SO sorry for the long wait! I didn't even realize how long it had been between updates. Time doesn't exist anymore.

Anyway, thanks for all the favorites/follows, and thank you to those who have reviewed so far!

I'm not too terribly pleased with this chapter, but it sets up some key things that'll crop up later on, so bear with me. Thanks!

Chapter Four

Shadows

She avoided Riddle for a week after Dumbledore's betrayal, preferring to stew in her own rage rather than exchange even a syllable with the boy she loathed. Madoc had found it terribly amusing when she'd admitted her plight to him, and so now her twin brother was subject to her cold shoulder as well (which, most annoyingly, he didn't seem to mind in the first place).

Of course, Riddle was doing his utmost to ignore her, also, which angered Maeve even more. It was a test of wills between the two of them, but the project itself would not go away on its own no matter how much she wished it would. Thus, it was with a great deal of stung pride and excruciating despair that she forced herself to approach Riddle in the common room one Wednesday night in late September.

Shockingly, he was alone for once; where Madoc and his other lackeys were, she didn't know, but Riddle himself was sequestered away at a table nearest the windows peering out into the lake, his head bent over a piece of parchment while he scribbled away on some assignment.

Maeve knew almost every pair of eyes in the common room were on her and Riddle. Their rivalry was legendary, and their animosity toward each other even more so. Their Housemates were probably taking wagers on which one of them would draw their wand first.

She had a sneaking suspicion it would be her.

She reached Riddle's table and cleared her throat. His eyes flicked over at her before returning to his parchment. His quill didn't stop writing.

"Breaking your vow of silence so soon, Rosier?" he asked. His voice was pleasant enough in case anyone were to overhear them, but she could detect the undercurrent of hatred in his tone. "I thought you were going for a record."

She brushed off the jab. "Thursday nights. That's when we'll be working on our project."

He dabbed his quill in some ink and kept writing. "I'm busy Thursday nights."

A muscle in her jaw twitched. "Busy with what?"

His voice turned smug. "None of your concern."

She put her hands behind her back to refrain from doing anything unsightly with so many witnesses. Like tearing that smirk off his smug face.

"Thursday nights are the only times that work for me," she said. Which was a lie, really, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Pity," he replied, still writing.

"Riddle," she said sweetly, "don't be difficult."

He scrawled another sentence. "Friday evenings work well for me."

"Excellent. Then you can move your business to Fridays and leave your Thursdays open for our assignment."

"I know for a fact you don't do anything on Fridays," he said. "You retire to your dorm after dinner and no one hears a peep from you afterward." He crossed a line through one of his T's. "And we're all the better for it."

"Stalking me?" she asked, batting her eyelashes. "Why, Riddle, I had no idea you felt that way for me."

She smiled savagely when his hand cramped around his quill. "I do wonder what you do with all that hot air in that massive head of yours, Rosier."

"Thursdays."

"Fridays."

"Thursdays," she ground out between her teeth.

He hummed and wrote another sentence. "No."

She snatched his quill out of his hand. Slowly, he turned and faced her, his features settled carefully in a cold mask.

"Give that back," he said quietly.

"I will," she said, twirling the instrument in her fingers, "if you agree to Thursdays."

He was very still and straight in his seat. "Stop acting like a child, Rosier."

She ran her finger along the shaft of the quill and over the raven feather at the end of it. "Or what?"

Something passed over his face then—a shadow she had never seen on him before. A shadow that spoke of dark and terrible things that were to come.

"Or," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "you will regret it."

There was a tense moment where they held gazes before Maeve threw her head back and laughed. Riddle stared at her, stone-cold, when she snapped his quill in half and then threw the pieces atop his homework.

"Terrifying, Riddle, truly," she said. "Fine. Fridays it is."

He blinked, surprised, before she walked away from her own concession—her own defeat. It put a bitter taste on her tongue, but as she retreated to her dormitory, hiding her shaking hands, she knew it was a necessary sacrifice.

Those eyes…Riddle's eyes. She had seen that look before and it had buried a fear so deep inside her that she was afraid she would never be able to carve it all out again.

