A/N: This chapter goes out to you, dear reader. But, most specifically, DobbyRoxMySox, for the little nudges of inspiration and for being fun to vent to and with. Good luck on your finals! I hope this makes you happy and gets you back to cracking those lovely jokes!

Chapter Eight

"On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student…"

(Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 17, pg. 311)


Year Two

It was, quite possibly, one of the worst things that could ever happen to him.

His return to the orphanage and the subsequent months that followed were marked by isolation, boredom, and extreme frustration.

He thought he would go mad.

Unable to use magic with the Trace upon him and with only the books he had read so many times to keep him company, Tom seethed with resentment.

New orphans had arrived who had to be taught respect. The old ones had to be whipped back into their fearful states. Ms. Cope had to be avoided. All in all, there was no way to truly describe the extreme relief and elation he felt when September 1st arrived to save him from the monotony of his summer. It wasn't until the horseless carriages had carried him to the castle and he was seated amongst his fellow Slytherins that he finally felt at peace.

The Sorting went well, with nearly a quarter of the new first years heading into Slytherin, the largest influx in several years. The feast was sumptuous, and soon after he fell straight to sleep once he was ensconced safely behind his bed-hangings.

X

"He'ss here… The heir, he'ss here… Blood, I NEED BLOOD!"

Tom started, whipping his wand out from beneath his pillow to face his attacker.

No one was there.

Puzzled, he slipped cautiously out of bed onto the freezing stone, dropping swiftly into a crouch. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the entire dorm as he sought a sign that would reveal an unfriendly mind. Nothing.

He stood up carefully, scratching his rumpled hair in confusion.

Odd, he thought. I could've sworn I really heard that voice… He furrowed his eyebrows and checked the watch that sat on his bedside table. 4:45 AM. Tom sighed and, further mussing up his already disheveled hair, gathered his clothes and toiletries for a hot shower, the voice having ended his night.

At 5:15 he emerged fully clothed from the bathroom. As it was too early for breakfast to be served, Tom grabbed his bag and headed for the library.

The castle was soothing in its dark quiescence, its halls lacking in bodies, the moon still visible in the slowly lightening sky. Tom silently pushed the library doors open and found his favorite table. After dropping his books off, he wandered up and down the stacks, greeting his old and secretive friends, hardly paying attention to where it was that he was going.

Something fluttering on the floor caught his eye. Tom bent down to retrieve it, but it danced out of his nimble fingers and around a corner. He chuckled, following it. His eyebrows rose when he saw it all the way at the other end of the stack. Walking briskly and feeling just a bit ridiculous, Tom bent once more to grab it just as it veered sharply to the left.

"Alright," he huffed, irritated. "Lead a way, you stupid – you stupid – you – ugh!" And he threw his hands into the air, glad that no one was around to see this humiliation.

He followed it up and down the library, around many corners, slowly coming to the realization that he was now in a part of the library he'd never seen before. For the first time, he felt a bit of apprehension. Tom knew that there was no dark magic present – he'd already felt for it – yet, all the same, it was a magic he was unfamiliar with. Nowhere in Hogwarts, A History, did it detail hidden areas in the library ("Although," he reasoned, "such accounts wouldn't be written down; preservation of a secret and all that.")

Still, he pursued the phantom paper, until, quite suddenly, it disappeared in a shower of silver sparks, just as he was becoming fed up with the whole adventure.

Tom stopped short and pulled out his wand. There was old magic, ancient magic, at work, and the older it was, the more unpredictable it could be. He was turning in a circle when he saw it.

A snake.

Protruding from the stack of books just above his head.

Its emerald eyes glinted in the flickering lamp-light, its painted, silky-black and silver body undulating between the books.

Tom raised his wand, eyes glittering madly.

"Ssstop." The snake spoke.

Tom tilted his head.

"Are you the heir?" it hissed menacingly.

"Am I whose heir?" Tom inquired.

"Ssalazzar Sslytherin'ss, of coursse," it scoffed.

Tom raised an eyebrow, his smile barely contained. "What if I am?"

The snake ignored him, instead choosing to slither onto his shoulders, its thick body wrapping around his torso in a close embrace. Its tongue flicked at his ear as its head became level with it. "Are you, or are you not, Tom Marvolo Riddle, son of Merope Evelyn Gaunt and Thomas John Riddle Senior?"

Tom stroked the beautiful snake's body, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from it. He turned his black gaze on the snake's emerald pools and said, "Yess. I am he."

"Then welcome, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Welcome home." The snake then proceeded to sink its fangs deep into Tom's neck, and he blacked out.

X

Slap.

"Wake up."

Slap.

"Tom, get up!"

Slap.

"Malfoy, maybe he needs Madam Aegrassus."

