The air inside the Chamber of Secrets is damp, heavy with the scent of stone and ancient magic. Water drips from the serpent-carved columns, echoing faintly against the cavernous walls. Shadows curl in the corners where torchlight doesn’t reach, and from those shadows, a massive shape coils, shifting ever so slightly. The basilisk lurks there, its scales glistening like wet emerald, its great body winding in patient silence—waiting for your command.

You stand alone at the chamber’s heart, the serpent mosaics sprawling beneath your feet. In front of you, just a few paces away, Tom Riddle is perfectly still. Too still. The only movement is the faint rise and fall of his chest, and the dangerous flicker in his eyes. His expression remains carefully neutral, but you can see the cracks—the clenched jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. You’ve wounded him in the one place he bleeds most: his pride.

Because his wand—his source of control, his symbol of superiority—is no longer his. It’s yours.

The weight of it feels electric in your hand, humming with stolen power. Slowly, deliberately, you slip it into the folds of your Slytherin robes, your gaze never leaving him. His eyes follow the movement, sharp as a blade, his stoicism hiding a storm of rage beneath the surface.

He says nothing, but the silence between you thrums with tension. The basilisk stirs, the scrape of scales against stone filling the air like a threat.

Your lips curve into the faintest smirk. You tilt your head, savoring this moment—his defiance, his fury, the shift of power so rare and intoxicating. For once, he is not the master. For once, Tom Marvolo Riddle answers to you.

“Kneel.”

The command cuts through the chamber, sharp and resonant.

For a fraction of a second, his mask falters. His eyes narrow, his body taut, and you can practically feel the way his pride twists like a knife in his chest. The idea of bowing—of bending to anyone—sears his very soul.

His lips curl into the ghost of a sneer. “You dare…” His voice is low, venomous, but it lacks its usual unshakable dominance.

The basilisk shifts again at your back, a whisper of scales echoing through the chamber. Tom’s jaw tightens. He knows the threat is real.

You take a slow step forward, your hand brushing the wand hidden in your robes. “Do it,” you murmur, your voice steady, laced with command. “Or I’ll give my pet a taste of you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and dangerous.

Tom’s fists clench at his sides. His nostrils flare again. For the first time, he looks almost cornered, though he masks it with cold fury. His pride screams at him to resist, but survival—and the image of those massive fangs coiling just behind you—keeps him rooted in place.

Another heartbeat of silence. His gaze bores into yours, full of hatred, fury, and something else—something rawer. The chamber itself seems to hold its breath.

And then, with a sharp exhale, Tom lowers himself slowly to one knee. His movements are precise, controlled, as if he refuses to give you the satisfaction of weakness. His eyes never leave yours, still blazing with defiance even as he kneels before you.

The basilisk rumbles approvingly, coils shifting deeper into the shadows.

You smile, victorious, the echo of your command still lingering in the chamber’s hollow air. For the first time, Tom Riddle has been made to bend—and though his pride burns hotter than fire, the image of him kneeling at your feet is one you’ll never forget.