I am Voldemort's friend

 Chapter Twenty. The Secret Room and Vasilisk's Shit

 "It's pounding," he says aloud for some reason, voicing his condition. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...

 "Open up," I hiss at the snake in the toilet in Partselang. A piece of the wall comes away with a slight creaking sound, and I see that it is covered not only with Partselang hieroglyphs, but also with... Sidic runes. Now that's news... Although, considering that in those days the few Sids still lived among humans, it's not really surprising. Especially since the Snake-Tongued are closer than anyone else (among humans) to the magic of nature, where no one is stronger than the Sids. Who studied with whom, collaborated with whom, and so on, is not important... although it is important that if I find this information, it will simplify some of my searches... But more about that later.

 Followers... in position — my Shadow is moving around the outskirts of Lightwood. Yes, it's still Lightwood, not the Forbidden Forest — Hagrid and his experiments aren't here yet. The administration is already starting to spread propaganda about the "Scary Forest," but this project is clearly designed to last for decades. The Forest isn't exactly safe, but they don't chase you out of it either — natural selection in all its glory.

 I read the Sidovian, or Alvian, Runes...

 "Friend... of the same blood... The Power of the Strong... The Essence of Nature... I sit down on the floor, trying to make sense of the runes. 

 So... There are more than a dozen translation options just from the first attempt — the Sidov script is very ambiguous. But all of them say that the passage is open only to the Strong — this can mean both magical skill and level of Power. The essence of nature — that is, only the Sith or the Parselmouths can enter. Hm... then how did Potter get in in the future? He definitely had no connection to the Sith. And the Horcrux has nothing to do with it... A descendant of Salazar? Or someone else from the Parselmouths of that time? There's no way to check that now. Although... what's stopping me from visiting the relatives of the future, possibly Red-Haired Lily Evans?

 Blood... I bite my palm and squeeze my fist several times to smear the blood, then press my palm against the stone... And a clear image comes to my mind: I am recognised, accepted as one of them, and granted access to the Room. Phew... my knees are buckling...

 I take a step forward, the stone closes behind me, and I... ride an escalator, a magical version of it. 

 "Ugh! The smell in the huge hall was awful — the basilisk is a meat-eater after all, and it shits...

 "Well, yes, this is where it shits," I stated, looking greedily at the huge container of rotting shit. 

 Greedy because everything was valuable to the basilisk, including shit. I won't say it was worth its weight in gold... but at least its weight in silver, for sure. My mood immediately improved — even if I didn't find anything else, the risk had paid off many times over. Unfortunately, there was less faeces than I would have liked — only a couple of dozen cubic metres. Well, that's understandable, most of it had rotted away, and magical animals have a slightly different digestive system. 

 Otherwise, the hall was much cleaner than I expected. There were twigs, rotten leaves and other rubbish that the Slytherin familiar had dragged in over the centuries on its scaly skin. But it was all in moderation, no rat skeletons or anything else that you subconsciously expect, even if you know that it's a snake that swallows its prey whole.

 The shed skin was found in a separate room.

 "And not that much," I say to myself again. I start to recall everything I know about basilisk, and it turns out that about a hundred and fifty years ago, it was still being visited, but then for some reason they stopped. But why "for some reason"? It was at that time that the Hogwarts headmaster changed a number of rules and stopped bringing the Old Oath. As a result, they lost their full access to the School. Hmm... 

 Get it myself? Tempting, but I'm a muggle and have no relatives among the local nobility, and even if I did, they're almost all connected to the Capitulation. Tom? Yes, that's an idea... but then, right now, I just can't do it — I don't have enough power or knowledge. 

 I didn't wake up the basilisk that time, I was afraid. I wasn't afraid of him, but of the consequences — something like that could set off... um... the alarm. Or somehow alert the director. Not necessarily... but I won't do that yet. It's clear that I haven't found the famous Secret Room yet... The real Secret Room, not a place to walk your pet. Task number one is to move the shit and the skins. You never know... 

 The shit of such a huge and ancient magical reptile will definitely come in handy in my world. I know that it is widely used in potion-making and herbology, but I won't go into details — I'll leave that to my wives, they'll figure it out better. 

 Well, the skins can be used for armour, ritual clothing... And lots and lots of gold. No, that's not right — not only and not so much gold as artefacts, valuable ingredients for potions, books, services... My darling...

 I carried manure in an enlarged bag, which took several days. The task was... peculiar: on the one hand, it smelled awful, but on the other hand, it was valuable!

