Intertwined → Tom Riddle

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

That night, Amara and Tom ventured into Slytherin's Scriptorium with a blend of anticipation and trepidation. The corridors of the dungeons were cloaked in shadows, their silence punctuated only by the soft echo of their footsteps. Tom led the way with a purposeful stride, his wand held aloft. He muttered an incantation, casting a silencing charm to ensure their movements went unnoticed.

"Move to this side," Tom directed, gesturing toward a dimly lit corner of the corridor. "And stay quiet."

Amara complied without hesitation, her gaze fixed on the floor as she edged into the shadows. She knew better than to question Tom's authority. His expertise in magic, coupled with his enigmatic aura, commanded a sense of respect—or fear, depending on one's perspective.

Tom raised his wand, the tip glowing with an ominous light. "Confringo," he incanted sharply, sending a burst of fiery energy toward an old lantern hanging from the ceiling. The lantern shattered, sending fragments of glass clattering to the ground. He repeated the spell, his voice more intense. "Confringo! Confringo!"

The ground beneath them trembled, and Amara instinctively steadied herself against the wall. The vibrations grew stronger, and as she looked up, she saw the solid wall before them morph and dissolve, revealing a darkened doorway that beckoned them forward.

"Ladies first," Tom said with a hint of mockery, his wand casting a soft light that illuminated the staircase leading downwards. He made a show of bowing slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on her.

Amara took a deep breath, her wand producing a soft "Lumos" to light her way. The stairwell seemed to stretch endlessly into the darkness. A shiver ran down her spine, not from the chill of the air, but from the eerie feeling of being watched. "Something funny, Riddle?" she asked, trying to mask her nervousness with a hint of defiance.

Tom shook his head, a thin smile playing on his lips. "It's just a shame you have to use words. What a waste."

"I suppose you've been doing nonverbal spells since you could think," she retorted, attempting to maintain her composure.

"Not quite," Tom admitted, "but it might as well be. Someone really ought to teach you."

"And they will," Amara replied curtly, "it's on the curriculum."

"Touche." Tom looked around with an air of distraction, his expression shifting to one of concentration. "I assume you hear nothing?"

Amara paused, listening intently. She shook her head. "No."

"Thought so. It's Parseltongue." Tom ran his hand over a pair of intertwined serpents carved into the wall, their emerald eyes glinting in the light. He closed his eyes, letting out a low, faint hiss that echoed through the chamber.

Amara had never encountered Parseltongue before. It was a rare skill, and hearing it now from Tom sent a chill through her. The sound was almost serpentine, the hiss reverberating with a sense of ancient menace.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a mechanical clicking noise. The serpents on the wall parted, the door creaking open to reveal another chamber—just like the one they had left, filled with the same cobblestones and ironclad gates.

"Look for a black snake wrapped around a small fountain," Tom instructed, already moving to the right.

Amara turned in the opposite direction, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor as she began her search. Her wand cast a faint glow over the room, revealing the endless rows of similar chambers. She scanned her surroundings carefully, hoping to find the object of their search.

"There should be two in here!" Tom's voice called out. "I've found mine. Did you find yours?"

"Not yet," Amara called back, her voice reverberating through the chamber. She continued her search, her heart pounding with the anticipation of finding the object. "Wait—" she began, spotting a glimmer of something that matched Tom's description. "Yes!"