She took her trembling hands and bit down on the soft flesh just underneath her thumbs on each one until they throbbed, her teeth marks standing out clearly on her skin. They would bruise, surely, but at least they would serve as a reminder of her own weakness.

She could not afford to be weak ever again. Not with him. Not with Riddle.

She clasped her aching hands and returned to her dormitory.

Friday arrived in a storm of slate-colored clouds and a ferocious wind tipped with the first claws of winter. The library was thus drafty and cold that night after dinner when Riddle arrived, five minutes before he was set to meet with Rosier for their project, but it suited him well; he had always preferred the cold.

He crossed through the maze of tables in the enormous room, heading straight for the back, nearest the Restricted Section, where he preferred to work out of sight of the other students. Some people—mostly girls, he noticed with faint disgust—waved and called out soft greetings to him as he passed, and he returned them all with that charming mask he had cultivated and perfected since he was a child and learned what the power of simple flattery could do. It was intoxicating, his own popularity—having everyone know his name, everyone wanting to be in his good graces.

Well, not everyone, he amended. Dumbledore certainly didn't trust him as far as the old geezer could throw him, and Maeve Rosier didn't seem to care whether she was in his good graces or not.

Maeve Rosier. He scowled as he took a seat facing the Restricted Section, his back to the rest of the library. Dumbledore was a right prick in forcing him to partner with the likes of her. Cavalier, inciteful, patronizing Maeve Rosier. The only student in all of Hogwarts who seemed absolutely immune to him.

Admittedly, it vexed him a lot more than he let on. Especially since her twin brother was one of Riddle's most loyal followers. It was a puzzle he wanted to complete, but he was still missing several of the pieces. Why did she not fall in line with the others? What was it about her that was so different from everyone else? It had to be more than simple prejudice. What was it?

He couldn't ponder any longer, for the subject of his musings arrived just then, slamming her materials on the table and scraping her chair across the floor with exaggerated force, as far away from Riddle as she could get without physically forcing her way into the gated Restricted Section.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly, just to get under her skin. It was one of the ways in which he excelled at irritating her—the forced niceties she could rarely retort to. "How was your dinner? I was quite pleased with the stew tonight. It was excellent."

"I'm sure it was," she said without taking her eyes off her bag as she dug through it. "Though I expect anything you eat is better than whatever gruel your orphanage serves, right, Riddle?"

That was the keyword, though: rarely.

He placated himself with thoughts of yanking every tooth from that wretched mouth of hers before he answered.

"Quite right, Rosier," he said, watching her set out parchment and ink. His eyes zeroed in on what looked like bite marks on her hands, purple and blue and awfully deep. "Not all of us are blessed to be born into a wealthy family of inbreeding, hm?"

She glared at him. Her eyes were pools of shadow in the dim candlelight of the library, depthless but alight with a spark of hatred and fury she reserved only for him. His lips stretched in a mirthless smile.

"Better to be pure-blooded than tainted with the filth of Muggles," she snapped back.

"Defensive, are we? Forgive me; if I'd known you felt that way for your brother, I wouldn't have poked fun at the incest in your family."

For a wild second, Riddle thought she might actually curse him. He welcomed it, really; a duel between them was long overdue. He practically itched to see what kind of pain he could inflict on her before she begged him to stop, conceding that he was the better wizard and that she was nothing more than a jumped-up brat who thought too highly of herself because of her surname.

But she only breathed deeply through her nose before saying, in an almost machine-like voice, "Either get out or shut up so I can work on this."

He sat back in his chair and draped an arm over the back of it. "We're supposed to work together. Remember what wise old Dumbledore said?"

"I don't give a damn what that old coot says," she said vehemently.

Now, that was something they could both agree on.

"Then by all means." He waved a dismissive hand. "Trouble yourself with all the work. I'll be more than happy to watch you struggle."

