A/N – Happy Birthday Shaitanah!! (10 December). My first go at a young Tom Riddle fic…I hope you like!

Also I know that the ending is abrupt, but Voldemort moves slowly, taking his time in planning, and it is only when it comes to crunch time that fast action occurs (see all of his plots to nab Harry!)

Sometimes Tom, I think you are very young

Evening fell with a startling swiftness, the dim darkness bringing with it a biting chill that reminded Hogwarts that winter was not far gone. The beguiling soft, blue sky and the warm Spring sunshine was dispelled rapidly as purple-brushed clouds rolled across the heavens. Students who had dared to venture outside in the afternoon sunshine collected their books and hurried back into the castle, to curl up in the luxurious warmth of the common room fires, and defrost their numbed fingers.

The school's grounds emptied rapidly, as the Forbidden Forest was enveloped by deep shadow, and the lawns were swathed in a gloom that muted their vibrant Spring green. The breeze that had playfully tossed the hair of the students earlier now grew stronger, chasing the ripples across the surface of the Great Lake, whilst the trees of the Forbidden Forest waved their newly budding branches and whispered amongst themselves.

A single dark figure, closely wrapped around with a hooded cloak, emerged from under their sparse foliage, and the wind wailed a fresh note of joy as it delighted in playing with the cloak. The hem was whipped roughly, and the wearer was forced to lift a hand to keep the hood down over his head, as the chill fingers sought to tear it back. Doggedly this solitary individual walked across the lawns, with the wind at his back (the cloak had been blown aside enough to show that it was a man or tall boy's figure that it shrouded) as he headed towards Hogwarts. However he didn't reach the castle, but instead turned halfway across the lawns and crossed them to the shore of the Great Lake, with the wind now coming from his side.

Reaching the bank of the Great Lake, the figure sat down with the cloak beneath him, as much to prevent its playful games with the breeze as to protect his trousers from the wet grass, and released his hood. Within seconds a curious gust had flung it back, and the boy's face was exposed. He was a student, and thus a teenager, but his face was solemn enough for any Hogwarts professor. He was one of those fortunate individuals who are blessed with the good looks of the ages, looks which would no doubt last him his lifetime. His short inky hair was tossed by the breeze but he paid it no heed, drawing his knees in and wrapping his arms around them. He rested his head on those knees, emerald eyes gleaming in the dying rays of the sun.

For perhaps ten minutes he sat there, watching the placid surface of the Great Lake, with not a single movement, until he became part of the scene and it was as surprising to see him move as if one of the trees had uprooted itself and gone for an amble. He sighed deeply, a luxuriant shiver which ran through his entire body, and stretched his arms above his head. Lowering one hand, he began to idly tug at the grass, already damp with premature dew, whilst the other ran through his hair. The darkness grew deeper by the second, and when he stood up the boundary between the bank and the edge of the water of the Great Lake was indistinguishable, whilst the vast expanses of deeper water glinted gently in the dusky gloom.

"Tom," the boy told the falling night, and his voice radiated scorn. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," he repeated resentfully. He drew himself up and inhaled deeply. "I am Lord Voldemort," he hissed, breathing the words with reverence. He laughed, an indulgent triumphant laugh, and jumped on the spot. "I am Lord Voldemort!" he cried. His laughter was reserved, low and exultant, as if he was hiding it from the hollow ears of the seemingly empty grounds.

"Lord Voldemort," he repeated to himself. A figure detached itself from the shadows behind him.

"You are Lord Voldemort," it murmured. The boy who called himself Voldemort turned swiftly, tensing in the half-light, but then gave an exclamation of recognition.

"Abraxas! You must sneak up on me like that." Abraxas purred in satisfaction.

"Ah, Tom. It is good that I can still startle you."

"Not Tom," Voldemort told him sternly. "Did you not listen to me, Abraxas? I am Lord Voldemort!"

"Of course you are. I said so, didn't I?" Abraxas replied easily. The light of the rising moon glinted brightly off his long hair, which trickled down his dark shoulders like streams of silver. He shook his head, causing the glimmering waterfalls to ripple in glorious cascades. Not even the carefree Spring wind dared disturb those locks, and they slid silkily back into place. "So, my Lord Voldemort. May a Malfoy enquire as to why the most popular boy in the school would choose to spend a dismal evening, such as this one, outside and alone in the cold?"

"It is not cold to me," Voldemort replied. "And I don't find it dismal. I like darkness. It becomes me."

"Any light becomes you," Abraxas said easily. "But if it you seek pleasure in darkness …there are many dormitories in Hogwarts, with many warm beds and many hungry occupants." Voldemort snorted.

"I have no interest in silly vapid girls."

"Nor in those boys who adore you as well, I see," Abraxas continued softly.

"My Deatheaters are there to do as they are told," Voldemort said carelessly. Abraxas sighed.

"Only one month ago that you thought of that name, and now, how casually you toss it into the winds, for the entire world to hear! And what if these Deatheaters, what if I do not wish to do as we are told?"

