Right, I feel it's probably fairly important to tell you now, this story is set in an existing, canonical chapter in the second book of the lovely Mrs. Rowling's series Harry Potter, titled The Very Secret Diary (Pages 243-247), in which Harry is transported into the memory of one Tom Riddle, so that the latter might convince him of Hagrid's supposed guilt.

In this writing piece, I have rewritten the experience, but with one very major change, which is the perspective of the chapter. My version is told as though it were Tom Riddle who experienced these incidents, when he was still in school, not as he gave the recollection to Harry.

There is one little splurge of violence in the story, but it is imagined and very mild, so I don't think it's much to worry about. But, nevertheless, a word of caution.

And that's all! Please enjoy, and review, if you'd like. Thank you. :)

Word Count: 3,716

Disclaimer: I in no way, shape, or form own Harry Potter, nor do I take credit for the canonical events that have taken place in this fanfiction: I have only retold the tale from a different viewpoint.

The shadows of this grand place were dark, they were black, and the ink nothingness provided no dividing line, with its blurred edges. No precision in hidden places. It was only impending upon the paleness of the floor, like deep, deep bruises in the wood, soaked into the walls and into the roots, rotting the tree, killing the centre in its slow and parasitic feeding.

Upon his contact with the door, his flesh was warmed with the physical heat of realisation, for opposite this entry, he knew Dippet to sit in his throne. Though, of course, that cautious deception that he used was never meant to be mistaken that the aged man was of a totally important stature; simply, he was no more than an obstacle in his ambitious pursuits.

However, he must admit, for it was indeed true, despite Dippet's involvement, the situation was shameful. He had become careless, and with the thrill of it all, (the power, so lovely and so palpable: the bitter red fruit of the tree as he picked it from its branches, as though he was Eve, as though he could make them suffer, he would) and he had failed to see the obvious consequence of his cleansing. The school would assuredly not case itself hardly in layers of diamond shell, but it would die soon with the infection of the adults, as the students, he knew felt nothing in regards to these murders, if only they themselves were pure of blood. But he would be unable to escape the suffocating tendrils of the orphanage if suspicion continued to plague the already poisoned air.

And so this arrangement was an especially convenient one, if only that oaf of a giant was in his position, in the cage, which would ruin him (he was), and if Headmaster Dippet was so willing to please as he had suspected for his years here now (he was).

Tom did not ponder on his situation outside the door any longer, as he held no appropriate power above the Headmaster's head, not where the man understood, anyways, and would be unable to escape this meeting without unnecessary hassle. He must force his hand, if only Hagrid might be put under powerful suspicion. It was only then that he would have in his ability the control to act further, to continue his work further, to organise those loyal Death Eaters.

He would, after all, not be allowed to work underground with the continuing, pestering presence of Dumbledore.

Once again he placed his hand upon the wood, and Tom imagined termites, and he knocked with a hard and echoing 'rap'. The decrepit voice spoke from inside, its words containing age and dust, and seemed to scatter in the hall like dully winking sand fibres. "Come in."

He obliged, removing his pointed black hat, clutching it between his pale fists in what only he knew to be truly an impressive display of acting. Often Tom had considered the wear to be a bother, he never had enjoyed it, it was an annoyance even at the best of times, but yet it signified his place in this hidden society. And Muggles would find it comical if held in their filthy hands, rolled between stubbed stumps of fingers, but this too, Tom has reminded himself of many a time, in what he thought to be wisdom, is but a reminder of their ignorance and of their innate deficiency.

"Ah, Riddle," Dippet said, might perhaps have sighed, if only his voice was not so frail, with the air of one fortune enough to unveil a pleasant surprise, though surely he was expecting Tom. The letter was after all still on his desk, its liquid onyx writing form still meticulous and curled slightly, little chains of motionless snakes. Tom rationalised the man must have finished reading the parchment soon before his arrival, it must have been, splayed about the neat desk as it was, and Dippet's nails and flesh were stained the infectious black ink of what he knew to be from his quill.

Carefully, Tom allowed his features to drop, to melt, where his brow would furrow and his lips would tighten, and he knew then as he always did that the fool Headmaster would be at his mercy.

Dippet was obviously sympathetic. His face become soft and gentle, and Tom was overcome with coldness.

"Sit down," he said quietly; it was no order. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

"Oh," Tom said, remaining hushed, timid and small, and he clutched his hands together, as if in Catholic prayer, like he was taught good children did, in the orphanage. He had been really quite terrible in repeating the meaningless gesture at mealtime, but the women of the place did not hasten to scold him; they never scolded Tom Riddle.

