HRHL# CHAPTER 159

Harry had assumed that Myrtle would be touchy about this subject and that coaxing her into a good mood would take some effort.

To his surprise, however, Myrtle’s expression suddenly shifted.

“Oh, I was just teasing you!” she said with a giggle, spinning in midair as if she were delighted.

“If you want to know how I died…”

Her demeanor changed abruptly, as though being asked about it was some great honor.

“Well, since you’re so sincerely curious, I’ll tell you… though it’s rather dreadful, to be honest.”

At this, Myrtle paused dramatically.

Ever perceptive, Harry knew this was his cue to play along. Feigning nervousness, he asked, “How dreadful?”

Myrtle, clearly pleased with his reaction, giggled again, cleared her throat, and announced solemnly, “It all happened in the girls’ bathroom. That’s where I died—in that very toilet. I remember it perfectly.”

Her face took on a wistful expression. “Back then, one of my classmates… Olive Hornby from Ravenclaw… she mocked me for wearing glasses, saying I looked like a four-eyed dog. So I hid in there, locked the door, and cried. Then I heard someone come in. They were saying something odd—probably in another language, I thought—but what really annoyed me was that it was a boy’s voice.”

“So I flung the door open and shouted at him to get out, to go to the boys’ bathroom instead, and then—”

Myrtle puffed out her chest with an air of self-importance, her face glowing. “I died.”

“Can you tell me more details?” Harry pressed.

“I don’t know,” Myrtle said, lowering her voice mysteriously. “All I remember is seeing a pair of enormous, terrifying yellow eyes. My whole body felt like it was being seized, and then… I just floated away…”

She gazed at Harry, her expression distant. “Then I came back, you know—to settle the score with Olive Hornby. Oh, she regretted mocking my glasses, let me tell you.”

“She didn’t regret mocking your glasses,” Harry said dryly. “She only compromised because you haunted her and she couldn’t do anything about it. Trust me, if you’d stayed dead, she’d have been laughing harder than anyone.”

“Er… surely not?” Myrtle asked hesitantly. “We were both Ravenclaws, after all…”

“Oh, please,” Harry snorted. “As if you weren’t a Ravenclaw too.”

“Oh…” Myrtle blinked, realization dawning. “Then maybe I should haunt her again—”

“It’s over,” Harry sighed. “After all these years, she’s probably long dead. But do you remember where you saw those eyes?”

“If you want to know, I’ll show you,” Myrtle said with a secretive air. “Come on, big sister will take you to the girls’ bathroom!”

As she spoke, she leaned so close to Harry that he could see the ghostly pimples on her face.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re up to no good?” Harry muttered, giving her a skeptical look.

“How rude!” Myrtle huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “You’re upsetting me now!”

“We need to hurry, though,” Harry said, steering her back on track. “Go on, show me where it happened.”

“Fine,” Myrtle agreed, floating upward with a languid drift.

“But try to keep a low profile,” Harry added. “Don’t let anyone see you.”

Myrtle looked at him, puzzled. “Why? Are you embarrassed to be seen with Moaning Myrtle?” she demanded, her voice rising. “I knew you didn’t like—”

“No, you’ve got it wrong,” Harry interrupted quickly. “I think whoever attacked you might be back at Hogwarts. I just don’t want them to know we’re onto them.”

“Oh, it’s a bit late for that,” Myrtle said airily. “We’ve already been spotted on the way here. By now, half the school probably knows.”

“Then we’ve got even less time,” Harry said urgently. “Lead the way. I’ll follow with a Disillusionment Charm.”

Myrtle twirled in the air, studying Harry’s serious expression. Convinced he wasn’t joking, she drawled, “Alright, I never would’ve guessed a second-year like you could cast a Disillusionment Charm… I’ll be waiting for you in the bathroom, then.”

With that, she somersaulted backward, drifting out of the classroom like she was swimming through the air.

Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and followed Myrtle’s trail, the two of them arriving at the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.

The second-floor girls’ bathroom was rarely used, except when someone wanted to prank Myrtle and flush her into the Black Lake while she wasn’t paying attention.

Once inside, Harry dispelled the charm. Myrtle, startled by his sudden appearance, gave a little yelp.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle—he’d never seen anyone scare a ghost before. Usually, it was the other way around.

“Hey, you actually came!” Myrtle said, grinning. She pointed to a sink nearby. “There, that’s the one. If I’m not mistaken, it’s definitely around here.”

Harry approached the sink and examined it closely.

It looked perfectly ordinary, no different from any other sink.

“Help me look,” Harry said to Myrtle. “If I’m right, the entrance to Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets will have a snake carved somewhere. Keep an eye out for it.”

“How do you know that?” Myrtle asked, her curiosity piqued. She seemed more interested in how Harry knew than in searching for the snake.

“Because I’ve been to Slytherin’s study,” Harry said slowly. “Outside his study, there are always little snake markings. If you speak Parseltongue to them, it triggers a mechanism that opens a hidden door.”

“There’s a place like that?” Myrtle’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “So, Mr. Potter—no, Harry—can you show me what Parseltongue sounds like?”

“I can’t just speak Parseltongue on command, Myrtle,” Harry said, glancing at her excitement. “I can only trigger it passively when I see a snake. If you find that marking, I’ll show you.”

At that, Myrtle didn’t hesitate. She dove toward the sink, searching for the snake marking.

The two of them scoured the sink inside and out, even checking the pipes underneath.

“Here!” Myrtle pointed to the side of a copper faucet. “I remember this one—it never worked, no matter how much I turned it. That must be the snake marking you’re talking about. Now, show me Parseltongue!”

