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Heiress Charlotte Potter tries not to judge someone without getting all of the facts. But, frankly, she can’t think of a single acceptable reason for a male prefect to be entering the girls’ lavatory on the second floor of the castle after curfew.
She’s never had much cause to interact with Mister Tom Riddle. He’s a Slytherin and she’s a Gryffindor. Yet, he’s a New Blood with an impeccable reputation, which is why she’s flabbergasted. There are viewing spells, and other such things, of course, but no true pureblood gentleman would ever dare—
Charlotte grits her teeth and follows him, hidden beneath her family’s ancestral Cloak of Invisibility—the one that was a gift from Death Itself all those centuries ago. Her footsteps are Silenced, of course, as they always are when she wanders through the school after curfew. Still, her heart races in her chest as the potential implications of his furtive behavior spin through her mind.
If she had stumbled across him nearly anywhere else in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after curfew, Charlotte wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. She, herself, often ventures the corridors when she’s meant to be abed. She isn’t a hypocrite. However, Charlotte genuinely cannot think of a single acceptable reason for him to be inside a lavatory that’s exclusively for witches.
She is the Heiress of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter. If he’s behaving inexcusably, she’s honor-bound to protect herself and the other witches from nefarious intentions.
Opening the door just enough so that she can slip through as quietly as she can, Charlotte enters the room. Tom stands over by the sinks, near the mirrors. For a sickening second, her stomach drops to her feet. He must have spells to—
Tom hisses something in a language that Charlotte has never heard.
She watches, baffled and stunned, as the sinks shift and move. A passageway appears, a long tunnel of some sort. It’s— Honestly, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. If he uses it to spy on witches in the lavatory like an honorless lecher, why would he chance entering through the door after curfew? Why would he not just travel from the other end of the tunnel? Unless … does he need to renew viewing spells? Or—
Tom slides into the tunnel, disappearing from sight.
When the sink starts to move, Charlotte snaps, “You won’t stop me from learning the truth,” and dives feet-first into the tunnel with all the recklessness for which Gryffindors are well-known.
It feels a little bit like diving toward the ground on a broom, her stomach swooping as she slides deep into the depths of the castle. She doesn’t know where she’ll end up. Charlotte summons her wand out of its holster-bracelet; she might be reckless, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid. There’s a very important difference between the two.
She’s not scared of the dark, but it’s pitch black in every direction and she knows the Cloak of Invisibility will block the light once she reaches wherever this tunnel leads. “Lumos,” she whispers, wanting some light.
Ah, not a tunnel. A pipe. That explains the musty scent in the air.
Charlotte is ever so grateful that she Silenced her shoes, preventing them from making any noise regardless of what they come in contact with, because she ends up sliding out of the pipe onto her feet right beside a pile of bones in a rush.
Her eyebrows shoot upwards. Is … is Tom killing people and depositing their skeletons down here? Not that the skeletons are intact enough for her to determine if they’re human or not. She doesn’t see any skulls. But, honestly, if that’s what’s happening here, she prefers that to what she thought he was doing before.
Footsteps echo in the silence. A light retreats down a corridor.
Charlotte follows Tom, determined to uncover what is truly happening here. She’s always been curious, perhaps more curious than is good for her, and she will not be satisfied until she understands his behavior. Is he a blackguard or not? Does she need to report him or not?
Tom pauses at … a dead end? A door? It’s round and large and covered with engravings of snakes. He hisses again. The snakes start moving.
Abruptly, Charlotte realizes what the language must be—Parseltongue. Why else would it sound like hissing? Why else would the snakes react to it? And if Tom is a Parselmouth, that means he’s a descendant of High Lord Salazar Slytherin.
The door opens and torches flare to life, lighting an enormous chamber. There’s a massive statue at the end of it. It shares a likeness with the portraits that Charlotte has seen of High Lord Salazar Slytherin. When Tom enters the room, it’s as if a glamor charm fails; his eyes, which have always been dark, are now emerald green. And that means—
Charlotte whips off her Cloak of Invisibility, which attracts Tom’s attention, as intended, and drapes it around her shoulders like a shawl.
He spins around, wand in hand, and then pauses. “Heiress Potter?”
She drops her gaze to the floor, genuflects for the count of seven, and then says, “My sincerest apologies for intruding on your privacy, Your Esteemed Grace. I witnessed your entrance into the lavatory and felt it necessary to investigate the reasons for such behavior.”
“I cannot fault you for that,” Tom replies. “It was the honorable thing to do.”
Charlotte rises, still in shock at the revelations of the past few moments. Tom Riddle isn’t a Mister or a New Blood. He’s the High Lord of the Just and Most Olde House of Slytherin. He’s an archduke, a member of the Oligarchy, one of the Sentinels of Avalon. He literally cannot behave in an unjust manner, and she suspected him of peeping on pureblood witches.
“If you would be so kind as to tell me how to return to the castle above, I shall leave you, Your Esteemed Grace,” Charlotte says, her cheeks burning.
She doesn't know why he’s attending Hogwarts in disguise under a false name. It is none of her concern. Yet, her magic aches as she remembers every single time she addressed him by the incorrect title—few as their interactions have been—and failed to offer the courtesies he’s due.
“If that is your desire, I shall do so,” Tom says. Then, after a careful perusal of her face, he offers his hand to her. “Or, if you so wish, I can introduce you to my ancestor’s Basilisk.”
It’s such a blatant test that Charlotte is almost insulted.
Charlotte places her bare hand in his, shivers at the heat of his skin against hers, and states, “I’m descended from Death Itself, High Lord Slytherin. It would take more than a Basilisk to scare me away.”
Tom’s emerald eyes spark with satisfaction. He raises her hand, kisses the back of it, and smugly purrs, “Good.”