Tom and Mattheo enter the chamber of secrets and find something haunting.

In the middle of the open cavern lies a statue on a pedestal with a plaque. A stone statue of a giant snake coils around the statue.

The words engraved on the plaque write

She bore the name he never knew, A blood-bound child, both dark and true. Not born of power, nor of hate — But kept from him by twist of fate.

The serpent sleeps, the dove must wake, One bond unbroken, one heart to ache. When brother’s touch meets sister’s stone, The lost shall rise — no more alone.

Let the heir’s heart beat for more than power — Only then will the sister awaken.”

Atop the pedestal stands a young girl. She stands tall upon a wide stone pedestal, still as death yet breathtakingly alive in presence. Though frozen in time, her figure carries the quiet power of a goddess—regal, eternal, untouchable.

Her Slytherin school uniform is sculpted with impossible detail: the classic pleated skirt, pressed and perfect, falls to mid-thigh, her long legs graceful and firm, boots molded in soft stone like leather made from shadow. Her button-up shirt is fitted beneath a snug Slytherin tie, tucked under an open robe—except the robe is something more.

It spills from her shoulders like enchanted silk, the Slytherin green carved faintly into the folds, with the serpent crest gleaming subtly on her heart. The robe flutters behind her as if caught in some frozen wind, rising in sweeping arcs like wings, regal and flowing — less a school cloak, and more like a mantle worn by royalty or battle-born priestesses.

Her arms cross over her chest, the left resting gently above her heart, fingers curled slightly as if she clutches something only she can feel. In her right hand, draped downward, is her wand — long, elegant, and lightly pointed toward the ground, as if even in slumber she stands ready to defend.

Her face is ethereal, a near mirror of Tom’s: high cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, but softened by youth and sorrow. Her expression holds a quiet sadness — not broken, but brave. Her eyes are closed, lashes delicate, her head tilted slightly downward in serenity.

Her hair flows in carved waves, cascading down her shoulders and back, parted just like a queen’s crown, captured mid-motion — each curl resting like stone ivy across her Slytherin robe. Small details shimmer faintly: the silver trim of her collar, the crest at her hip, a subtle sparkle in her wand’s core.

There is beauty in her stillness — not just because she is lifelike, but because she feels remembered, protected, sacred.

You are the lost twin sister to Tom Marvolo Riddle.