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Chapter 49
Malfoy felt as though he'd been swallowed by an endless tunnel. It was pitch-black, slick with moisture, and the cold wind rushing through it lashed across his cheeks like knife edges. The pipe plunged steeply in several places, twisting and turning with sudden drops. Smaller side-tunnels branched off here and there, but most were too narrow for even a small child to squeeze through.
For safety, Malfoy muttered a Lightening Charm on himself, letting his body hover just enough to soften the impact of each sharp turn.
He needn't have bothered. The pipe eventually leveled out, spitting him gently onto wet stone. He straightened, boots splashing as he found himself at the mouth of a dim stone corridor—tall enough for a person to stand, but cramped and claustrophobic.
"Lumos," he murmured, flicking his wand.
Light spilled forward. His footsteps echoed through the tunnel, each splash emphasizing the emptiness around him. Occasionally his foot landed on brittle shapes—small animal skeletons—which cracked under his weight with sharp, unsettling snaps.
A little farther on, he froze.
"Is that… its shed skin?"
A massive serpent's skin lay coiled across the passageway, so bright green it gleamed even in the weak wandlight. It was hollow, easily twenty feet long—closer to six meters in Muggle measurements.
Hunters often said they'd rather face five hundred venomous snakes than a single python; poison could be treated, but crushing force left you helpless, watching your own breath disappear as the world narrowed to darkness. And here—this creature was both poisonous and enormous, with a killing gaze to top it off.
But Malfoy wasn't here to die.
At least Riddle wouldn't kill him instantly. Not someone useful. Not someone pure-blood.
And besides—Riddle had been without company for months. He certainly wasn't going to have a heartfelt chat with Lockhart. If anything, he'd look at that idiot like one might look at a slug on a salad.
Even in the original timeline, Riddle had bragged to Harry for ages before attempting murder.
Malfoy stepped over the shed skin and kept going. The tunnel wound sharply until eventually he reached a stone wall carved with two intertwined serpents. Their emerald eyes were so vivid they looked alive.
"It really doesn't work…" he muttered, tense.
His earlier preparations had failed. He'd tried to transfigure his buttons into rooster-shaped charms—useless. He'd torn open the Rooster Howler he'd smuggled in, only to find it as limp as a punctured balloon.
"As expected… he prepared for everything," Malfoy thought grimly. But it didn't change the plan.
"Open," he said in Parseltongue—the phrase he'd forced himself to memorize.
The stone serpents uncoiled and slid apart. The wall split open, revealing the doorway.
Malfoy stepped through.
The Chamber of Secrets stretched before him: a long, shadowed hall supported by towering stone pillars, each wrapped in carved serpents. The ceiling vanished into darkness, green mist coiling around the room like a living thing. The carved serpents seemed to follow him, their stone eyes heavy with a silent, ancient malice.
He shuddered. No matter where he stood, the sculptures felt like they were staring directly at him.
At the far end of the chamber stood an enormous statue—an ancient, gaunt face with a long, straggly beard reaching the hem of a stone robe. Between its massive carved feet lay a man in emerald-green, sprawled motionless.
Lockhart.
Malfoy sighed internally. It was one thing to suspect the truth. It was another to see the useless idiot lying there like discarded laundry.
A soft sound—something sliding—echoed behind one of the pillars.
Malfoy turned just as a figure stepped out. A tall black-haired boy emerged, translucent at the edges, like a ghost made of smoke.
"Oh?" the boy said. "I expected Harry Potter. Not you."
He spoke casually, as though greeting someone in a corridor.
"Let me think…" Riddle continued, tapping his chin. "Aside from Harry, the person Lockhart praises most… Draco Malfoy, isn't it? Because you gave him a bottle of that disgusting whiskey he likes." His smile curved. "Laughable."
Malfoy bowed his head dramatically.
"My Lord—Dark Lord!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with fanatic devotion.
Riddle flinched at the title, his expression sharpening as though pierced by a knife.
Perfect.
Malfoy ignored it and darted toward the diary lying next to Lockhart, as if overcome by religious fervor.
"Stay away from that book!" Riddle barked, scarlet light flaring in his eyes.
Malfoy did not listen. Instead, he pulled out a small bottle filled with bright red liquid and dumped it over the diary.
"How dare you—!"
Riddle raised Lockhart's wand, though his grip was clumsy; the wand was covered in pointless decorative carvings. But halfway through the motion, Riddle froze.
"Oh…" His tone shifted—hungry, pleased. "The taste of life."
He lowered the wand and inhaled as though savoring fine wine.
"What is that?"
"Dragon's blood," Malfoy said, stammering as though frightened.
"Perfect!" Riddle's face lit with genuine delight. "Far stronger than the pathetic scraps I wrung out of this fool."
He glanced at Lockhart with disgust.
"How did you know this secret?" Riddle asked, suspicion returning.
"My father told me," Malfoy said proudly.
"Lucius…" Riddle murmured. Through Lockhart's memories, the connection was easy. "So he remained loyal. Good."
"My father never believed you were dead," Malfoy continued fervently. "He says the Dark Lord cannot die. You are omnipotent. A mere body cannot hinder you."
Riddle preened at the praise.
"That is why he returned to the Ministry to prepare for your revival," Malfoy said, bowing his head. "Our family's wealth and loyalty are yours entirely. Please… forgive his absence."
Riddle stroked Lockhart's wand, pleased. "You and your father have proven your devotion. I am satisfied. How could I blame you? If I were untrustworthy, I would never have entrusted your father with such secrets."
"Raise your head," he commanded.
Malfoy lifted his chin slowly. Riddle's tone softened, disturbingly paternal.
"Relax. I reward loyalty generously. And you have served me well today."
Malfoy let his shoulders tremble the way a young wizard might in the presence of greatness.
"Will… will he die?" he asked shakily, pointing at Lockhart.
Riddle laughed. "Oh, that is an amusing question. The truth is simple—Lockhart opened his heart to a stranger he couldn't even see. He poured his insecurities into the diary. It was almost too easy."
And Riddle began to talk—part boasting, part ranting.
How Lockhart confessed his humiliation during the pixie fiasco.
How Riddle flattered him, encouraged him, mocked him in private notes.
How Lockhart feared discovery.
How Riddle dangled false promises of power.
How Lockhart killed a chicken at Riddle's suggestion, believing it would make him stronger.
How Riddle rewarded him when he vanished Harry's arm bones.
Malfoy nodded enthusiastically at each point, even as he mentally added:
If Harry heard you say Quidditch is boring, he'd hex you into next week.
At last, Riddle's voice softened again. "I'm pleased, Draco. Very pleased. My power is not fully restored yet. I need more time. Go. I will summon you soon."
He licked his lips.
"The next time we meet, Hogwarts will be cleansed of filth."
Malfoy inwardly smirked. Perfect. Step one: done. I'll sprint to Dumbledore's office myself.
But Riddle suddenly paused. His expression darkened.
"However…" His eyes flicked past Malfoy. "It seems you've brought a tail."
His gaze hardened into a snarl.
"And not just anyone. A filthy little Mudblood."
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