the words.
Telling her parents now would mean shouting, scolding, and a Howler in the Great Hall. She would rather vanish into the Black Lake than endure that.
And she did not want to believe he would hurt her.
She had lost time.
But she felt unharmed.
That meant something.
Or it meant he was careful.
Her fingers hovered over the drawer handle, then stopped.
What if everything he had said was calculated? The encouragement, the jokes, the forbidden spells. What if she had simply been convenient?
Ginny stepped back.
She realised she knew almost nothing about Mr. Riddle.
Awards in a trophy room.
A voice in ink.
Nothing else.
Percy was brilliant too.
But Percy is a git.
Well... Mr. Riddle wasn't.
He felt ..gentle... alive.
Like Bill, she thought, and warmth flickered in her chest.
Then doubt returned.
If he did this, why?
She could not sleep.
So she left.
Ron was half asleep on a sofa. "Ginny, can you wake Hermione? Harry's got Quidditch practice. We're going to watch."
"Oh. Alright."
She fetched Hermione. They headed out together.
Ron looked at her again. "You sure you don't want to come?"
Ginny hesitated.
She felt empty. Restless.
And strangely, she remembered that her homework was finished.
All of it. In her handwriting.
"I'll come," she said quietly.
They ate quickly and walked to the pitch. Mist clung to the grass. The stands were empty.
Colin Creevey darted about with his camera.
Ginny sat beside Ron and Hermione.
Soon Harry and the team appeared, robes half fastened, brooms in hand.
Ron whistled. "You still practising?"
Harry looked exhausted. "Practising? No. Wood's been lecturing tactics for hours."
Ginny handed him her bread. "Do you want this?"
Harry hesitated.
Wood gave him no time.
He kicked off and soared into the air.
Practice ended before it began.
Wood's attention snapped to Colin. He descended furiously, convinced someone was spying.
"Slytherin doesn't need spies," George said.
Wood demanded to know why.
George pointed.
Green robes were entering the pitch.
Slytherin's team.
They walked in openly.
Wood landed hard. The Gryffindors gathered. The air tightened.
"What's happening?" Hermione asked.
"They're arguing," Ron said, already moving. "Come on."
They hurried closer.
Ginny's eyes caught on one figure.
Platinum hair. Cold, familiar features.
Draco Malfoy.
She knew him—his father had fought hers at Flourish and Blotts over the summer.
Her fingers curled tight.