Dippet did not reprimand his false pleas, either, though the action was one born of affection rather than fear. "My dear boy, I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

The query left Tom feeling oddly sensitive, and instinctually the urge to become sharp (the crannies of his mind, his body, like the shadows of the Hogwarts walls) came upon him, though he repressed the sensation. His reply was immediate, and with typical effort he was able to deny impatience word in his voice. With automatic management, he became convincingly hesitant.

"No, I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that — to that — "

Dippet interrupted him, as he was sure he would. "You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?"

"Yes, sir," Tom said, his cautiousness evolved to a growing hot anger. With shame he would admit to himself later the red coat upon his cheeks required little artificial effort.

"You are Muggle-born?" the Headmaster asked, curiosity clearly peaked.

"Half-blood, sir," said Tom, somewhat grudgingly, if Dippet might have heard his mutterings, "Muggle father, witch mother."

In the fireplace Dippet kept alight always were dull, soft yellows and reds, defined on the headmaster's crook of his nose, his glasses, his black robes. He seemed aware he was to enter sensitive territory as he asked quietly, as though fearful of upsetting the student before him, as though he were made of fragile green glass, "And are both your parents—?"

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."

Dippet clucked his tongue upon seeing the faux misery in Tom's face, unaware and sympathetic as ever.

"The thing is, Tom, special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…"

It was with tense muscles, unnoted by the length of the school robes that Tom asked, veins made definite and blue, icy, a betrayal of blood, in his pale hands, "You mean all these attacks, sir?"

But surely, surely even the most naïve little child here in this school could not even prevent themselves from misunderstanding, or in fact, not understanding at all. For the petrifications had become popular within the halls, and the Mudbloods did not walk, but cowered in their fear, and a girl is dead by an unknown cleanser's hand (it is not murder, Tom had thought before, not for such pitiful swine).

Dull though they may be, Tom added in his question, an afterthought, a truth, if it existed only in his head, even the childish mongrels of this dirtied place could not possibly be so ignorant, not now.

The headmaster spoke, and, to be sure of his attentiveness, Tom delayed in continuing his scorning disbelief. "Precisely. My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy—" (Tom shifted to cross his legs; Dippet was none the wiser) "—... the death of that poor little girl … you will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the, er—source of all this unpleasantness…"

The sensation, when Tom was overcome by it, was an odd one, for he had not been at its touch for some time, not with the compacted tediousness of the day, and of its lazy people that were submersed into it. To feel the drumming grow in uncounted seconds, a persistent red that had begun to run throughout his body, it was, in a certain way, wildly rousing. Not of his own volition, his eyes widened, and with the moment there was opportunity.

"Sir," he started, pausing, reluctant, and again he plowed onwards, "if the person was caught— if it all stopped—"

Dippet was quick enough to understand his implications, the plumpness of his purpled, bagged eyes swelling, as though of a popped balloon attempting desperately to regain air, and he was erect in his seat suddenly, and it seemed a wonder the fragile white bones of his back and body, sick with cloying age, did not crack. Indeed, it was difficult for Tom to repress the inevitable smile that had begun to curl when he heard a squeak in the elder's voice.

"What do you mean? Riddle, do you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir," said Tom, immediate in his denial. If perhaps he had had no experience in the area of discretion in times such as these, he would have been disappointed greatly, unable as he was to indulge himself with an open, sadistic satisfaction.

He suspected that Dippet indeed held no great hopes in luck, not when murder or students or he was concerned (though Tom doubted the latter to be true), as he did not appear grief-shaken with the assurance, but only faintly disappointed. The headmaster sank into his chair, forlorn as he had been upon Tom's arrival, and he was like melted puce sherbet in his failure.

"You may go, Tom…"

Complying with the charge (and what a weak one it was, simply a request), Tom mimicked the headmaster's defeated position, he sliding across the fabric of the throne-chair, broken now under the settled weight of the times, and slouched his back as he stepped across the room to the door as though it were a trek of unimaginable distance, one of a smooth earth that shown depths of narrow wood fissures in its shameful death, and he left Dippet to his non-existent devices.

When he had escaped the suffocation of the room, of his rare excitement that had depleted in steps, it seemed to Tom as if he were walking in used, stale grace upon compacted air. The staircase moved beneath his nimble feet, spiral and chipped, and he jumped slightly in instinct upon crossing the trick step he knew to lie below.