"Then I have no use for you," Voldemort replied. His tone grew suspicious. "Why all this talk about silly things like desire and choices, Abraxas? What is it you are trying to conceal from me?" Abraxas sank into a silence for a long time, and then said;

"Father tells me that they are considering closing down Hogwarts." Voldemort inhaled sharply.

"No! They would not do that." For once his tone had a childish note in it. "Not Hogwarts."

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened; and they can no longer pretend that it is not so," Abraxas said harshly. "Did you suppose that everything would continue as normal, whilst you played with your pet?"

"Asatirini is bored." Voldemort sounded hurt. "He wants the run of the castle, not to be cooped up in that wretched chamber." His voice took on a fanatical note. "And I can use him to do good! They'll keep the school open; they must, for those with pureblood, those who deserve! There have only been five attacks and, I made sure, no one has been killed yet. Now that they know truly that the Chamber is open they will read what Salazar created it for. When the mudbloods start dying they'll realise that we of pure birth are safe, that Hogwarts is not dangerous to us. Surely it is only logical that they keep the school open for those who can walk its corridors with impunity, and send home only those for whom it is dangerous?" His voice trembled with fervour.

Abraxas exhaled loudly.

"Sometimes Tom, I think you are very young."

"I am not Tom!" The other cried, with some annoyance. "I am Lord Voldemort." Their faces could not be seen in the darkness, but the moon lent enough of a glow to illuminate their figures as they stepped closer together.

"You think I would not do it?" Voldemort asked. "Let me remind you that I have already killed, Abraxas. Last year. My filthy father and his vile parents. I am not a child, Abraxas. I have told you what I did to them."

"Indeed you have," Abraxas replied delicately. "In much detail. But you are still forgetting one very important factor."

"And what might that be?"

"Dumbledore," Abraxas breathed.

"Merely a Transfiguration teacher," Voldemort snapped. "What of him?"

"He's the main voice for closing the school whilst there is a danger," Abraxas said softly. "Dippet's a fool, and half senile. It's Dumbledore's words that people listen to."

"People like Dumbledore," Voldemort said carelessly. "He makes them feel safe." He shrugged. "I don't like him."

"That's because he is the only teacher in the entirety of Hogwarts that doesn't praise you every lesson." Abraxas sounded amused. His tone grew more serious. "Dumbledore believes in equal magical education, Tom." For once Voldemort did not protest at the name. "He'll never allow this school to become purely for Purebloods."

"But the others would," Voldemort breathed. "Them and the Minister of Magic. The Ministry is riddled with fools." He snorted. "Only sixteen, and already I have them trembling! And the teachers at Hogwarts lack spines. Have you forgotten our dear friend Slughorn? Underneath they're all like him; here for themselves, here to see which growing power they should ally themselves with."

"Not Dumbledore," Abraxas reminded him.

"Dumbledore is an anomaly. And, as I said, merely a Transfiguration teacher." "Be that as it may, he'll never stand for it." Voldemort's answer was

accompanied by quick breaths, betraying his excitement.

"Then Dumbledore will have to die too! If I were to remove him and several mudbloods…it would be enough to convey my position of power; the power of the heir of Slytherin. There needn't be a high body count, and I can't risk being caught." He hugged his arms to his sides as the wind blew straight in his face. "I can't risk being caught, Abraxas. No one can know what I am until I am ready. No one can know what I am."

"A Lord?" Abraxas asked. Voldemort stamped his foot, and his boot squelched into the moist Spring grass.

"I am the last remaining heir of Slytherin, Abraxas! I will be the greatest Dark Lord this world has ever seen. I shall reign, all powerful, all knowing, immortal and feared."

"And I by your side?" Abraxas murmured. Voldemort nodded, the movement nearly lost in the darkness.

"If you remain faithful, Malfoy. If you remain faithful." His voice softened. "If Dumbledore must be removed then it is better that it be sooner rather than later. Not tonight though; he may already be in his private rooms, and I can not afford to send Asatirini roaming the school, searching for him."

"Tomorrow night he will be teaching remedial Transfiguration," Abraxas offered. Voldemort made a contemptuous sound.

"Yes, for those poor fools who find it so hard."

"Not everyone can be as brilliant as you," Abraxas reminded him. "You forget, with your exceptional talents, that even many purebloods in this school struggle to scrape through the OWLs."

"Pah!" Voldemort snorted. He clapped his hands together. "But tomorrow night he will be walking through the corridors, whilst everyone else is eating dinner in the Great Hall, to reach his lesson. There won't be many people around. I can set Asatirini on him and then he will die." He laughed a pleased laugh. "And I will be free to see that the school is successfully purged."

The next day dawned beautifully, the lawns sparkling with dew and the sky a crisp blue. But prettiness is lost on the preoccupied, and the hours of the day crawled far too slowly for Voldemort's limited patience. He bore the customary platitudes and compliments that came his way with far less grace than usual, and for once was not pleasing company for any of the students who attempted to engage him in conversation. The faraway look in his gorgeous green eyes only drew more speculation from his peers (although he never thought of them as his peers. In his mind he was far superior, a Lord forced to endure the indignity of scuffling around with people far below him). Voldemort had hidden his true self so well from his fellow students that they were quite unafraid to pester him. Oh, if I could curse the lot of you, he thought grumpily, as they begged to know if something was wrong with their prince. He grimaced and rubbed his temples, indicating that he was bravely battling through a painful headache and would very much appreciate silence, and this won him a short respite from their clamouring. He grimaced as food appeared on the tables at lunchtime, having no appetite at all. His belly threatened not to tolerate the introduction of food at all, but not to eat would excite further concerns for his health, so he ladled a liberal helping onto his plate and chewed the mouthfuls moodily.

