Sorry for the slow updates! Terribly, terribly sorry! I've been an awful slacker lately due to so much work and exams piling up in all directions, but they'll come to a close this Monday (too close, way way too close!) and I just had to have a break so I snuck a peek at this chapter. Then the chapter just evolved and unfolded itself...

Thanks for the reviews to sugar addiction, 534667lc, AnotherHPFan and Muffinator!

Not sure if anyone has noticed, but I've at least tried to skip ahead in year two so that Tom can start being more ... dark, for the lack of better words to decripe it! And since I'll otherwise never get to the end of this story with the current progress and time between updates (sighs). I mean, it bloody well takes me forever! And of course I'm sorry for that. On another note:

I'm getting close to 100 reviews, so let's get to the three digits shall we not? (although with my weird updating habits I'm not sure I should ask stuff like that!)

And I also plan to add a prologue at some point in the near future, so look for that!

Now, please enjoy the chapter!

It's in our Blood

Chapter XXXVII

With cauldrons bubbling, creating thick gooey green plops that smelled an awful lot like rotten eggs, Tom regarded the smoldering embers of the fire before slipping back into his seat; crossing his legs with swiftness and drumming his fingers against the soot covered table, his dark eyes trailed over his classmates with lacking interest as he waited for the potion to simmer.

His shoes and socks were clammy and damp, unpleasantly clinging to his skin after his morning trek through the deep snow.

Carefully, with red streaks of the sunrise entwined in heavy clouds of grey only just flickering across the sky, Tom had ventured out into the coldness of winter. Robes pulled tightly up around his frostbitten ears and neck, hands firmly tucked away into his pockets – fingers trailing the small, wooden box within – he had, out of breath and soaking wet, slipped into the deserted greenhouse.

The air felt heavy with mold and soil and the temperature prickled his exposed skin; Tom pulled out the small item from his pocket and crouched, flipping open the lid as – with his free hand – attentively peered into the shadows of the undergrowth; vines, leaves, branches and roots, a great mesh of plants brushed against his arm as he pushed the cover of green aside.

Settling into a still position, Tom waited patiently, willing his freezing body not to move; for the cold shiverings to still.

For a few moments, perhaps some minutes, nothing seemed to appear; but he had trained his eyes over the last weeks to spot the small differences. Small movements. First it was only a flicker, a shadow from deep within, but then – long, black legs pulled the rest of the body out from within the crack of the stones – and the spider skittered swiftly across the ground of the flowerbed.

In one quick swoop, Tom pressed the box down, flipped it with both spider and dirt and clasped the lid shut in one fluid movement. The arachnid had weaved its way into the greenhouse after the last resident had been captured, and Tom had systematically cleared the undergrowth of spiders a few days throughout the Winter month. He had soon gathered quite the collection, tugged away and hidden under his bed in the dormitories.

A rustle of parchment and a brief, phantom touch on his shoulder caught his attention and he returned to the present. Cold fingers pressed against his cheek as he leaned – tilting slightly onto his elbow against the table – to create a clear view of the Slytherin girl at his side. Her pretty face was framed by blonde curls, rolling down her back as she shifted in her seat and gathered her notes carefully; long, dark eyelashes fluttered briefly, her teeth bared in a smile as she spoke: "I know you are capable of doing this all alone, Tom, but Slughorn made us work in pairs."

The corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance, but Tom quickly masked his impatience and distaste with his usual, polite smile. "Of course, Miss Newell." With a swift gesture of his hand towards the bubbling cauldron, he slid further away from the other Slytherin – the closeness unwelcome and the touch even more so. "Why, perhaps you should test if the potion is as described in the text book?" She shot him a sweet smile, resulting in nothing but furthering his vexation.

Their usual groups had been split when the witches from his House had, once again, been placed under Slughorn's scrutiny. Their unnecessary chatter landed them in disfavor and the burly professor decided to seperate the aforementioned disturbances. That unfortunately meant Tom had to suffer through two hours with the other half-blood, who was, rather than paying attention and assisting, busy conversing about everything from the weather to their fellow Slytherin's absence. Which the subject had suddenly turned to.

"It appeared to be some sort of ... family matter," she glanced towards him, a knowing look spreading across her features as she stirred the dense substance.

Tom barely spared her a look.

Pale fingers twitched against the thin corner of his Potions text book, his attention elsewhere.

"Hopefully it is nothing too serious, but it must've been rather urgent for them to leave in the middle of the semester. Wouldn't you agree?" To avoid answering the question, he in stead started scribbling notes into the margin of his book; brow furrowed in pretended concentration, the quill skillfully danced across the rough paper and formed neat jottings.