Upon his meeting with Dippet he had held no uncertainties, but the man was unpredictably contagious, and his fears had become a very real thing, worthy of caution. He would hold no accountability for the horrors, Tom knew; Hagrid alone would support the blame of the crime, because certainly the boy would be unable to defend himself, and he was large, clumsy, and imposing in his breadth… But still the worry could not be shaken, not when it twisted his brow to furrow and made him gnaw at his slick lips.

Tom felt the ground underfoot flatten, in the emergence of the corridor. Dark, and bitingly cold in the air of a towering figure ahead in the shadows of the hallway, and a paranoid anger, that which he had known in the Head Office, appeared in his neglected fear. The thing was coming closer, or perhaps he was moving to it, and the black was coloured into the nooks, the faces of the wall and the crooked nose and spindly bat wings of a gargoyle stone statue, which Tom passed, it bearing its horrid sharp teeth down upon him even as he passed, unwilling to tear its claws from the trophy pillar it stood upon for fear of instability.

The form became only apparent by the time Tom had reached the Entrance Hall, and its exhausted call was heard from a looming, twin staircase to that which he had descended. His hair was red as it was always, auburn and tinted darkly brown, the beard thick and reaching nearly to pass his long neck, a horrible, fiery clash from his violently violet robes.

Albus Dumbledore stood thinly tall and malnourished behind the marble stair fence, his hands prominently displaying rounded bone as the paper-pale pair rested on the support, and he did not lean down to gaze upon the Slytherin student.

Coward, Tom thought, with relish, the sneering stone monster come to mind.

Imagination came upon him suddenly, and for but just a moment he was given a tantalizing image of a Dumbledore thrown down into the hard ground, the blood of his heart, severed and dying, (a hundred, a thousand crucios imposed upon him in an endlessly echoing scream) and the crimson would not seek to invade his, Tom's domain, but forever it would stain the dirt which it was born upon, the bloody pool would reach steadily the edges of its newest white backdrop…

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"

Tom's gaze did not waver as he answered, that wonderful image dissipated from his view, "I had to see the headmaster, sir."

"Well, hurry off to bed." He pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his abhorrently crooked excuse of a nose, and in Tom's defence the older appeared to glare, and the fifth year repressed a disgusted sneer. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…"

He did not finish, but merely sighed, as if he made to relieve the weight of the very world from his shoulders.

"Good night, Tom," said Dumbledore, and without another word glided away, up the steps, his destination what Tom was sure to be his classroom. He watched him until the teacher had disappeared from his sight, and, hatred rolling his stomach, set off down the icy steps leading to the stone dungeon.

The entrance to the empty potions class had not been lit, of course, not in the night, and the damp torches, pinned to the rock as they were, looked to be blunt daggers upon the wall, their silver metal gleaming in the faintest moonlight of the hall.

Quietly, Tom slipped inside, disregarding the black cauldrons, severed giant's heads amidst the mountainous cabinets held messily against the wall, their drawers open still. He closed the door until only a crack remained, which he might see out of, waiting for the foolish young behemoth to come down the passageway with his package.

In the dregs of the night, stinking with foul potion odours, he waited, wand hidden inside his robes, but poised to strike when the time arrived.

He heard a sound. A gargantuan lumbering throughout the vacant hallway, nonexistent shadows thrown upon the wall, which Tom knew to be humongous, if only there were firelight in the secluded place. He followed, similarly to those shadows only in the manner of their existence, for he was all but bumbling through the corridor.

Tom was silent in his footsteps and his breath, which had grown sharp and slightly heavy in his growing excitement. The owner of those noises, he could not see, though he knew their causer, and as he reached a corner, he heard clamor, uncharacteristically soft words that trickled like water on the floor; what a mess, what a trail.

"C'mon… gotta get yeh outta here… C'mon now… in the box…"

It had become too much; he could barely quell the relieved, victorious smile he knew to be twisting his features, and without hesitation he acted, pouncing from the corner.

"Evening, Rubeus," Tom said, sharp, tightly, the manner of a prefect, and the grey outline of Hagrid could be seen now on his knees, that box, as well, an open door visible just beyond.

At his realisation of sound, the giant of a boy stood, quickly and his legs were almost impressively still, rather than knocking. He had slammed the sizeable box shut upon Tom's revelation, and the panic was palpable.