She had nothing to say to that. Instead, she opened her Transfiguration book and began scouring the pages, occasionally stopping to write a term or definition down in her notes. Riddle rolled his eyes, but perhaps ignoring each other was in their best interests. He could already feel a headache coming on just from dealing with her in that short amount of time.

He let his gaze wander over the rows of restricted books behind her head, mentally creating a checklist for the volumes he'd wrangle Professor Slughorn into granting him permission to read. He'd already gone through a fair amount of Dark books in his prior two years, but the Hogwarts library was vast; he'd perhaps only managed to get his hands on maybe less than a third of the material the Restricted Section boasted behind its iron gates. And there was so much more to know about the Dark Arts…

Rosier moved to write again, bringing Riddle's attention back to her. Her garnet-colored lips moved silently with whatever thoughts were churning in her head, a habit he had often noticed over the years. But the dark circles under her eyes were new, as was the gaunt expression on her angular face that made her look more skeletal than human. A shame, he thought; there was once a time he might've thought her attractive—until she opened her mouth, of course.

"Stop staring at me, Riddle," she muttered as she went back to her book.

He smirked. "Am I distracting you?"

She didn't answer. A lock of black hair fell across her knuckles and she pushed it back irritably, revealing the marks on her hands once more.

"What happened to your hands?" he asked, more to annoy her than out of his own curiosity—but there was a part of him that was curious.

"I bit them," she replied tersely.

"Why would you do such a foolish thing?"

"To remind myself," she said, scrawling another sentence.

He realized she was copying the same method he had used on her naught two days prior, but his interest was piqued now. And the fact that she was actually answering him was cause for intrigue, as well.

"Remind yourself of what?"

Now she chose not to answer, instead flipping to another page in her book. He stared at the ugly teeth marks just under her thumbs. He tried again.

"To remind yourself of what, Rosier?"

"Not to talk to twats like you, Riddle."

He leaned forward, planting an elbow on the table. Very well, then. If she didn't want to be forthcoming, then now would be an excellent time for him to practice. Beneath the table, he gripped his wand. Legilimency was still fairly new to him, but he was certain he would be able to perform it nonverbally. He'd never encountered a spell he couldn't master. He shifted in his seat, preparing to cast—

"Excuse me? Tom? Tom Riddle?"

He returned his wand to his pocket and sat back in one smooth move, turning to the trio of girls that had crept up to his and Rosier's table. They looked like fifth-years, and Ravenclaws, but their red faces made them look much younger. Two hung back, giggling, while the third stood before Riddle, nervous but bold. He schooled his features into polite bemusement while across him, Rosier stopped writing, though she kept her head down.

Riddle smiled amiably. "Yes, that's me. How can I help you ladies?"

The girl in front of him fiddled with the hem of her skirt. Riddle had a vague feeling of what was coming, but he only watched the curly-haired, freckled girl fidget. She blushed harder when he focused his gaze on her.

"Er, hi," she started. "Um, I was—we were only wondering if you could, um, tell us about the monster you saw last year? The one from the Chamber of Secrets?"

"You fought it, didn't you, Tom?" one of the other girls said, breathless. "I heard you dueled it!"

The third girl nodded vigorously. Riddle blinked. Despite a few congratulations and questions the term prior and Professor Dippet's announcement at the start-of-term feast, no one had ever really sought him out for details on the Chamber before. He would have to tread carefully, but the vindictive elation he felt at that moment, especially with Maeve Rosier in earshot, was enough to make him heady.

"No, no, I didn't duel anything," he said with humble modesty. "You see, the student eventually came quietly, and the monster was exposed then for what it truly was." He feigned a sigh. "It's only a shame the creature harmed as many as it did, and that poor girl…"

The girls all shuddered. Rosier remained motionless, and Riddle imagined she was listening as hard as she could.

"Yes, poor Myrtle," the first girl said sadly. "She was odd, but for her life to be cut so short…"

The other girls nodded, their eyes downcast. Riddle arranged his features into faux sympathy. "Yes, she was a classmate of yours, correct? I can only imagine how difficult it must've been for you all."

"But what was the monster, Tom?" the second girl asked. "Was it truly as terrible as they say?"