Still feeling her light blue orbs linger on his frame, he murmured a low hm in response.

"This smells downright ghastly!"

He suppressed an exasperated sigh, straightening his posture.

"At the very least it then fits the description, Miss Newell." Tom answered dryly, annoyance lacing his otherwise polite tone, as he glanced into the cauldron; a soft laughter caught his ears and he shot a quick look in the direction of the sound. Widely grinning, well aware of how obnoxious the half-blood found his current company to be, Avery leaned against his own desk not far from theirs.

The pureblood looked all too relaxed compared to the fact that his partner – with wide sweeping motions and a rugged look – was cutting up roots and stirring the cauldron all at the same time; looking more and more distressed. Tom's eyebrow scooted up at the sight only slightly before, with a pointed look in the pureblood wizard's direction, reluctantly returned to his own partner.

The blonde responded with a smile. "That is true." The witch brushed shoulders with him in one fluent movement, eyelashes fluttering as her fingers quickly propped her book on top of his; a surge of distaste washed over him, yet Tom forced his strained smile not to falter. "Tom, I really do not understand this part ... Why does the root change colour when heated?"

Dark eyes flickered attentively over the pretty face so very close to his own; the slight, reddening hue across her cheeks, the tilted curve of her jaw.

He once more distanced himself, disguising it as to create a better view of the pages in front.

The very thought felt so inconceivable yet obvious to her and she almost laughed out loud at the sight. The idea had first occurred to her around a week earlier, but it had been nothing but a nagging doubt in the far corner of her mind and Elana had no real evidence; but now it was different. Elana had made sure to intercept the new package of medicine sent by the Healer.

With the brown parcel securely tugged away under her arm, vials clanking from each movement she made, Elana quickly released the barn own and shut the window quietly. With big swoops, the bird vanished into the distance, a small, dark silhouette against the morning sky. The mansion was quiet, noiseless as she strained her ears, piqued. Quiet, save for faint footsteps from below in the servants' quarters, but the remaining residents had yet to stir from sleep.

Elana strained her eyes from the window and hurried across the room; every sound she heard seemed to resonate through the entire mansion, causing her heart to rapidly beat in her chest. With a soft click she closed the library door after her, hand lingering only for a brief moment against the cold wood before her fingers rustled through her pocket. The witch pulled out a small, crystal vial, while with her free hand placed the package against a nearby table.

Eyes never leaving the silvery grey liquid, glistening in the morning sun reflected in the curved glass, Elana wrestled, attentively and with steady hands to not tear the brown paper wrappings, the object free to reveal a small box. Lifting the lid, three rows of similar vials were lined up and – barely having to pull a sample out – dark blue orbs narrowed in attention. The medicine within was lucidly clear.

Elana trailed her lower lip with her tongue at the severity of what she saw. "What do we have here ...?" She mulled, twirling the contents around between two fingers.

A pungent sour, almost bitter smell had welled up from the vial as she unskrewed the stopper, the liquid crystal clear as she poured a small sample into the palm of her hand. Carefully pressing the tip of her finger against the concoction and then sampled the taste, Elana immediately proceeded to the second vial, stolen – or rather, borrowed, if anyone would ask– from her mother's sickbed.

Following the same procedure, albeit warily, Elana immediately noticed a very different smell.

What had been sharp and permeant from the newly arrived batch was now rather sweet. Sickly sweet. So very resembling the heavy suffocating air in the older witch's bedroom; quickly wiping her hands in her clothes, having no interest in actually tasting the – more than likely poisoned – medicine. A shiver ran down the length of her arms.

Someone was intentionally trying to kill her mother.

Elana sank into a nearby chair, fingers tightly clenching the poisoned vial in her hand. Mind blank, she stared into the clear space of the library; how it could come as a shock was beyond her, for without a doubt many a relative would have once in their life entertained the thought of murder. But who had been cold hearted, had enough reason, to carry the thought out into reality ...?

You force my hand, cousin.

With the early rays of sun and the grounds surrounding the mansion turning brighter, the young pureblood – wasting not even a moment – worked against time in order to return the package to its original state; with one, small detail of difference. Elana had unnoticed slipped back into her own bedroom and hidden the package in the shadows below her bed. Then she left the room to procure the final ressources.

Shortly after, she returned.