Afternoon lessons crept by, the hours taking an unusually leisurely pace. With his mind elsewhere, he copied down the necessary Potions notes in his elegant script, and accepted back his homework essay (full marks, off course). The last lesson of the day was several hours of Transfiguration, and for the first time in many years Voldemort was nervous. He squirmed under Dumbledore's gaze; using the methods of Occlumency he had taught himself to hide his thoughts. It seemed to him, cursed with an over-observant mind and over-active imagination, that Dumbledore's glances were rather more knowing than usual, or piercing than usual. Outwardly calm, Voldemort flawlessly turned his desk into a pot-bellied pig, to the applause of the class. But inside, the part of him that still knew guilt and fear writhed in the agony of suspense. His feelings only strengthened his resolve to see Dumbledore dead. He was not used to any person, teacher or student, affecting him so violently, and he desperately resented it.

Finally he was released from the lesson, and, having some time in hand, he wandered aimlessly outdoors. Subconsciously, his feet took him to the very spot where he had spoken to Abraxas Malfoy the night before, and he sat there again, losing himself in the tranquil depths of the Great Lake. It was a strange paradox, he had discovered long ago, that the most popular boy in the school should spend so much time alone. But then, that was the way he was. Charming but distant. His isolation was solely of his own choosing; if he had so wished he could have surrounded himself constantly by any number of friends. But he chose not to, and he sought solitude as an old, comfortable companion. In truth he had very little time for anyone other than himself, caring little even for his Deatheaters, although Abraxas was something of an exception. Voldemort wondered briefly where the blonde boy was. Older than him, Abraxas was not so much a friend as a mentor, off whom Voldemort could ricochet ideas, and less a mentor than a soul mate. The two of them seemed perfectly matched, and shared a deep understanding, so deep that they could spend hours in each others' company without uttering a single word, and walk away satisfied that an exchange of views had taken place. Both were private individuals and lonely by nature, and both revelled in that loneliness. Wrapped in their individual bubbles of seclusion, they could sit together perfectly happy without either ever feeling that his private space was being violated.

But no one came to Voldemort in those minutes, so he stood and stretched like a cat, and walked back into the castle. The corridors were strangely empty, but as he passed the Great Hall the raucous sounds emanating from it betrayed where the students had all gone. Voldemort hurried past the doors and on around the corner. He passed various empty classrooms, until he came to a wooden door with no classroom number on it, which he eased gently open. The room he had entered was a bathroom; polished white sinks and cubicles built of green wood. Several of the doors were closed, and he stiffened for a moment, listening. No sound of movement inside them reached his ears so he paid them no further heed, instead walking over to the sinks in front of them. He stopped in front of one of the sinks and rubbed the taps contemplatively. Then he took a step back, opened his mouth and hissed.

"Open up."

Instantly the tap glowed a blinding white and began spinning, faster and faster. Voldemort stood calmly, unperturbed as the sink began to move. It shot down into the ground, out of sight, exposing the gaping mouth of a large pipe. This was not a silent business; the sink grated as it moved, and these sounds hid a soft hiccoughing in the cubicle behind Voldemort. He stood at the edge of the hole and crooned his summons, the hissing echoing off the pipe's wall.

"Come to me Asatirini, come. The heir of Slytherin commands it, and you shall have blood tonight." His whisper echoed round and round. "Blood…blood…blood." And then it wasn't an echo at all, but another voice, answering him, growing louder and louder.

"Blood… I long for blood. Let me tear flesh, let me drink blood." A scraping, slithering sound came closer and closer. Voldemort moved away from the mouth of the opening, towards the row of toilets at his back. From the toilet behind Voldemort the grate of the latch being drawn back was insignificant and ignored.

Out of the hole, in front of the heir of Slytherin, rose an immense, brilliant green serpent. The light played beautifully on its scales, and its eyes were enormous, great golden orbs. Voldemort gazed into them with impunity.

"Asatirini," he breathed, and the snake bowed its huge head.

And then the moment was shattered.

The door behind Voldemort flew open, outwards, slamming into his back and knocking him forwards onto the ground. He twisted onto his side, startled panic flooding through him, desperately trying to see who this attacker was. A girl tumbled out of the cubicle, her expression confused, glasses askew. Beneath those glasses her eyes were red and puffy. Voldemort took this all in in a second and turned to Asatirini, who had shut his lethal eyes, and was hissing in distress and anxiety for his master.

"Kill her!" Voldemort snapped, before the girl even had time to see him. Stumbling, the girl lifted her head, just as Asatirini drew back the lids of his great big yellow eyes.

'The thing that lives in the castle is an ancient creature that we spiders fear above all others…a dread creature' – Aragog.