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He tries not to focus on the burn in his legs and the sweat on the back of his neck as Harry climbs ever higher. It feels like he’s been climbing forever, but more realistically, it’s probably been about three or so minutes. He could stop, of course, and stretch, peer out of the intermittent, thin arrow slit windows in the castle brick as he catches his breath, but that would only delay his arrival at the top of the tower, and he’s quite done with waiting, thank you.
He wants answers . He was promised answers.
So he trudges on, trying not to think of what he'd do if he got to the top and was still denied. He still hadn't gotten a straight answer as to why he was being led to the top of the East tower, and even if his little friend decided now to be forthcoming, he wouldn't be able to hear him. Harry hasn't heard much of anything but his own panting for a bit now. He can’t even spare the air to swear.
When he finally arrives at the top of the tower, though, he’s able to manage it.
There’s nothing there.
Harry glares down at the old photograph he’s gripping tightly in his hand.
Though Harry can’t remember the first time he saw the subjects of a photograph move, he can vividly remember the first time he ever saw someone else see it too. It had been on the train last year when he and Ron had been opening Chocolate Frogs. Harry hadn’t blinked an eye at the sight of Albus Dumbledore yawning and walking away, but then Ron had complained.
“Dumbledore never sticks around.”
“You can see it too?!”
He learned then that pictures moved all the time in the Wizarding World. It had been such a relief to hear, to know that he wasn’t crazy一up until the moment he learned that only magically developed pictures were supposed to move. And no photos, Muggle or otherwise, were supposed to talk. That was only portraits.
He’s still catching his breath when he snaps at the handsome boy in the black and white photograph. “There’s nothing here.” He breathes in deeply, trying to catch his breath and reign in his irritation. “I swear, Tom, if you一”
“Patience, Harry,” Tom interrupts. “Show me the room.”
“Fine.”
The photo Harry holds out in front of him is old, black and white with worn corners and heavy creasing, but the boy he sees in bright vivid color and motion every time he looks at it is young, about 15 or so. He’d found Tom at Ron’s house a couple months ago, right before the second year had started, but he wasn’t related to the Weasleys. That much had been obvious from his dark hair and aristocratic features, but Ron had confirmed it quickly and dismissively, and from then on, Tom had been Harry’s new, pocket-sized friend. He was clever, and charming, and had a darker sense of humor than Ron or Hermione.
“Are you going to tell me now why we’re here?”
“We’re looking for information about the Chamber, Harry.”
Harry’s heart leapt to his throat.
Despite (or perhaps because of) Tom’s charisma, he was also a Slytherin. Or, more accurately, he had been a Slytherin 50 years ago. 50 years ago when the Chamber of Secrets had last been opened.
“Look up,” Tom says. “Do you see it?”
“See wh一Oh!”
Just there, right in the corner… “A trap door!”
“Just like the North tower,” Tom breathes. “Can you reach it?”
Harry flips the photo back toward him and gives Tom a look. “Really?”
The boy looks pained. “Ah yes. I forgot. You’re twelve.” He says it like “You’re diseased.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips. “Yeah, I know, Tom, I’ll get on that. In the meantime, got any ideas?”
“Even if you could reach it, it’s probably locked.”
Harry perks up. “Oh!” He pulls out his wand and points it at the trapdoor. “I’ve got it. Alohomora.”
A small click sounds and the hatch swings open, a ladder magically descending.
“Very well done.”
Harry’s smile broadens. “Thanks!”
“Shall we go?”
“Onwards and upwards.”