Hair tickled the bare skin of her neck as she leaned back onto the palm of her hands, eyes resting on the impeccably wrapped package in silent contemplation. At her side was a large glass container, filled with the clear and untainted medicine. A mixture of infused wormwood, commonplace apple juice and water had filled the emptied vials to create the peculiar sour and bitter taste.

Potion reagents and instruments were scattered over the floor, for she had spent precious minutes trying to find the desired ingredient. Elana weaved in and out between them, resting the glass container against her stomach as she leaned down to rummage through a discarted pile of clothes; picking up a black Hogwarts school robe she wrapped it tightly around the medicine, before stuffing it away in the very back of the closet.

Then she picked up the parcel.

Low voices could be heard from somewhere down the hall, when Elana emerged into the dim corridor; familiar to her ears, and a rushed panic swept over her. Her uncle and Eloise were awake. Fortunately, her movements further through the mansion were not obstructed by interferences and shortly after, with a low thud against the marble floor, the pureblood witch left the package just outside the front entrance.

Her feet clacked against the steps as she climbed the stairs, two steps at a time.

A momentary – elusive, intangible, yet so very clear – memory flashed before her eyes as the witch pulled the heavy drapes apart; her body slipped into the small alcove, pressing against the winter-chilled glass to create a clear view of the corridor beyond. Elana shut her eyes, allowing the images to flood her mind.

Warm hands, a gentle voice ...

Clack, clack. Heels, rhythmic steps against the floor, forced her awareness to return. A hollow sensation pierced her chest; but Elana willed herself to remain alert, knowing well that dwelling in the past would never solve the present. Her cousin's untroubled eyes glided across her surroundings, before heading further down towards the ground floor.

Once her relative had passed, Elana silently emerged.

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards, dark eyes never leaving the unyielding and proud back of the older pureblood witch.

With eyes narrowed, Elana leaned against the bannister at the very top of the stairs; arms folded, chin raised and face impassive, she could feel her nails tightly dig into the skin of her palm. Then she waited with imposed calmness and patience. A bright line of light spread and illuminated the foyer as the door was pulled open.

"Good morning, dear cousin." Elana called out mildly.

Eloise froze on the spot, hands closed around the edges of the package; the younger witch brought herself to her full height, bringing movement to her dark curls. Nails brushed lightly against her skin, face folding into a mask of politeness, while she brushed loose strands from her sight. With her body still turned away and voice laced with thinly veiled surprise, Eloise responded: "Good morning. Whatever brings you here this early in the morning, Elana?"

Their eyes met. Pale grey and dark blue.

Elana inclined her head towards the package, never breaking their locked gazes. "I thought to bring that to Mother."

Elana took wry amusement in the way her cousin's impassive expression morphed into unconcealed surprise, albeit it was only a flicker of a second. "Surely there is no need for that. I was on my way to pay her a short visit either way," if Eloise noticed any triumphant glee on her part, she did not particularly let it show. In stead, the woman merely walked towards the girl, lips drawn into a thin, white line against pale skin. A stillness settled, only broken by the witch's heels against the tiles and Elana waited tenaciously for the other to reach her.

"Well then," she tilted her head to look up. "I shall leave it to you."

The Christmas holidays was preluded by a great deal of work piled on certain students, for professor Slughorn had apparently decided to outdo the previous year's festive get-together; and apparently, if one wished for the favor of the burly Potions Master, one should expect to go through great lengths to achieve it. Tom wiped his brow, stealing a glance at the professor across the room.

"I understand this is all to be in his good graces, but ... tell me if I'm mistaking, or is it only the younger students doing all the work?" Lestrange drawled in ire, dragging a stack of foldable chairs next to the half-blood. Tom was, likewise, carrying his share. The large room had been swept clean, floors waxed and polished to glossy perfection and large, round tables had been levitated in; flower decorations – velvet soft, red roses, entwined in shining holly – over pearly white tablecloths. The floral scent hung heavy in the air, mixing in with loud chatter and voices.

Tom did not answer and, instead, started unfolding the chairs around an unoccupied table.

Though he did agree.

Most of the elder students had somehow weaseled their way out of assisting, while the few that remained were entertaining the host of the upcoming party. On the other hand were Tom's fellow second year classmates. While Avery and Nott, along with a pair of Ravenclaws, were decorating the windows with crystal snowflakes, the only one of the Slytherin group that appeared to somewhat appreciate his duty was Mulciber.

Although he had shown obvious disdain at first, having been put to fold paper flowers, it seemed the assignment became less of a hassle for the pureblood.