"Nah, she'll just make him worse, the old bat."

"What about her helper, Pomfrey?"

"No, Tom'll be pissed if we get anyone."

Slap.

"Slap me one more time, Malfoy, and you'll be singing soprano for the rest of your life," Tom growled. "I'm up, you moron."

Malfoy hastily took a few steps back as Black chuckled from somewhere above his head.

Tom groaned and rolled over in his soft bed.

Wait – his bed?

Tom's eyes were open in a flash. He threw the covers back and jumped out of bed, stumbling a bit in his woozy state. Malfoy went to help him but Tom just shook him off. "I'm fine," he said tersely. "Don't you all have things to do?" he asked in a voice that brooked no argument. His dormmates fled the room; it wasn't until they were gone that Tom sat back down on his bed, rubbing his neck.

He was in his pajamas. The clock read 7:30 AM – he was going to miss breakfast, not that he really cared at the moment. He did a quick reconnaissance of his surroundings.

His watch was on the table.

His toiletries on his trunk at the foot of his bed.

His towel hung over by the boilers.

His robes were hanging by the handle of his wardrobe.

His shoes –

"Hold it," he muttered.

Tom quietly sauntered over to the wardrobe and touched his robes.

"Not where I put you last night."

He fingered the soft material and the smirk that was already on his face grew into a smile which, in turn, became a wide, toothy, malignant grin as he whooped and pumped his fist into the air.

"Slytherin's heir. I'M Slytherin's HEIR!"

Tom's eyes gleamed. He'd known that there was a reason he'd felt an affinity for the man when he'd first opened the book on dark wizards the summer of his first year. Parseltongue, the ornaments in the common room, everything… it had all pointed to this end.

He continued to grin as he got dressed once more for the day. He kept right on grinning as he walked rapidly through the halls to his first class of the morning, his tall, imposing figure meeting no resistance. The smile, dimmed somewhat to avoid questioning, remained on his face for the entire day, a secretive shimmering present in his eyes. The girls swooned at his magnified attractiveness, the boys scratched their heads in jealousy, and all who met him that day wondered at his ambiguous expression, pressing themselves upon his presence; everyone wanted a part in it.

Tom Riddle was Slytherin's heir. And no one, no one, could do a thing to stop him.

The wheels of his future had been set into motion.

X

A pearly-white figure looked on in satisfaction. He would watch young Riddle, watch as he rose to meet and tango with his destiny.

The Simian face twisted hideously into a grin. He knew his heir would do great things.

Salazar Slytherin stroked the black and silver snake that was draped loosely around his upper body and gingerly touched the mark on his own neck. His connection to the boy was secure.

Year Three

The handsome fourteen-year-old boy stared up at the black sky, the stars twinkling brightly back at him. The roof-tiles of the Astronomy tower felt soft to his aching back (he'd charmed them to feel so), and his invisible body sighed in exhaustion. The brutal February wind howled around him, nearly freezing him to the edifice, but Tom Riddle could hardly care. He wanted to find that snake again. He wanted to know what had happened to him that first day of second year. He wanted to know whose bloody voice he kept hearing at all hours of the night. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

The night sky was reflected back in his colorless eyes, and he sighed once more. It all felt like a dream, some wonderfully amazing dream, one that he was terrified to wake from. Tom shook his head and stood up, stretching luxuriously. "Tempus," he whispered, and silvery numbers shot out from his fingertips to read 1:32 AM. He brushed back a rebellious lock of hair. He should probably be getting back to the common room.

Tom walked to the edge of the roof. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he dove straight down into the air. He caught the window ledge easily and, fluidly, swung himself to safety, landing on his toes.

Readjusting his robes and making sure his hair was in order, the still invisible Tom walked through the castle towards his dorm.

Tomorrow – or today, rather – was Saturday and a Hogsmeade weekend. While everyone else would be out in the little ramshackle town, Tom would be hidden in the library, concocting and researching ways to rid himself of the Trace ("After all," he thought, "there's nothing special about a stupid town, even if it is completely magical. Why would I go and waste my money on frivolous foolery? Stupid, the lot of them…"). It had to – no, it needed to– be done before the end of the school year, before his promised return to that awful place, for, if he had to go an additional summer unable to perform magic, he would surely die from another boring chorus of the previous "vacation."

He already had an idea of what to do, resolving to use the time when the majority of the school would be absent to experiment with the potion he'd been formulating. In fact, since he was already up and about, with nary a person to stop him, he should go and –

"Heir… come find me…Ssave the sschool… Awaken me!"

