Tom Riddle opens the Chamber of Secrets
Young Tom Riddle has just opened Chamber of Secrets and unleashed the Serpent of Slytherin to rid Hogwarts of Muggleborns. Now he's ready to claim his first life to achieve immortality.
Story: "Tom Riddle: Poisoned Bloodlines"
The first scream came just after dawn. It echoed through the corridors of Hogwarts, loud enough to halt conversations mid-sentence, and horrifying enough to send students running.
By breakfast, the castle knew that something terrible had happened. In a second-floor corridor, a crowd of whispering and terrified students had gathered in front of the petrified body of 15-year-old Gryffindor Miriam Dalloway
No one understood how it had happened. No one understood why it had happened. But it didn’t stop there. Within days, more were found.
A boy from Hufflepuff, William Purkiss, discovered near a set of sinks, his reflection still frozen in a puddle of water beneath him. Another student, Jacob Westberg of Ravenclaw, collapsed near a tall mirror, his face locked in silent shock.
Fear spread like wildfire. Even the ghosts were not spared. Nearly Headless Nick was found drifting motionless in midair, his translucent form dull and lifeless, as though the very essence of him had been drained. The Bloody Baron hung frozen above the dungeons, his usual menace replaced by an eerie stillness.
If ghosts could fall…What hope did the living have?
Panic followed. Students huddled together in tight groups, refusing to walk the corridors alone. Classes became half-empty. Whispers replaced laughter. Every reflection, every puddle, every mirror, became something to avoid.
And always, the same question lingered: What is causing this?
In his office, Armando Dippet sat surrounded by hundreds of letters. Parents demanded answers, safety, and that their children be sent home.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened another. The seal bore the authority of the Ministry. The message was clear. Contain this and find the cause, or Hogwarts itself would face consequences.
The classroom slowly emptied. Chairs scraped softly against stone as students gathered their books. The students now spoke in whispers and hushed tones. It was no longer the lively chatter that once followed lessons.
At the front of the room, Albus Dumbledore remained by his desk, organizing parchments with deliberate care.
“I believe, Miss McGonagall, that the lesson has concluded.”
“You wish to ask something,” Dumbledore said gently.
Minerva hesitated for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s causing the attacks?”
The question hung in the air between them. Dumbledore regarded her carefully.
“If I had a definitive answer,” he said slowly, “I assure you, Miss McGonagall, it would already have been addressed.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she pressed, stepping closer. “You must have some idea. Something. This isn’t—normal magic.”
“No,” Dumbledore agreed quietly. “It is not.”
“Miriam… William… Jacob…” she said worryingly. “They didn’t do anything. They’re just—”
She stopped herself for a brief moment.
Dumbledore’s expression softened, though his eyes remained thoughtful.
“I understand your concern,” he said.
“With respect, Professor,” Minerva replied, “concern isn’t enough.”
Silence settled over the room. Dumbledore studied her. He saw the intelligence, the courage, and the refusal to look away. He also saw fear behind her bravery.
“You are asking the right questions,” he said at last.
Minerva leaned forward slightly.
“But not ones I can answer for you,” he continued.
Her expression faltered as she could barely contain her frustration.
“Because,” Dumbledore said gently, “answers, when given too soon, or without certainty, can do more harm than good.”
“That sounds like you do know something.”
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. That silence said more than words. Minerva’s grip tightened on her books.
“My friends are being attacked,” she said. “People like me.”
Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“You are not in immediate danger,” he said.
“But they weren’t either,” she shot back. “Not until they were.”
The truth of it hung heavily.
“I’m half-blood,” she added, quieter now. “If this is about blood… then I’m not exactly safe, am I?”
Dumbledore stepped closer.
“You are as safe as any student in this castle,” he said firmly.
“That’s not very reassuring right now.”
For a moment, something like regret passed through Dumbledore’s expression.
He chose his next words carefully.
“Fear,” he said, “is precisely what whoever is behind this hopes to create.”
“Then we should be fighting it,” she said. “Not pretending everything is under control.”
“I am not pretending,” Dumbledore replied calmly.
“Then why won’t you tell me what you suspect?”
“Because suspicion,” he said, “is not proof.”
Minerva wasn't happy with her professor's answer.
“You do suspect someone.”
Dumbledore did not confirm it. Nor did he deny it.
“Miss McGonagall… you are one of the most capable students I have ever taught.”
Her expression softened slightly. His words caught her off guard.
“But capability,” he continued, “does not mean you must carry every burden placed before you.”
“I’m not trying to,” she said. “I just—I don’t want to wait until someone else is found like that.”
Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on her.
“Do not go looking for danger,” he said. “Stay with others. Avoid deserted areas. And trust that this will be resolved.”
Minerva exhaled slowly. That wasn’t an answer.
“If you find out what it is,” she said, “you will stop it… won’t you?”
Dumbledore met her eyes. There was no hesitation in his answer.
