Panic is a virus. It spreads through whispers, through wide, terrified eyes, and through the sudden, chilling silence that follows a scream. As Hermione pulled me through the throng of students towards the second-floor corridor, I could feel the infection taking hold of the castle. The air itself felt thin, charged with a frantic, nervous energy.
My own mind, however, remained a fortress of cold, calculating calm. The Chamber of Secrets. Of course. In my hubris, in the quiet satisfaction of my own carefully constructed power base in Slytherin, I had almost forgotten the larger game being played this year. Dumbledore had his test for Harry. Voldemort, through his diary, had his own machinations. And now, the Basilisk was loose.
This was not a complication. This was an opportunity.
We arrived outside the library to a scene of organized chaos. Professor McGonagall was there, her face a pale, grim mask, directing students away from the area. And on the floor, still and lifeless as statues, were the victims. Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw prefect, lay on her back, her expression frozen in a rictus of shock. Beside her, shimmering with an ethereal silver light, was the pearly-white, equally petrified form of Nearly Headless Nick.
"I tried to tell Professor McGonagall," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling, "but everything is happening so fast. They're talking about closing the school."
Her fear was logical, but her faith in me was misplaced. She thought she was coming to a peer, a brilliant student who might see something the professors missed. She had no idea she had just brought her problem to the one person in the castle who knew exactly what was happening.
I tuned out her panicked whispers and began my own analysis, my mind processing the scene with the cold efficiency of a System command.
Observation 1: No visible wounds. Cause of incapacitation is magical, not physical. Confirms petrification. Observation 2: A small, circular hand mirror lies on the floor near Penelope's outstretched hand. It must have fallen when she was struck. Observation 3: The angle of her fall, combined with the mirror's position, suggests she was looking around the corner at the moment of the attack. She did not see the attacker directly.
This confirmed the Basilisk's primary weapon: its lethal gaze, which caused petrification through indirect observation. While the professors were still trying to understand the 'how', I already knew the 'what'.
I subtly activated a low-level diagnostic spell Andros had taught me, a simple charm to detect lingering magical signatures. As I scanned the area, a faint, almost imperceptible trail of dark, serpentine magic snaked across the floor, leading away from the victims and disappearing under the wall towards the lower levels.
"It's a monster, a terrible monster," a Hufflepuff student was sobbing nearby. "It's the monster of Slytherin!"
The words, spoken in fear, were a spark in the dry tinder of the crowd's panic. The rumor spread like wildfire. The Heir of Slytherin. The Chamber of Secrets had been opened again. And suddenly, dozens of eyes, once filled with a mixture of awe and curiosity for me, now held a new emotion: suspicion. I was a Riddle. I was the "Uncrowned King" of Slytherin. To their simple, terrified minds, I was the obvious culprit.
Just then, Dumbledore arrived. The crowd parted before him, his presence a calming aura in the sea of panic. His gaze swept over the scene, over the petrified victims, over the fearful students, and finally, it rested on me. There was no accusation in his eyes, only a deep, penetrating curiosity.
"Tom," he said, his voice quiet but carrying over the whispers. "You are closer than most. Your powers of observation are keen. Tell me, what do you see?"
It was another test. A public one this time. Snape, who had just arrived, glared at me, his expression a mixture of suspicion and a strange, almost hopeful vindictiveness. He was praying I would incriminate myself.
I met Dumbledore's gaze, my expression one of focused, academic curiosity.
"Her gaze is fixed on the ceiling, Professor," I said, pointing towards Penelope. "But the trajectory of the attack seems to have come from around the corner. And there is this mirror." I nudged it with the toe of my shoe. "It seems plausible she was not looking at the attacker, but at its reflection. The method of attack is therefore indirect. Perhaps that is why she is merely petrified, and not... worse."
A murmur of appreciation went through the assembled professors. My analysis was logical, brilliant for a first-year, and most importantly, it revealed nothing of my foreknowledge.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, a silent acknowledgment of my move on the chessboard. "An excellent deduction, Mr. Riddle. Ten points to Slytherin for your clear-headed thinking in a crisis."
Snape looked as if he had just been forced to swallow one of his own bitter potions.
I had passed the test. But as I walked back to the dungeons, with Daphne flanking me like a loyal bodyguard, the glares from the other houses were palpable. I had Dumbledore's public approval, but in the court of student opinion, I was already being tried and convicted.
I returned to the Slytherin common room to find my house in a state of quiet, simmering paranoia. The attack had made them pariahs. They were being shunned in the corridors, accused in the classrooms. Their hard-won social dominance was crumbling.
This was my moment.
I stood before the fireplace, the green light from the underwater windows casting long, dancing shadows on my face. I waited for silence.
"The school whispers that the Heir of Slytherin has returned," I began, my voice a cold, clear command. "They look at our emblem, the serpent, and they see a monster. They look at us, and they see villains."
I let the words hang in the air. "They are fools. They mistake our ambition for cruelty, our cunning for treachery. An ancient evil has awakened, one that wears the skin of our House to commit its crimes, and in doing so, it has made an enemy of every one of us. It has brought shame upon the name of Slytherin."
My gaze swept over them, from the youngest first-year to the oldest seventh-year. "Let the other houses cower behind their professors. Let them point their fingers and trade in whispers. We will not. We will not be victims. We will not be scapegoats. We will find the truth. We will hunt down whoever—or whatever—is responsible for this, and we will purge this stain from our House's honor."
I had taken their fear and forged it into a weapon. I had transformed the school's suspicion of them into a unifying force, with me at its center. In that moment, I was not just their Uncrowned King. I was their champion, their defender.
Later that night, alone in the Room of Requirement, I laid out everything I knew. The Basilisk. The indirect gaze. The serpentine magic. The legend of the Chamber. And the final, crucial piece of the puzzle from the original story: the entrance was in a girl's bathroom.
My mind raced, connecting the dots. There was only one place in the castle that fit.
I stood before a blank stretch of wall in the Room, focusing my will. The System, I had learned, was not just a provider of skills, but a vast, unknowable database.
"System," I commanded in my thoughts. Cross-reference all known architectural blueprints of Hogwarts Castle. Highlight any and all anomalies related to plumbing on the second floor, specifically within female lavatories."
A map of the castle, intricate and detailed, materialized in my vision. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a single location, a specific bathroom on the second floor, began to pulse with a faint, malevolent red light.
//Anomaly Detected: Unregistered Magical Passage. Source Signature: Ancient Serpent Magic.// //Location: Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom.//
I had my target. The game had just escalated, and I was, as always, several moves ahead.