Tom froze, eyes dilating. He rushed over to the dungeon's damp wall and placed his ear flush against it, listening hard. After a few seconds of hearing nothing, he continued his trek to his dorm, his previous plans of skulking about the castle forgotten. With a whispered, "Lust," he entered the common room to see a flash above one of the tables. He walked over to it, despite his annoyance with all of these mysterious "coincidences," and looked down at the table. There, in a jagged script, were these words on a piece of crumbling parchment:

'You are getting closer. Continue your search, but be warned: if it is not found before your sixteenth celebration, it shall be lost to you forever. Seek your answers from the Hogwarts Four.'

There was no signature.

Tom crumbled the note in his fist. "You couldn't have just told me, you nitwit?" he snarled. His ire lit the paper in his hand on fire, flames licking the sides of his hand, he himself remaining unscathed. Walking over to the dying embers contained in the hearth before him, he blasted his own holocaust into it, crackling with immense satisfaction as the flames grew to an awesome size. The hellish fire danced in his own eyes as he bared his teeth at the long-dead note. Without warning he spun on his heel, his cloak whipping around behind him, stepping lightly up the stairs to his dorm.

X

March came and went, April melted into May, and still, Tom Riddle held sway over the school.

On a Saturday afternoon the first week of May, Tom Riddle was to be found seated in the Potions' Professor's office, sipping tea and avidly listening to a tale of his days as an apprentice. Or so it seemed, at any rate.

"And then, if you would believe it, I mistook the wormwood for the root of Asphodel and my entire cauldron exploded! It caught every other liquid – and believe me, there were many, considering the other apprentices had left their potions to simmer – on fire!" His rotund belly jiggled as he boomed with laughter, and Tom laughed along heartily. "Oh, dear boy, what fond memories does this bring back! But tell me what is on your mind, I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to an old man's ramblings."

Tom's eyes widened innocently as he said, "But sir, I love to listen to your stories! They're absolutely fascinating, especially the one about the vampire who was chased up that tree by the girl you worked with…"

In truth, this was the moment that Tom had been building up to. It never hurt to get a person into a pleasant, talkative mood, especially one concerning themselves, when trying to obtain sensitive information from them.

Slughorn laughed and sent a roguish wink Tom's way. He wagged his sugar-coated finger at him. "Your flattery and handsome innocence will get you everywhere, Tom. I should know!" he chuckled.

Tom smiled and said, "Well, sir, there was something I wished to ask. After all, you probably know most about the subject, what with all of your connections and such…" Here he paused, making sure his Professor's attention was piqued. "Sir," he said, attempting (and succeeding) to look nervous as he shifted in his seat with downcast eyes, "Sir, what do you know of the Chamber of Secrets?" he looked up anxiously and then quickly averted his eyes, going for the maximum effect.

Slughorn leaned back and placed his hands over his stomach. "Ahh. The Chamber of Secrets. Haven't you read up on it in Hogwarts, A History? No no, don't answer that," he waved his hand at Tom who had just opened his mouth, bashfully, to answer. "I've no doubt you've already searched the entirety of the library, being the excellent student that you are; it isn't exactly a subject the library will have sources on. Very well," he sighed. "I'll tell you what I know. It's not much, mind you," he interjected at the happy, hopeful look on Tom's face, "but it's something.

"Of course you are aware of how the school was founded," he stated, "as well as Salazar Slytherin's removal from the school. In those days magic was a wild, natural entity, difficult to harness and much more prevalent in the world, especially on the edges of magical forests such as ours. It took a very powerful wizard indeed to rein it in and then unleash it in the manner desired without killing himself.

"Slytherin was, perhaps, one of the strongest of the Founders, his powers only matched by those of his best friend – and, later, enemy – Godric Gryffindor. It was the two of them who built the magical framework of the castle; Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff had drawn the prints. The commonly-held belief was that the Chamber was built secretly during this time as a private study for Slytherin.

"This is a lie. And also where the little aside on magic comes in.

"You see, Salazar Slytherin didn't build the Chamber until a few months before he left the school." Slughorn nodded sagely at Tom's look of surprise. "Of course you realize such implications as to his health. Slytherin – according to a source – was able to manipulate the magic inherent in the Forbidden Forest and the castle itself to create his Chamber. The effects on his person were, to say the least, disastrous – hallucinations, paranoia – and his strong distrust and aversion to Muggleborns was heightened exponentially.

"His magic, still powerfully strong, took on a mind of its own. He became unstoppable, inconsolable. He only left his friends – former friends, excuse me – intact and alive because some small, still sane part of him realized what was going on. In Gryffindor's memoirs, which are held in a deep vault in the Department of Mysteries (I've never seen them; this story comes from a former student, Gianna Gottlieb, a fine example of an Unspeakable.), he wrote about how Slytherin grasped his robes and muttered a quick explanation of what happened before his magic took him over again.