"Seeing how Newell was basically all over you in Potions, we'd all thought she had a thing for you, but perhaps anyone will suffice."

The appealing witch twisted strands of hair between her fingers as she, disregaring the stack of crêpe paper in front of her, chatted animatedly with the pale pureblood wizard; although Mulciber did not appear to be all too involved in the conversation, but rather listening with faint interest with a small incline of his head to show his involvement.

"Rather him than me," Tom responded calmly.

The half-blood witch's unwanted attention in Potions had caused him a rather severe headache, almost resulting in a failed elixir. Luckily, he had managed to salvage the tar-like substance, though Tom had yet to forget the slight dissatisfaction in Slughorn's judging gaze as they handed in the vial after class. At least he hoped to scrape in an Acceptable mark, since Newell rather quickly caught on to his – less than subtle – cold shoulder and immediately proceeded to explain the situation to the Head of House.

Tom, though, was rather convinced he should not engage in another cooperation with the other half-blood in the nearest future.

Dragging in the last few chairs, the two Slytherin boys could finally catch their breath.

With lacking interest he scanned the room, folding his aching fingers behind his back and leaned against a nearby table. Suppressing a sigh of weariness, certainly hoping their hard work would earn them some good marks in Slughorn's book, Tom looked towards the approaching Slytherin pair. Tall, lanky Nott, who soundlessly took a seat, and Avery.

The latter positioned himself next to Tom and, masking his words with a hand and a few coughs, asked a wary question: "Have you done anything lately to earn an audience?" The half-blood's dark orbs flickered briefly towards the two wizards not included in the conversation, but – as they appeared to pay no attention – returned his pointed look onto Avery.

His brow furrowed in response. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Because a certain Seeker has been looking this way repeatedly the entire evening," Tom disguised his glance with a half-stretch, flexing his fingers and peered towards the older students. He immediately turned his face away. "If I get dragged away by Gamp again, at least give me a chance to prepare mentally."

Tom rolled his eyes inwardly. "I would not think it," he interjected sharply.

Even so, he could not help consider whatever might be the case in the back of his mind ... For certainly he had not done anything as of late that could possibly grab the pureblood's attention? If he had been caught eavesdropping in the common room, then surely, they would have confronted him then and not now – weeks later.

"Perhaps you did something."

Avery snorted. "They weren't looking at me."

When Lestrange joining Mulciber – most likely with no intention to help – silence fell upon the remaining Slytherin group; Tom thoughtfully stared down onto his shoes as his mind had, with the brief conversation, wandered once more onto the topic of the Chamber. The thought consumed him and warped into obsession; filled every free moment and visited him in his restless sleep; blurred images, hissing, whispering voices.

He pressed the brink of his nose and closed his eyes shortly.

With the Christmas break he hoped to once more have the castle almost all to himself, so that he would finaly carry out the next step of his plan. Although it seemed highly unlikely, Tom also wished for the Fowls' return, for the young witch had her own role to play. The pureblood at his side tensed suddenly and, with soft footfalls approaching, Tom found it unnecessary to look in order to understand why.

"Good evening, Mr Avery and Mr ..." The voice trailed off and Tom, who had no patience to ponder over proper etiquette, responded curtly:

"Riddle."

"Ah yes," Selwyn mused, a polite smile – usually reserved for his now absent friend – graced his features. "Mr Riddle. I was hoping to have a word with you both since, as far as I know, you are both close to a mutual acquaintance of ours." Tom nodded his head in indication for the other Slytherin to proceed, but remained otherwise silent.

His last conversation with the pureblood had been, if nothing else, a thinly veiled exchange of threats masked by polite pleasantries, and Tom could only speculate what was to come. Though, strangely enough, there was no aura of hostility hiding behind the wizard's words and that worried Tom even more. It felt rather unnatural to him to be faced with such courteous behavior.

"As you are more than likely aware of, your classmate Elana has been absent for a while now and, well, consequently perhaps behind on homework." An eyebrow scurried up in mild surprise, as the half-blood was taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Now," the wizard raised a hand to continue uninterrupted. "This may seem like an unreasonable request, but I merely ask for you to gather the assignment descriptions."

Eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion, but a forced civil tone to his voice Tom responded: "I see no issues with such a small favor and shall have it done by tomorrow."

With mirrored smiles and gazes locked, the older wizard finally gave a short nod. "Excellent, I appreciate your cooporation, Mr Riddle."

And so Tom was left again, baffled as to what had just played out in front of his very eyes.

"Well, that was weird." Avery commented.