Authors' Note:
This is an X-fiction written by two authors a lot of you already know. We do not know the future plot any more than you do. The point of an X-fiction is oblivion of the future and attention to the past. The odd-numbered chapters will be written by Blue, while the even-numbered will be written by Rhapsody.Disclaimer:
We own nothing that you recognize.Chapter One
By "Blue"
She tiptoed through the hallway as quietly as she possibly could, her sharp eyes darting around nervously. Had she been a fair bit older than eleven, she would have passed for a portrait of a queen. Her hair, long and black, hung down her back in soft braids, and she was clothed in a white silk nightdress and a white velvet dressing gown. Her face radiated with beauty and innocence, and one could tell at one glance into her cornflower blue eyes that she was very clever. Her very name meant wisdom, and she was, indeed, intelligent.
Intelligent, yes, but naïve.
Eyes narrowing slightly, she peeked around the corner before rounding it, her clothes rustling very slightly. Curiosity burned in her, driving her forward, though her conscience chastised her, telling her that she should have remained in the Gryffindor common room. However, her weakness had always been her curiosity, and she could not let a mission like this pass her by just because of the rules. Making sure the hallway was clear, she darted along it with catlike agility, following her senses. After a flight of stairs, she thought she heard a noise. Resolutely, the girl followed the sound until it brought her to the doorway of what she assumed was an abandoned classroom. Looking at the number, it was confirmed; this was the same one.
The mysterious sound had turned into a voice, and a familiar one at that. Leaning in closer, the girl could barely make out any words. For the life of her, the girl could not place the voice's owner. It could have been anybody, though it was low enough to belong to a boy. But she knew she had heard it before, somewhere.
Deciding to take the risk, the girl nudged the door open. The room inside was lit by a strange dark light coming from a lantern on a table, and the girl could see a vague silhouette of the person talking. Whoever it was had jet-black hair that was, for the age, defiantly long, going halfway down the back of his neck. He kept murmuring in what sounded like Welsh, and he was wearing steel-colored robes and a long, hooded cloak of the same sharp grey. The girl watched for a few seconds before panic overcame her. There was something frightening in the tone in which he was saying the unknown words; something that made her want to run.
"Get a handle on yourself," she thought to herself. "You've come this far, Minerva Sophia McGonagall, and you aren't about to turn back!" Of course, maybe Dickie Prewitt had been lying when he told her that someone performed Dark magic in this classroom late at night. But whatever the tall stranger was muttering had to be evil--Minerva could hear the edge to his voice.
Without warning, the boy switched to English, now chanting in a slightly louder tone of voice.
O Wraiths of those forgotten
Shades and Specters abound
Come to me.
O shackled fiends thankfully lost
And ghosts of those unjustly dead
And murdered by the former
Come to me.
Send aid in the form
Of a death messenger.
I call upon you.
Come to me.
Minerva waited, curiosity twinging in her chest. Then, abruptly, shapes began to swim into view. The stranger's lantern was extinguished by a sudden blast of cold, though nobody noticed. Minerva realized that the tall boy was now surrounded by ghosts, as though he had summoned them. His eyes caught the light of one of the ghosts and glinted so that Minerva could see their color. Brilliant violet, almost iridescent, glinting like amethysts.
Minerva's breath caught in her chest. She only knew of one student with black hair and violet eyes. Only one student who spoke Welsh and preferred ghosts to humans enough to study necromancy. Only one student who had the intelligence to perform such advanced charms. She could not suppress a scream. It was not out of fear of the ghosts he had summoned, but out of fear of the boy himself. It was impossible not to fear him… Minerva did not know him well, but had seen what happened to those who crossed him. And yet, she could not stop screaming.
Almost in one movement, the boy swept his arm, bidding the ghosts to leave, whirled on Minerva, and strode toward her with the kind of calmness that he only used when about to curse someone painfully. Minerva held out a hand as though to ward him off, but the boy's hand closed around her wrist and he blinked at her slowly. It suddenly struck her how very long his eyelashes were, almost too long to belong to a boy. "Minerva," he whispered, his voice flinty. He never raised it to a high decibel level, but everyone knew that the quieter he grew, the more dangerous he was. Unlike most students, he insisted upon calling everyone by his or her first name, even his worst enemies.
"Riddle!" Minerva shrieked. "Stay away from me!"
"Quiet," Tom Riddle hissed, his eyes flashing malevolently. "If you keep it up, we are both caught, Minerva. You know that as well as I." His grip tightened on her wrist. "Explain yourself."
Minerva wanted to hiss and spit and scratch him violently, but she feared what he would do to retaliate. "Dickie Prewitt told me that someone was performing Dark magic in that classroom," Minerva confessed, quailing under Tom's furious glare. "I was curious."
The barest hint of a sadistic smile played across the fourth-year's face. "Curiosity killed the cat, Minerva," he responded softly. "Just so you know, that is not Dark magic. Necromancy is not a Forbidden Craft, as well you should know, considering your test scores." Minerva wondered how his eyes could look so angry, when his face remained calm. "But you, Minerva, seem very much like a cat to me. Does that not mean, in turn, that your curiosity shall be rewarded with--"
Minerva forced herself to burst into tears, which usually scared bullies away. Tom, however, saw right through it. "A paper-thin façade," he told her coolly. "Now, Minerva, to business. I shall admit, this is not something I would like the teachers to know about." His face went slightly paler, and Minerva could tell he was thinking about the Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, who was the only person who could frighten Tom at all. "But you are not going to tell."
"Why shouldn't I, you Slytherin scum?" Minerva spat.
She immediately regretted it. Tom made a motion as if to strike her, but he forced himself not to do it. He was that rare person who could be both a cad and a gentleman; he could hex anyone without batting an eye, but could not bring himself to physically hit a girl. Shuddering with rage, he drew out a wand and pointed it at Minerva's heart. "I know the spell that could stop this from beating," he said, indicating her heart, which was pumping abnormally quickly. "I also know the spell that could slowly suffocate you; an invisible pillow placed over your face, and you, unable to do anything. And another spell--morbid, this one--that will split every blood vessel in your body, starting with the capillaries and working its way up by size… I know many things, Minerva… very many… and I am sure you do not want to get caught up in it."
Minerva stared at the Slytherin with a mix of horror and some sort of macabre admiration. His amethyst eyes glimmered again. Tom raised his eyebrows for an instant, smirking a little and ever-so-slightly cocking his head. "Well?" he whispered. "Do you still want to run off to your precious professors the moment I let go of you?"
"No," Minerva lied, the mendacity quivering on her tongue. Tom's smile grew a little wider.
"You lying brat," he purred. "If you are really that keen on getting me caught, Minerva, then I am afraid I shall have to take matters into my own hands." Minerva tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp and make a break for it, but Tom was stronger by far than his lanky figure suggested. Minerva heard just one word before losing consciousness.
"Obliviate."
And then she knew nothing.