"Now, why he built the Chamber to begin with, we can only speculate. Gryffindor wrote that as Slytherin left the grounds, he cursed the school to be preyed upon by a monster of terrible proportions, so that it might be purged of all those unworthy to study magic in its hallowed halls."

The man tapped his nose and winked at Tom as he continued.

"As it so happens, my first year teaching there was a Dark Romanian wizard who was called in to inspect the school for evidence of the Chamber – every so often there is a renewed interest in it – and a very curious thing happened." Here he stopped for dramatic effect. Tom was leaning forward eagerly in his seat, somehow still retaining the appearance of merely scholarly interest.

"What, sir? What happened?"

Slughorn chortled at his eager insistence.

"In the middle of walking down the second-floor hallway, he stopped dead. His face went as white as a sheet, all the blood completely drained from it. He began to shake his head, and then, very suddenly, he took off running down the corridor. The man wouldn't stop until he reached Hogsmeade!

"He wasn't due to leave until the following day. The other teachers felt he must be a bit loony, and left him alone. I, however," here he puffed out his chest importantly, "decided to go visit him at the Three Broomsticks. When we met, he'd clearly been drinking one too many Firewhiskies – his eyes were bloodshot – and he was trembling and slurring his words.

"Well. It was quite easy to get him to talk after a bit more – ah – persuasion. He was in the middle of telling me that he was a Parseltongue – learned it somehow – and had heard a monstrous hissing – "Blood… I smell Blood!" – when the door flew open of its own accord. After that he wasn't too keen on speaking, babbling on about monsters and things that were out to get him… It was his account that truly inspired me to believe in the validity of the Chamber."

Tom leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he smiled, a beautiful smile, and stood up from his seat. "Thank you so much, Professor," he said gratefully, "you've really helped me out."

Slughorn chuckled, reaching over to pour himself some more mead. "Of course, my boy, of course! Anything for such a bright student as yourself."

Tom turned to go. Slughorn was digging into his crystallized pineapple box when suddenly Tom spoke again.

"Oh, and Professor. One more thing."

"Yes, my boy?" he said brightly, rummaging around for a pineapple slice.

"I can't really have you remembering any of this."

"Hmm?" Slughorn said, confused.

When Tom turned back to his Professor, it was with a maniac edge to his depraved eyes. Slughorn paled in fear.

"Stupefy."

He struck Slughorn full in the face with the jet of red light. Quickly he moved around the desk, nearly floating in his finesse, and took the overweight man's face in his hands. Tom's thumbs found his temples and, closing his eyes, he focused hard on extracting the entire memory of their encounter. He sifted with nimble fingers through his mind, removing all possible residue of their meeting. Tom then planted a new memory there, one in which he was drinking tea alone and re-labeling Potions ingredients.

After delving once more into Slughorn's mind to make sure an accomplished Legilimens would be fooled, he withdrew from both mind and room and left for the library, the exquisite smile still in place. Professor Slughorn never found out.

Someone else did.

But there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

His usually twinkling blue eyes were dim behind his half-moon glasses.

Year Four

"Miss Hopkirk, might I speak with you for a moment?"

The young witch with light brown flyaway hair looked slightly frazzled by the amount of paperwork before her. She was muttering, searching for a piece of paper, seeming not to have noticed the thin man with the eccentric appearance in her office.

"I put you down there, picked you up, placed you here, turned around and moved the plant, put the plant up top, sat down on a thumbtack, and then - AHA! Gotcha!" She grabbed the paper and waved it in the air, kissing it in relief. "I knew I hadn't lost you!"

The man watched on in amusement for several seconds before clearing his throat, ending the young witch's jig.

"Ms. Hopkirk?"

She stopped dancing, shocked, before blushing to the very roots of her hair. Very carefully, she placed the paper on her chair and took off her spectacles, setting them down on her desk.

"P-Professor Dumbledore? H-how – how long have you been standing there?" she squeaked, mortified.

His blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "Long enough, I daresay." She blushed even harder, if such a thing were possible. Dumbledore shook his head, trying not to laugh at the poor girl's obvious embarrassment. "And please, it has been several years since I was your teacher – call me Albus."

"Of-of course, Prof – I mean, Albus," she replied. Mafalda Hopkirk straightened her robes before sitting down in her chair and then standing back up, having sat on top of her recently recovered paper. "Please, take a seat." She gestured towards the chair in front of her small desk in the cubicle.

Dumbledore sat down, Mafalda following suit.

"How can I help you, sir?" she inquired, having corralled her professionalism once more.

"I heard that you are now working in the Improper Use of Magic office – how do you like it?"