 I had to carry the discarded skin, rolling it into rolls and dragging it along. It may be relatively thin, but it is still "relatively". Cut it? No way! 

 It's not the easiest task, magic doesn't work on skins. It's possible, of course, but it requires specific potions to soften it and a lot of other tricks. And again, there's the risk.

 "God save Salazar!" I muttered, dragging the roll on a transfigured trolley through the underground passage. Ugh, damn potholes!

Several times I had to drag the cart using levers — alas and alack, but Leviosa doesn't work well in this case. The cart doesn't transform back only because I applied a chain of runes immediately after transfiguration, otherwise it would have long since disappeared — the skin only "pulls" magic like that. The path leads beyond not only the Castle, but also Hogsmeade, and I seem to be the only one who knows it.

 There... in the future-past... they dug up old plans and found him. And then they blocked it. So... the anti-apparition and anti-portal zones are passed, activation...

 "Portus!" And the last skin is transported through the portal to the Outer Manor. Honestly, the relief from the work done was such that no orgasm came close... And what, the manure has already been transported — and the wives are delighted. They can't send a normal letter for obvious reasons, but the agreed signs say that they are literally squealing with happiness. And me... Now, just the last skin, and then I can rest. There's less than a month left until the end of the school year, and I need to prepare for exams — that is, flip through my textbooks and figure out what the programme requires of my peers.

 I met Tom Ridla-Gonta in a deserted corridor on the fourth floor — the corridors in the Castle lead not only outside, but also inside.

 "Hello," he said indifferently, like a stranger but polite.

 "Hi," I replied, just as indifferently.

 "Listen, can you give me some advice on the Runes? I'll owe you one.

 "Sure," I said, feverishly trying to figure out what had happened to make Tom break his cover. "Is there a lot of it?"

 "No, just a couple of things, five minutes at most.

 "Come on... let's go into the classroom, we can't just stand in the hallway.

 In the classroom, Tom made scary eyes and waved his hand, imitating my non-verbal communication with the tracking devices. I'm doing it...

 "Have you even looked in the mirror!? – Gont hisses, practically on the edge of his seat, and creates a simple mirror spell. 

 "Damn...

 "There's your 'Damn it'," the boy says sternly, removing the basilisk scale from me.

 "I won't ask where you found it, but... you need to think!

I really messed up... I cleaned myself with spells after the secret move, but managed to forget that parts of basilisk magic are almost impossible to remove. Hmm...

 "Thanks," I say sincerely, to which Tom responds with an incredibly charming grin.

 "You owe me!

 "I will," I reply seriously, "you helped me out just now. How about a break outside the shelter? 

 "The manor?!" Riddle says eagerly.

I shake my head:

 "I can't yet — they're watching you very closely... I can't figure out how we can be officially connected so that our relationship looks natural to the administration. "We can be friends," the boy shrugs uncertainly, "like you take me under your wing or we find common interests — I'm at the SOV level in Runes.

 "Mm... no, it's risky," I refuse regretfully, "we need something that will make them think I'm... a forced friend or something.

 "Simulate a debt of life! 

 "Now that's something... I'll have to think about it, but it sounds promising — you help me out in some big way, loudly and publicly. Duty of Life... no, that's too much. But Duty of Honour, maybe... we'll think of something. 

 "Yeah. And then I, the shameless Muggle-raised boy, will impose myself on you at Manor in the summer to ask for forgiveness for my duty. 

 "Something like that. Well done, you're quick on the uptake, unlike me.

The boy glowed with self-satisfaction — he had shown himself to be clever and at the same time had come one step closer to his goal.

 "Ah... this summer? He asked cautiously.

 "No. I've already figured out what I'm going to do with the Debt — so that no one will suspect anything. And this summer, you'll be participating in the 'Give a Child a Summer' programme for orphans. In short, talented children from orphanages will spend the summer with ordinary families in Ireland — there are no bombings there*. There's no Dippet or anyone else in charge there. Got it?

Tom is screwed, big time!

 "You'll live with Muggles, but they know about magic, and their son goes to one of the Irish schools. And you can practise your magic there, there's a training ground nearby for summer classes. And your peers will be... normal.

 "Thank you!" And the future-past Fear of Britain hugged me childishly.