Riddle put a finger to his lips. "My apologies, ladies, but I'm afraid I've been sworn to secrecy in that regard. Surely, you understand?"

"Oh, of course…" The girls looked disappointed, but Riddle hardly cared. They'd go back to their common room and speculate, and that speculation would only fuel their interest. It would continue, on and on, until Riddle's deeds were legendary. Immortalized in Hogwarts history. Immortalized…

With shy, hasty goodbyes, the Ravenclaw girls left them alone again. Riddle turned back in his seat and found Rosier glaring at him.

"Finished being a little celebrity?" she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.

"Come now, Rosier—jealousy doesn't suit you."

Her eyes flashed.

"I'm curious, as well, Riddle," she said. "What was the monster in the Chamber of Secrets?"

"I know you have ears, Rosier." He rolled his eyes. "Why would I tell you, of all people, despite having been ordered not to breathe a word of it?"

"Ordered?" Her eyebrows rose skeptically. "I never thought you were the type to take orders like a dog."

His jaw clenched. Trust Maeve Rosier to find any little thing and turn it around on him as an insult.

"You seem to have a fair bit of interest in the Chamber," he said. He leaned back in his chair and pinned her with a significant look. "You should be careful, Rosier. People might think you're up to something."

She ignored him, instead flinging the parchment she'd been writing on across the table at him. He glanced down and saw a set of neat notes, underlined, listed, and even bolded for clarity. He raised an eyebrow at her as she began packing away her things.

"What's this?"

"An outline for our project," she said. "While you were busy with your doting fans, I actually did some work."

He rolled up the parchment and placed it in his bag. "Anything and everything to get ahead of me, right, Rosier?"

She snorted as she stood and placed her bag on her shoulder. "It's not as if you provide much of a challenge, Riddle."

She didn't offer him a chance to retort, already stalking away with her nose in the air. He stared after her back, wishing—not for the first time—that he'd had enough foresight to send his basilisk after her as well. At least then he'd have one less thorn in his side.

But he had other things to worry about besides Maeve Rosier. Once he made sure that she was gone, he tugged the worn, heavy book out of his bag and placed it on the table. In the soft candlelight, the once-embossed words were barely visible: The Thirteenth Edition of Great Britain's Wizarding Family Genealogy.

Riddle settled himself in to read, and once the book was open, all thoughts of Maeve Rosier were pushed from his mind.

Maeve returned to the library early Saturday morning.

She approached the huge, crescent-moon desk the prickly librarian could usually be found lurking behind, and cleared her throat to get the humpbacked witch's attention.

"Salazar Slytherin's Legacy," Maeve said. "I need to check it out."

The librarian grunted. "There's a waitlist."

"A waitlist?" Maeve scowled. "Why?"

"It became quite popular after that business with the Chamber of Secrets." The librarian squinted at her behind dragon-tooth spectacles as she flipped through the dusty pages of an ancient tomb, checking it over for damage. "You'll have to wait."

"I need it now," Maeve said, drawing herself up. "Surely, you have more than one copy?"

The librarian slapped a list down in front of her. "Join the waitlist or go cry somewhere else."

Maeve peered down at the list, her anger bubbling up as she fumbled for a quill. There were six people ahead of her. Six! She yanked a quill out of her bag, using so much force that her wand that was up her sleeve clattered to the desk. She held both her wand and her quill as she signed her name with a flourish.

She thrust the list back at the librarian. "There. Thanks for nothing."

The librarian sniffed as Maeve latched her bag quickly. "Rosier, eh? You should fix that attitude of yours."

Maeve pivoted on her heel and stormed out of the library, ignoring the librarian's unkind mutterings behind her back. Once she was out in the corridor, she took out the paper she had stuffed into her bag under the librarian's own nose and scanned it intently, her lips curling in a delighted grin.

She returned the parchment to her bag and set off at a brisk pace down the corridor, the plan already forming in her head as the stone walls glowed pink and gold from the rising sun over the distant mountains.

Not even the shadows could touch her at that moment.