"Oh, well, it's alright, I suppose," Mafalda said hurriedly. "It's just a bit – hectic – at the moment, since it's summer and everything and students are experimenting with magic and the adult bigots are also being particularly nasty for some reason and, sir, I hate to be rude, but can I do something for you? I'm awfully busy, I'm so sorry, this is just a really chaotic time for me, I'm trying to get a raise and a promotion and – "

Professor Dumbledore smiled and raised his hand, immediately silencing her frenetic stream of consciousness. "It's alright, Mafalda, I completely understand. I, too, was young and ambitious once." A look of relief settled upon her face. "As much as I enjoy visiting with an old student, there was something I needed looked at… actually, someone." At her look of confusion, he specified. "A student."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"If he or she has been doing magic – the student is underage, of course? – sorry, ridiculous question – we'd have been notified. By the Trace," she clarified. Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, well, this particular student… I fear he has found a way around the Trace, or modified it somehow. Is there a way to check?"

Mafalda chewed on the inside of her cheek, considering. "Come with me," she said finally, standing up and walking to the door. "I'll take you to the Department of Mysteries and get this sorted out."

The two walked out of the small, cramped cubicle, down the hall and out the door to the gates of the lift. Stepping inside, they rode it down to the ninth level, walked past the courtroom doors and into the circular, blue room. When the door slammed shut, Mafalda turned to Dumbledore.

"You can't tell anyone this, but I'm also training to be an Unspeakable," she whispered. "Every Ministry department has one of us in there, though no one but the Unspeakable knows it. I can take you to the room where the Trace information is located because of that." She smiled slightly, her hair coming out messily from its bun. The two waited for the doors to stop spinning before Mafalda looked around and, unhesitatingly, took the door to the far left, Dumbledore following behind her.

As the door swung open, a room full of tiny hour glasses and a bell-jar with a bird in it was revealed. Mafalda looked around for a second before taking the door to her immediate right to expose a room with several teams of witches and wizards peering into long, thin tanks full of different colored liquids that didn't meld together; rather, they coexisted side-by-side, sliding over one another as the men and women sifted through them.

One wizard glanced up as they entered, a grin breaking over his features. "Ms. Hopkirk! What a pleasant surprise!"

Mafalda smiled in return. "Mr. Bode, this is Professor Dumbledore. He has a question about one of his students' Trace's."

The young wizard, Mr. Bode, glanced away from Mafalda and to Dumbledore. "Professor, it's been a while, hasn't it? How are you doing?"

"Just fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Wonderful, wonderful," he said, bouncing on his feet, full of lively energy. The others ignored him. "What's your student's name, then?"

Dumbledore's smile faded, the brightness of his eyes diluted. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Bode nodded. "Tom Riddle. Very powerful student."

Dumbledore furrowed his eyebrows. "You know him?"

A half-smile made its way across Bode's face. "I sometimes like to look at the different aura's in the tanks – that's what the Trace is, after all, a bit of one's aura. It returns to the body at the age of seventeen, so there's no way of tracking a person by such means once they're of age – to see the different potential. It's absolutely fascinating, when you know what to look for." Dumbledore tilted his head in interest. "Anyway, that's not really something I can talk about, but suffice it to say that I saw magic active in his Trace when he was very young, and over the years it grew stronger and stronger to the point where flashes would come out of the tub and ripple the very fabric of the air. Interesting, really interesting."

He sighed loudly, lost in his own thoughts. He shook himself, looking back at Dumbledore. "Let's take a look, shall we? Come here, Professor, come take a look. Now, normally we aren't allowed to let civilians see so much of the Department, but I've been given special instructions to allow you to have access to certain information. Not entirely sure why," he said, puzzled, "but I don't question orders."

They were looking down into a tank in a far corner of the room, the many different colors twirling slowly around one another, each one pulsing slightly with life. Bode took out his wand and stuck it into the tub. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Nothing seemed to happen. But then, as though it were a vacuum, the colors began to swirl around the tank, faster and faster, and in the middle, a hole, a black hole, and from the very depths of this hole an even darker black, an unnatural black, seemed to creep forth slowly, sluggishly, trying to take the other colors with it, trying to swallow them whole. It rose to the surface, the darkest black there could ever be, with little spots of silver lighting it up as only stars can on a moonless night.

"Are they normally so… thick?" Dumbledore asked.

Bode shook his head. "Only the truly powerful. And they only get thicker as the person ages and becomes stronger."

Tom's Trace finally surmounted the lip of the tub, folding in on itself as it twisted in the air like a worm on the sidewalk after it has just rained. Bode used his wand to stretch it out until it finally stilled.

He peered into it, mumbling and prodding the black manifestation, so much at odds with the other brilliant colors in the tank. Dumbledore watched, brows crinkled to form a V on his forehead.

