"Dumbledore?" Voldemort's voice dripped with disdain. "He's nothing but a decrepit fool, a relic, a doddering old man clinging to ideals that mean nothing."
He stepped forward, the emerald glow of the Chamber's torches flickering across his sharp features. "He couldn't stop me. He never could. It was Tom who recognized what I truly was, who saw my brilliance and freed me from that silly girl, Ginny Weasley."
Voldemort's smirk widened, cruel and triumphant. "And your precious Dumbledore, in all his so-called wisdom, handed the diary right back to Tom Riddle. The man's ignorance is boundless. He might as well have been working for me."
Harry froze, the realization crashing into him like a rogue Bludger.
So Dumbledore had known about the diary… and had still returned it?
That, that couldn't be right. Could it?
But as the truth settled, a strange calm spread through him. If Dumbledore trusted Tom, then Tom couldn't be the enemy.
The last of his hesitation melted away. Harry straightened his back, chin high, voice steady.
"You can sneer all you want," he said fiercely, "but facts don't change, Voldemort. The greatest wizard alive is Dumbledore, and the greatest wizard of the future is Tom. You? You've already lost. You're nothing but a loser."
Voldemort's eyes glinted dangerously, but his smile didn't falter. "Harry Potter," he said softly, "I've recently learned a phrase from Tom, a saying." His tone turned mocking. "A dog relying on its master's might."
His lips curled. "It fits you perfectly."
Harry flushed scarlet. He couldn't even argue, it did sound about right.
…
Tom sighed audibly, breaking the tension. "All right, enough of the barking contest. You've seen the boy, Voldemort. Wish fulfilled. Now" He gestured toward the Slytherin statue. "Call forth the Basilisk and be done with it. After that, I'll hand you to Dumbledore myself. You've wasted enough of my time."
He'd already tried speaking Parseltongue to the statue earlier, but nothing happened. Perhaps the ancient chamber simply didn't recognize him, perhaps it rejected anyone without Slytherin's bloodline.
The thought made his jaw twitch.
If he ever got the chance to meet Salazar Slytherin himself, he decided grimly, he'd give the smug old founder a piece of his mind.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You think you can dictate terms to me?" His voice dripped with venom. "Very well, Tom. I'll summon your precious serpent. But whether you leave here alive…" His smile sharpened. "That depends on how strong you really are."
He turned, raising Harry's wand, and hissed in Parseltongue:
"Speak to me, Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the four founders!"
The sound reverberated through the chamber, a sibilant whisper that crawled beneath the skin.
The colossal statue began to move. Its stone lips split open, widening into a dark, yawning pit. From within came a low hiss, and the unmistakable slither of something vast awakening after a thousand years.
Before Harry could even breathe, Voldemort spun, his wand snapping up.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A streak of blinding green shot across the chamber, slicing the air with a thunderclap.
Tom flicked his wrist. The Killing Curse ricocheted off the ground, exploding against a stone pillar and showering debris everywhere.
The echo of Voldemort's laughter filled the chamber. "You tortured me endlessly, Tom," he shouted over the noise. "Now it's my turn. Either kill me here, or die yourself! Because following Dumbledore will only lead to your ruin!"
He moved faster than thought.
A barrage of curses burst from his wand, silent, deadly, relentless. Each one a manifestation of years of obsession, fury, and genius.
The Chamber became a storm of dark light, silent curses that cracked the walls, spells that twisted gravity, flares of violet and black that hissed as they struck the floor.
Voldemort was a prodigy of magic, sixteen years old when he had split his soul. A true descendant of Salazar Slytherin, his power even now was staggering.
He raised his wand again, voice sharp as a blade:
"Maledicta Omnia!"
Golden light flared from his wand tip, erupting outward in a shockwave that shattered the remnants of his own spells, and vaporized any defensive wards around them.
Tom didn't flinch.
He didn't block, because blocking a Killing Curse or a curse of that scale was suicide. Instead, he twisted his wrist, redirecting the incoming surge into the ground. The light exploded harmlessly against the tiles, burning a crater the size of a cauldron.
He exhaled slowly, almost amused. "You've got quite the temper."
Then he turned his head slightly. "Harry, your wand's tainted."
Harry, who had already flattened himself on the floor, tried to make himself even smaller. "I-I noticed," he muttered weakly.
Tom's lips quirked in a smirk. "Good survival instincts, though." He flicked his fingers, and the diary, still lying open on the ground, flew into his hand.
Voldemort's expression twisted, fury replacing arrogance.
"Tom Riddle!" he roared. "You dare steal from me? You have no honor!"
Tom's smirk widened, eyes glowing faintly red.
"Honor?" he said softly. "I burned that word out of my vocabulary the moment I met you."
He raised the diary high, magic coiling around his arm like a serpent ready to strike.
The Chamber shook again, this time, not from the Basilisk's slithering… but from Tom's power building to its breaking point.
Voldemort's laughter faltered.
For the first time since his resurrection, fear crossed his face.