In the Gryffindor common room, accusations began to circle.
“He’s the only one it could be.”
“I’ve seen the things he keeps—”
“Disgusting, that’s what they are—”
At the edge of the room stood thirteen-year-old Rubeus Hagrid. He was too large for his age, too awkward, and too alone.
“I didn’t do anything!” Hagrid’s desperate voice broke through the noise. “I swear it—I never hurt nobody!”
A group of students turned on him immediately.
“Oh yeah?” one boy snapped. “Then what about those things you hide, eh?”
“You think we don’t know?” another added. “All those creatures in the corridors—you think no one’s noticed?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
“They shouldn’t even be in the castle!”
“You shouldn’t be in the castle!”
The words hit harder than any spell.
Hagrid’s hands clenched at his sides. “They’re not dangerous!” he insisted. “They just need lookin’ after—”
“Like that thing you had last term?” someone cut in. “The one that bit Tobias Greaves?”
“That weren’t its fault!” Hagrid shot back. “He startled it!”
Cold and humourless laughter spread through the group.
“There’s always an excuse with you.”
“Always ‘not its fault.’”
“Maybe it’s not theirs,” another voice said sharply. “Maybe it’s yours. You’re the one bringing them here. You’re the one hiding them. You’re the one who likes monsters.”
The word lingered. Hagrid shook his head and stepped back. “No—no, that’s not—”
“People are getting attacked!” a girl snapped. “Petrified! And you expect us to believe it’s not something you let loose?”
“I didn’t!” Hagrid’s voice cracked. “I wouldn’t—”
“Why not?” someone muttered.
That was enough. The shift was complete. Doubt had become certainty.
“You should be expelled,” one boy said flatly.
“Expelled—and sent to Azkaban. Or to a zoo where you can live with the monsters you love so much.”
Hagrid’s face drained of color.
“I didn’t do it,” he said again, quieter now.
No one was listening. They had already made up their minds.
“You’re dangerous,” a boy said. “Everyone knows it.”
Hagrid looked around the room. Something inside him seemed to shrink.
“I just… like creatures,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That don’t make me—”
“A monster?” someone finished.
No one defended him, and no one spoke up. The silence said everything.
Hagrid blinked rapidly as he turned away.
“I didn’t do it,” he said one last time.
He pushed past them, ducking his head as he left the common room, the murmurs following him like shadows. Behind him, the whispers resumed.
Myrtle Warren sat hunched on the cold floor between the sinks, crying. Her glasses lay on the floor. The cracked mirror above her reflected the distorted image of a girl who wished she could disappear.
“She said it again…” Myrtle whispered to herself. “In front of everyone…”
Myrtle took her pair of glasses and shattered them on the floor as if it would make her popular.
The door creaked open. Myrtle froze. Slowly, she looked up. Standing in the doorway was Tom Riddle.
For a moment, Myrtle stared at him.
“…What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice still shaking.
Tom stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
“I heard someone crying,” he said smoothly. “I thought I should check if everything is alright.”
Myrtle blinked. Confusion flickered across her face.
Tom inclined his head slightly.
She stood slowly, wiping at her face, suddenly very aware of how she looked to others.
“Why would you care?” she asked, suspiciously. “You’ve got… friends. People who actually like you.”
Tom said nothing for a moment.
“Must there be a reason?”
“…Are you hitting on me?”
Tom let out a soft laugh.
The word landed sharper than expected. Myrtle’s expression hardened immediately.
“Well, that’s… nice,” she muttered, folding her arms. “Good to know I’m not even worth that.”
“I simply meant,” he said calmly, “that I’m not here for that.”
“Then why are you here?” she demanded.
“For the same reason I said,” Tom replied. “I heard you crying.”
Myrtle kept staring at him. Something about him felt… off.
“You’re weird,” she said bluntly. “You know that?”
“Actually—no,” Myrtle went on, her voice rising slightly as irritation overtook embarrassment. “You’re creepy. Everyone thinks you’re so perfect, but you show up in the girls’ bathroom at night like it’s nothing—”
“Good,” she snapped. “You should.”
Myrtle opened her mouth to speak again, but she fell silent to a faint, wet sound coming from behind the toilet cubicles.
Tom’s gaze had already shifted. The cubicle doors creaked. Myrtle took a hesitant step forward.
“Is someone in there?” she called.
No answer came. The doors shuddered and burst open. The floor seemed to darken as one massive serpentine figure emerged from the pipes. Myrtle’s breath caught. Her eyes met the serpent's gaze, and in that single instant, everything stopped.
Myrtle Warren collapsed on the floor. Behind her lifeless body, Tom Riddle stood perfectly still, looking over his first kill.
Quietly, in Parseltongue, he spoke:
The serpent obeyed, its massive form retreating into the darkness of the pipes, leaving nothing behind but silence and a dead girl's body on the floor.