Mr. Bode sighed and tapped it one last time before forcing it back into the vat with the others.

He turned to Dumbledore.

"There's nothing wrong with it. Hasn't been tampered with. He hasn't been using magic."

Dumbledore nodded in resignation.

"I suppose I didn't really expect anything less," he whispered quietly to himself. Then, more loudly, "Thank you, Mr. Bode, for your help."

Bode clapped the Professor on the back. "Any time, sir! It was a pleasure seeing you again. And you, Mafalda," he said peering around Dumbledore to wink at the silent girl who blushed at the attention. "Take care, you two!"

As Mafalda and Dumbledore left the Department of Mysteries and parted at the Atrium, Dumbledore couldn't help wondering what could make a person's aura so dark and viscous as Tom's.

Meanwhile, not too far away, Tom Riddle sat in his bedroom at the orphanage, directing mosquitoes into a line and lighting them on fire one by one with just a wave of his wand.

X

"My dear friends," the cloaked figure hissed upon his throne, black eyes hidden beneath a hood. "The person sitting before us has committed a great wrong, has he not?" Jeers followed the pronouncement, a trembling form lying prostrate at their feet, sniveling in fear.

"I-I don't know who you are! Any of you! Please, just let me go!"

"Ah, I don't think I will, filth. Although your good manners are quite commendable at such a time," the figure sneered. The other cloaked bodies laughed at their leader's words. "Your very existence is a stain on this earth. But come, let's be frank with one another. Gaze upon the man you have offended."

The man – what else could he be? – lowered his hood with a dramatic flair, and the boy's eyes widened in shock.

"Tom Riddle?" he yelped.

A devilish smile slid onto Tom's face.

"At your service, Matthew Aaron."

"B-but – why? I thought – I thought you were – "

"Nice?" he interjected with wide eyes and a mocking stammer. He crooked his finger and leaned forward. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Matthew." His eyes glittered. "Things aren't always as they seem." Tom reclined back on his throne, leg hanging over the side carelessly. He looked at his fingers and picked at a cuticle, black hair falling in delicious waves over his eyes. "Take care of him," he said dismissively.

The six cloaked figures howled with laughter, closing in on Matthew Aaron, hunting him with predatory hunger.

"No – no – Please – please!" but his cries of terror went unanswered as his body was flung around the room and manipulated in horrifying ways. Tom Riddle observed his zealots, amused.

Several hours and a wiped memory later, Matthew Aaron woke in the third floor corridor, strung up in the rafters. Below him, on the floor, painted with a neat flourish was one word.

Beware.

X

He was sitting in Divination, doodling in his journal as everyone took notes from the textbook. He'd been researching over the last several months how to create and perform the Animagus change and knew that tonight, on all Hallows Eve, he'd do it. He'd see his form revealed to him and master it. It wasn't even that he needed to become one; he was already adept at the many arts of secrecy and subterfuge. Tom wanted to do it just because he could. And maybe, just maybe, it would help him, make him more worthy, to find the Chamber.

Tom traced the same drawing over and over again, hardly aware of what he was even doing. It was his last class of the day, and it couldn't end soon enough.

The quiet scratches of the other students' quills lulled him into a sort of trance. He felt as though time were slowing down, coming deliberately to a stop. His hooded eyes followed the motions of his own quill, around and around. He was on the edge of finding something very important out, just a few more seconds was all it would take.

Life had other plans.

Cygnus passed him a note which fluttered on top of his journal. Tom closed his eyes, reeling his temper into check. It wouldn't do for him to make the boy explode as he so wished he could; after all, Black was a most faithful… follower. He set the quill down calmly and closed the journal with measured purpose, sliding the note out as he did so. He unfolded the message.

Celia is staring at you again.

Tom resisted the impulse to set the dunce on fire. This was what he'd been interrupted for? Some stupid, social-climbing girl, staring at him? Hardly able to contain his displeasure, he answered tidily with a sneering, "And?", passing the note fluidly back to Black.

She likes you. Why don't you ask her to Hogsmeade today? Then you can take her to the Halloween feast and the dance afterwards.

Now why would I do such a stupid thing?

Why wouldn't you?

Tom sighed and set the offensive paper on fire under the desk. Cygnus cringed, finally realizing that he'd interrupted Tom from something important. Tom glowered once more, and when Cygnus finally turned away to go back to his notes, Tom opened the journal again and continued his tracing. He looked into the cave with the large, slitted eyes and curling smoke rippling out from its bowels. Tilting his head, he contemplated the drawing. What secrets had it been attempting to impart on him? What information could it have shared? He'd been close, so close, to learning it, and now he knew that the chance had been lost. For the moment, at least. But his time was running out with exactly a year and two months left before the Chamber would be forever lost to him.