“You’re treating me like some circus performer,” Harry said, exasperated.

He leaned in to inspect the tiny snake etched into the faucet.

His Parseltongue ability wasn’t naturally strong, but after training with Ominis, he’d gained some control over it.

“Open,” he hissed softly, his tongue curling with the serpentine sound.

Myrtle’s face lit up at the hissing Parseltongue. “I knew it!” she squealed. “That’s it! That boy was speaking Parseltongue too!”

No sooner had she spoken than the snake-carved faucet glowed with a dazzling white light and began to spin rapidly.

The sink itself started to move. They watched as it sank out of sight, revealing a wide, gaping pipe large enough for a person to slide through.

“This is the entrance to the Chamber?” Myrtle asked, stunned. “I’ve been here for decades, and I never knew there was a secret passage to a chamber hidden in the second-floor girls’ bathroom!”

“Yes, this is it,” Harry said curtly. “Thank you for your help, Myrtle, but I need you to keep this quiet until Dumbledore catches the boy who killed you. Can you do that?”

“Of course, Harry! My lips are sealed!” Myrtle said, patting her chest confidently.

“Also,” Harry added, noticing her drifting closer as he took a step toward the pipe, “stay here. Don’t follow me down.”

“What, afraid I’ll die again?” Myrtle giggled. “Relax, Harry, I’m a ghost. I can’t die twice.”

“But according to the books, a ghost who looks into a Basilisk’s eyes will petrify,” Harry said patiently. “Unless you want to be the first petrified ghost, I suggest you stay put.”

“Fine,” Myrtle said, twirling in place. “I’ll wait here for you, then.”

Harry stepped up to the pipe, took a deep breath, and cast Protego to cushion his slide. Then, gripping the edge, he slid down into the darkness.

It wasn’t a pleasant sensation—like a water slide at an amusement park, but far less fun. Harry vaguely recalled being dragged by Dudley to ride one once, and the memory wasn’t exactly fond.

The pipe wasn’t a straight shot to the bottom. It twisted and turned, and Harry felt himself bumping against the walls, the faint clinks muffled by the Protego charm. Without it, he’d probably have been scraped raw.

Thankfully, the ride didn’t last long. After less than five minutes, the pipe opened up, and Harry shot out into a wider space.

“Arresto Momentum!” he cast, pointing at the ground to slow his fall, sparing himself a painful landing.

It wouldn’t have been a serious injury, but it would’ve stung.

“Revelio!” he tried next, scanning for living creatures.

Nothing.

“Lumos!”

His wand tip flared, casting enough light to illuminate his surroundings.

Was this the bottom of the Black Lake?

Harry looked around. He stood in a tunnel carved from stone, its walls slick and dark, coated in thick moss—or perhaps some kind of grime. The air was silent, save for the faint sound of his own breathing.

He took a few steps forward and heard a crunch underfoot.

A rat’s skull.

A few more steps, and he spotted a shed snakeskin on the path ahead.

The light from his wand caught it, making the skin glint a vivid green.

Without hesitation, Harry bundled it up and stashed it in his pouch.

Basilisk skin was valuable—useful for potions, alchemy, or even fetching a good price if sold. He could always gift it to Snape for Christmas, too. The surly professor had helped him out a few times, after all.

Tucking the skin away, Harry pressed forward, casting Revelio periodically to check for threats.

At the tunnel’s end, he came to a solid wall etched with two intertwined snakes, their eyes set with large, glittering emeralds.

This was it, he thought.

Staring at the coiled snakes, Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Slytherin’s theatrics. The man had snakes in his blood, snakes on his doors, and apparently a pet Basilisk in his school. No wonder people called him mad.

“Open,” Harry hissed in a low, rasping Parseltongue.

The snakes stirred, slithering across the wall. With a crack, the stone split down the middle and slid apart, vanishing magically into the sides.

Harry stepped through and found himself in a vast, dimly lit chamber—no longer a cramped tunnel, but a cavernous room.

Across from him stood rows of stone pillars, each carved with writhing serpents. They stretched upward, supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. The faint light cast eerie, twisting shadows across the room, bathing it in a greenish, mysterious haze.

Harry cast another Disillusionment Charm and moved cautiously, wand ready, casting Revelio as he went.

At the far end of the chamber, beyond the final row of pillars, he saw a towering statue of a wizard.

It was as tall as the room itself, depicting an old man with a sparse, trailing beard that reached his feet.

Slytherin, no doubt.

Harry approached and noticed a line of text carved beside the statue, twisting like wriggling snakes.

It wasn’t English—it was Parseltongue.

Instinctively, he read it aloud.

“Speak to me, Slytherin—greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

As the words left his lips, the statue’s mouth gaped wide, revealing a dark, rounded tunnel.

Something stirred within, rustling faintly.

The Basilisk.

In a flash, Harry knew what to do.

He waved his wand, transfiguring his robes into Slytherin’s style.

Then, for good measure, he altered his hair to resemble Ominis’s and conjured a filmy white veil over his eyes with another charm.

Sure enough, an enormous Basilisk slithered from the statue’s open mouth, coiling around the figure of Slytherin.

Harry could feel its gaze studying him.

“Who are you?” it hissed. “You’re not my little master—who are you?”

“Little master?” Harry hissed back. “Who’s this ‘little master’ you speak of?”

“Tom Riddle,” the Basilisk replied, its voice a low rasp. “He woke me from my slumber. He carries Slytherin’s blood—he is my little master…”

Slytherin’s blood makes him your master? Harry thought, recalling Slytherin’s obsession with lineage and Voldemort’s rigid pure-blood ideology.

Could the Basilisk choose its master based on blood alone?

T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!