"What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

Tom stepped forward, his unquenchable hunger making itself known as he surveyed his eyes across the guilty scene, but he took care, and answered the startled query lowly, calmly. "It's all over. I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"What d'yeh—"

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and—"

"He never killed no one!" Hagrid said indignantly, backing up against the door he had closed in haste. A cornered animal, that's what the boy was, and as Tom observed the scene with focused eyes, he knew Hagrid would not last. But still it was easy to see the animal could sense the oncoming kill.

Suddenly, a clicking could be heard, as of insect pincers, and, adjusted to the lack of light, Tom could see now in clarity the outlined terror on the boy's face. Inevitably, the gaze of both of the two became fixated upon the door.

Tom took yet another step. "Come on, Rubeus. The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered…"

Hagrid roared with an untamed passion, and his voice echoed ghost-like in the emptiness, (a true lion, thought Tom, offhandedly, mockingly) "It wasn't him! He wouldn'! He never!"

At last, Tom decided it was time to put an end to the pathetic situation. He drew his wand, and the paleness of his yew companion stood brightly in the dimness. "Stand aside."

The wand trained itself upon the door, and light came then to fill the corridor in smashing waves across the glittering grey stones. The entrance was opened, and Hagrid was knocked as a side effect against the opposite wall, and a heavy thud was emitted, though the second year uttered no yell of pain.

As the creature was revealed from its cage, Tom directed his wand upon the hairy, eight-legged thing, its black spider eyes rolling madly, but before he was allowed the opportunity to ensnare the thing, it had came up to him, racing as it knocked him down from underfoot.

Its pincers clicked menacingly as Tom attempted to regain his composure, furious, black hair strewn across his face in thick strands, he stood, wand raised, poised to kill, position that he had found himself in many a time before, though that had been a threat … it had not been sincere … but he must pay this monster back in kind …

His nostrils flared in determined anger, but there was suddenly a massive weight upon his back, and a tremendously bulky frame, much larger than his own, slender one, and the boy's calloused, sweaty hands were on his, and the oaf ripped his wand from his grip. Tom could hear the clatter of wood as it fell upon the harsh ground, though barely was he given time to contemplate its absence when the body was crushing him, and Hagrid had pinned him to the stone floor, hands now fixing his wrists so that he was rendered immobile.

"Nooooooo!" screamed Hagrid, dominating the position easily with brute strength, and unable to move upon the freezing dungeon surface, Tom found that he had lost his patience.

Hissing under his breath, eyes bulging with the increasing weight upon his spine, Tom summoned the strength he could muster, and the air was darkened with the wandless magic, rejuvenation renewed in his muscles as Hagrid's mass was thrown off him, and the giant was shocked for a moment, for the older of the two had not bested his strength.

Tom, detecting eerily echoing screams, cries from frightened students as the monster surely passed, and the yelping and tumbling of Slughorn on his little feet, could not prevent the maniacal grin that appeared upon his face, and he stared back at a horrified Hagrid, triumphant, and the boy shrunk into the wall at the sight, plump face draining of blood further, a formation of tears glittering in his beetle eyes.

But the expression was dissolved instantly as the Slytherin party appeared around the block corner, a fat Slughorn holding aloft his wand, a bright glow lighting its reddish tip. His face was waxy, and it could not possibly have been clearer the scene he saw now before him was an astounding one. Rubeus Hagrid crying near the corner by a deserted entryway, and Tom Riddle kneeling upon the ground, hair dishevelled and robes askew, seeming drained and fearful.

"Tom, my boy," Slughorn gasped, hurrying over and gripping the Slytherin's arm in a vice as Tom was pulled upwards, eyes darting to and from his student's band and to the Gryffindor in slight shadow. "Dear Merlin, what happened here?"

There was a heavy silence, in which Hagrid began to sob and wail, a few of the upper-class Slytherins glancing at him with contempt, and Tom saw the form shake and shiver, faking hesitancy as his attention returned to his Head of House.

The walls and the floor here were stone, Tom knew, and only in stone there were cracks, and the material was without bruises. Yet nosing vegetation was capable of intruding through the chinks, and, as Tom looked into the worrying gooseberry orbs of the repulsive Slughorn, and to his housemates, uncertain and scared in their pyjama robes, he knew the weeds to be receded, rotting, dying in the white, ice weather that he had unleashed unto Hogwarts when it had first felt his touch. And the tree roots would be cleansed, as well, Tom thought, when he had shed muddy blood, and it covered the globe.

"Sir," he said, swallowing, and Slughorn's skin bulged with his ever-tightening grip, "I believe I have discovered the Monster."