 The exam period was over... and it was nerve-wracking. Knowing that I had failed some subjects, many students pestered me with requests, demands, and a desire to "test my knowledge." And one fourth-year Gryffindor who thought he was particularly clever decided to "test" my knowledge — to see if I was really that good, because he had a suitable topic lying around... and a list of questions... Naturally, he was sent packing, after which he tried to spread nasty rumours, but it didn't work out — there were enough smarter guys in his department who wanted to suck up to me before the exams, so the "smart guy" simply and unceremoniously got his face smashed in. Well, I added a nickname to him, and now Lars was "Odysseus the Clever." 

 Realising that there was no way out — unless I ruined my relationship with dozens of students — I had to give extra lessons with the blessing of Dean Malfoy. Aver spoke with Laura Sanchez, the arithmetic teacher, and Arthur Smith, the numerologist, and they were delighted to share their duties.

 "I sympathise," Smith, a middle-aged man with black hair from an obscure family living in Hogsmeade, said at their first meeting, "now you'll often have to take on the duties of a teacher. 

I nodded sadly: a peer who was knowledgeable in the subject was a much more convenient target for "why" and "explain" questions. If only because I wouldn't be able to use "administrative resources" to punish particularly annoying ones.

 I decided to hold classes six times a week — twice for each subject, except for astronomy. This subject was widely associated not only with numerology, but also with potions, spells, and predictions. So even the laziest students "picked up" enough to pass astronomy with flying colours.

 I exhale and enter the classroom — today I am teaching an elective class on runes for sixth and seventh graders.

 "Hello, children," comes out instead of a greeting. "Children," all of whom are older than my physical body, took this as an excellent joke and visibly relaxed.

 "So... I don't need to tell you the meanings of the runes. I won't tell you about the combinations of the 'classic' pattern either.

 "Then what?" Tais Le Marc from Hufflepuff asked loudly.

 "Then... let's look at the non-classical use of runes...

I'm pacing around the classroom — a long-standing habit of a wizard doctor in front of his students in the operating room; there's nowhere to sit down.

 "There are enough bright minds gathered here," I compliment my students, "so I'll try to give you... a push for your imagination. So, the rune "Hagalaz" is usually considered...

 The exams are over and the results are already known, but according to a long-standing tradition, the students are still being "marinated" at Hogwarts for a couple more weeks. In the past, this was simply time wasted. Now, however, the old traditions have not been forgotten, and students are given the opportunity to brush up on their knowledge in certain subjects (strictly optional) or finish some projects. 

 A blanket is spread out on the grass by the lake, and I am lying on it with my pipe. Next to me is Ernie Smith, who seems to be aiming for Patronage or even Vassalage, as is Simon Hoff, a half-blood from Slytherin, as well as my former curator, Sid Formick, with whom I have developed an almost friendly relationship. "Almost" because the Mystery got in the way a little, as did the combination of my maturity and Sid's childishness.

 "All right," Sid says slowly, admiring the clouds, "I'll gather my documents and that's it — goodbye, England. I feel so light — no more of this bloody war, no more intrigue...

Ernie snorts in disagreement — due to his youth and Muggle upbringing, he still has a "God save the King and England" in him. It will fade away later, and in fact it is already fading away — especially since wizards, who are very sceptical of Muggles, keep a lot of unflattering documents about the British royal family. And not only about colonial atrocities such as the artificially created famine in Ireland and the trade of their own citizens as slaves** in the past, but also quite modern ones. It is difficult to maintain faith in "the King and England" under such conditions... And later comes animosity, then hatred... The noble wizards have long since distanced themselves and are more or less indifferent to such information. Muggle-borns, when they learn that all these events have affected (and mostly negatively) their ancestors, their parents, themselves... It is difficult to remain detached.

 Footsteps sounded and Earl Fox, a fifth-year Muggle-born from Hufflepuff, approached.

 "May I? He waited for permission and sat down on the blanket. "Thank you, Robert. Your lessons on the non-standard use of Runes helped — I passed well and... I was noticed and invited to work at Cleaner. I'll owe you one.

After sitting for a while longer, Earl left. He wasn't the first to owe a favour, and he wouldn't be the last — nothing serious, but... Debts are debts, and who knows... Well, time to get going — wives and children are waiting. Hmm... I'm nervous — five babies...

There are no bombings there*" Ireland was neutral during World War II.

Trading its own citizens as slaves**" is not fake. For a long time, the English government traded Irish people (who were already part of the Kingdom) as slaves, and it also traded English people. Even now, the Windsors are the main suppliers of opium in the world — anyone who wants to can look it up, there are plenty of documents on the subject. 

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