The serpentine eyes bore into his own. Tom ran his finger lightly over the pupil, hardly even touching it.

"Why wouldn't you?" Cygnus' words reverberated in his mind.

Why indeed? Why couldn't he bring himself to touch a woman? Why wasn't he attracted to any of the girls at Hogwarts?

Why wouldn't you?

He wasn't a poofter either. He just wasn't intrigued by anyone. Celia was the most lusted after girl in his year, by boys of all houses and ages. Even if he wasn't interested, why couldn't he bring himself to use her? As dull as it was to, ah, service himself, it seemed preferable to allowing her or any other female in the castle to help him out.

Why wouldn't you?

He could have any girl he wanted. He heard their thoughts, knew how they craved him. It would be only too easy. And if he didn't want them to remember, well, making them forget wouldn't be a problem. Tom saw Celia looking at him coyly, trying to garner his attention. He glanced away, repulsed.

Why wouldn't you?

He recalled what the Sorting Hat had once told him: Be not afraid, when the time comes, to open your heart…

Why wouldn't you?

Things like love and affection make people into tools to be manipulated. They make you weak.

Why wouldn't you?

The eyes in the cave stared back at him.

Why wouldn't you?

And he whispered back, "I don't know."


X

He'd hidden himself away in the secret passage behind the mirror, placing the strongest repelling and secrecy charms that he knew around it in order to keep from being disturbed. With the potion simmering and the circle drawn with its five points, Tom was ready to begin the Animagus ritual. He double-checked everything, making sure what he had was exactly as the book described – thin, maroon liquid – a shimmering haze above the cauldron – a five-ringed circle drawn in red, blue, white, green, and yellow, respectively – and his wand.

Tom looked at his watch: 4:03 PM. He had until seven-thirty, at which time the feast would begin. Everyone fourth year and above was out of the castle, third and down setting up their own party in an empty classroom for their own special Halloween Ball.

Tom closed the book and set it outside the circle. The potion sparkled in front of him, and he sat down, cross-legged, in front of it. His stomach leapt into his throat.

"I call upon the Mother Earth to shape my form," he began softly. "I call upon Brother Water to fuel it. I call upon Father Fire, that he might lend to it the spark of life. I call upon Sister Air to nurture it." His voice had grown in volume, and he now hummed, closing his eyes and stirring the potion. It turned a deep, vine green.

"I call upon the Creator, Akasha, to lend me safety as I change. May you roam forever free."

His humming began to grow in volume, turning into a wordless song, his voice, sweet and lilting, harsh and unforgiving, cool and collected, safe and secure. The different melodies wove together to create one large song until, at its very climax of beauty and terror, he drank the cup full of potion and light began to flash behind his eyes.

He was wriggling in the dirt, trying to find the surface.

He was cavorting through the air, performing impossible aerial feats.

He swam through the waters, turning and rolling, slim and sleek.

He sprinted across the land, tattooing a relentless rhythm on the ground.

The images continued to cycle, none of the forms feeling exactly right, but slowly, ever so slowly, they began to come to a halt, and when he opened his eyes, he was extremely confused. For, glowing in the air before him, not one, but two silvery forms had coalesced into two very different shapes: A monstrous Vampire Bat and a magnificent, coiled Anaconda. He reached out a hand and quietly, full of awe and wonder, stroked first the snake and then the bat. The two leaned into his touch, and when he finally withdrew, they swooped down on him and entered his mouth.

He became the Vampire Bat, thrilling in the night, strong and unafraid. He became the Anaconda, coiling and uncoiling, squeezing tree trunks into a fine powder with unadulterated power. He was both bat and serpent, taking on and learning their separate traits and lives, never having known such dynamism in his entire life. When he opened his eyes once more, it was with a new knowledge, a new understanding, of life itself.

He checked his watch; it was now 6:45. Tom gathered all of his materials and willed a strong, impenetrable ward around the secret passage; it was his place now, and no one else's. To anyone but himself, it would appear that a massive cave-in had occurred, and no matter how hard they tried to remove it, it would be impossible.

Hurrying down to the dungeons, Tom cleaned the cauldron of any signs of the potion and banished it to the Potions classroom. He raced to his dorm, slowed to a leisurely pace, promptly whispered, "Blood is gold," and sauntered into the common room. Tall, dark-haired and intelligent, his presence was immediately made known to all. At fourteen years old and six feet tall, the girls called out suggestive hellos and the boys nodded in respect. Tom ignored them and swiftly climbed the stairs to his bed.

Within fifteen minutes he was showered and in a clean set of robes, the other boys in his dorm waiting for him. Tom ignored them, wrapped up in his own elation, hardly noticing the looks they exchanged as they followed him downstairs and out of the common room.

"Tom!" a girl squealed behind him, but he kept on walking, disregarding the voice as he lengthened his strides. He heard hurried footsteps and then felt a small hand latch onto the crook of his elbow.

He ceased all motion. The boys came to a stop as well, eyes wide, knowing that the girl had just made a massive mistake.

Tom turned his cold eyes on Celia Greengrass; she smiled provocatively, trailing her fingers up and down his arm, unaware of the dangerous waters she was now traversing.

"Tommy," she purred.

Tom winced.

"Tommy, I missed you at Hogsmeade today. Where were you?" she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Working," he replied, a dangerous smile on his lips.

Oh I need him to ask me out, he's so powerful and Mother wants me betrothed soon, ooh he's so delectable, too bad he's a halfy, but Mother need not know – "But, dearest! The Professors didn't assign us anything because of the ball!"

His eyes remained blank, cold, the warning extremely apparent in his entire demeanor. The smile was still in place.

"Was there something you wanted, Celia?"

She was not to be deterred. She wanted his influence too much.

"Well, now that you mention it… How about you come to the dance with me as my date."

It wasn't a question.

Tom inclined his head, considering.

"No."

"Great, meet me – wait. What?"

Her eyes widened as his words finally registered in her head.

"Are you – did you just – what?" she exclaimed, flustered.

Tom smiled politely at the pained expression in the smaller girl's eyes. "I said, 'no.'"

"But – but – why?" How could he say no, everyone wants me, I'm beautiful and rich, he's but a half-blood, probably less, how could he say no, he should be begging me –

Utterly disgusted by everything he was hearing, finally allowing his contempt to shine through his façade, Tom pried off the fingers that were still clinging desperately to his arm and said, viciously, "I don't answer to you, Celia, nor do I need a reason. You may be rich and beautiful, if that's really what you and others think of yourself, but to me, you're just a desperate girl who wants to flaunt herself on the arm of the most powerful wizard in the school." His eyes flashed menacingly, and Celia took a step backwards. "I'll not be used," he snarled. "Now, get out of my way."

Tom swept away, his dormmates in tow, leaving the flabbergasted girl behind.

"So," he said, chipper, to Malfoy, who was too much in awe to be afraid, "what's for supper?"

A/N: I hope this made up for the really long wait. Life really loves to mess with me; I think it takes a sadistic pleasure out of it. I'm not going to explain myself, I feel bad enough already. Originally, Years 2-6 were going to be in here, but it got to be WAY too long; already, this is 31 pages, typed, on my computer. So now Years 5 and 6 will be making their debut in Chapter Nine. Never fear, it should be out fairly quickly, as the majority of it is already written in my notebook.

Now, for clarifications: Why did Tom erase the memory from Sluggy this time, but not when he's asking about Horcruxes? In my mind, he's still stoppable at this point, and Tom knows it; therefore, all evidence of his activity in regards to the Chamber must be destroyed. By the time he's asking about Horcruxes, it's too late for him to be stopped; he's too powerful. Next, SLYTHERIN: Why is he in this story? Well, I'd really rather wait till next chapter to answer that, but suffice it to say, it's an obstacle that Tom needs to overcome to become his own person – he needs a way out from under the burden of ancestry, muggle and magical. Ambiguous? Yes. Sorry about that… As for the Celia Greengrass incident. Is it really any wonder that Tom wants nothing to do with the opposite sex? This girl just wants to use him. The boys want to use him, too, but Celia does it in the guise of affection. Keep this in mind as the story progresses; it helps to understand his strong aversion to any sort of companionship, even "friends." Oh, and here's an interesting quote by JKR on Tommy dearest:

Has Voldemort or Tom Riddle ever cared for or loved anyone?
No, never. [Laughter.] If he had, he couldn't possibly be what he is. You will find out a lot more about that. This is really different than my take. I figured you should be aware of her original intentions, and though I'm trying to stay as close to cannon as possible, this will be the BIGGEST discrepency of all.

Merope and Tom Sr.'s middle names are of my own invention, as is Celia Greengrass. The Trace, too, is my own, as is the room it's encapsulated in. That was a really fun scene to write, even if the length did sort of get out of hand. Oh, and Matthew Aaron was briefly in Chapter Six - he was the first one to be Sorted. Made it into Hufflepuff, I believe. Okay, that's all I can really think of at the moment… As questions are asked, I'll post the answers on my profile for any who are looking for them. I really hope you enjoyed this – keep a look out for the next chapter! Reviews and criticism are much enjoyed; don't be afraid to drop in! Cheers, everyone!