Special Note: for some reason, FF.net isn't letting me post the review answers. (And screwed up the line just behind this one) They're on my group, though. Go ahead. No, no, this isn't a shameless plug… more like me taking advantage of a bad situation ^_-

The Snake-who-lived

"It's over for you, Rubeus. I have to turn you in. They want to close the school if the attacks continue."

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Harry Potter et la Chambre des Secrets, page 261

Chapter 17: T.M.Riddle

The cauldrons were boiling softly in the silent, dim and cold dungeon that housed the second year Potion class, that afternoon. The students, a mass of assembled Gryffindors and Slytherins busily cutting, preparing or dunking various ingredients in the steaming mixtures before them, were mostly smiling or in a good mood, which was something of a rarity during this specific class.

"Nice song," Blaise heard for the fifth time since the dinner fiasco.

Though she had not as such put her name in the song, nor had Draco, their 'private' discussion afterwards had been overheard by Padma Patil, at the nearby Ravenclaw table. She put two and two together, guessed who had written it and had immediately felt the uncontrollable urge to tell her twin sister about it. Since said twin sister was never far away from Lavender Brown, and seeing that Brown was one of the biggest gossips in the school, it was needless to say that, thirty minutes later, the news had reached most of the 'information nodes' all over the school and was well on its way to be known by all. Rumors were quite the hot thing, at Hogwarts.

Hopefully, nobody would tell Lockhart.

Harry heard Draco hum the song to himself, grinning as he cut some aconite roots in thin slices, as instructed by Professor Snape. The boy had accepted the praises and the applauses for the song like a sponge, giving whomever had thanked him either a grateful, 'I am superior' smirk, or simply an 'I am superior' smirk if he considered them less worthy. Blaise had gotten her own share of praise, but was more modest about it…

"I wrote most of it." She declared proudly.

…relatively.

"If, by now, your potion is not green, then you have done something wrong or are simply going too slow." Professor Snape said, giving a glare at Longbottom, whose potion had taken a violent, unnerving red color and had taken the consistency of solidifying concrete, as proven by the spoon dipped vertically that the plump boy was trying to pull down. Harry couldn't resist a snicker; his own potion was flawlessly green. The next step, based on the instructions on the blackboard, was to let it simmer for ten minutes to dim the highly poisonous plant it used as base.

'Once you get past Snape, potion class becomes easy.' Harry thought, stirring his potion proudly.

Sitting beside him, Blaise obviously fit in the second category; she had been distracted and had taken several minutes of lateness. Snape was, uncharacteristically, ignoring her mistake, although he did give her a passing, disapproving glance. Frantically, she ripped open the bag of aconite Professor Snape had given them at the start of the lesson, put the root down on the table and picked up her cutting knife.

"Longbottom, is it written 'Turn the table to ashes' anywhere in the instructions? No? Then for Merlin's sake, lower that fire!" Snape snapped, taking Harry's attention to him.

The Gryffindor boy squeaked and quickly waved his wand at the fire, accidentally spreading burning embers all over the table. Fortunately, the table seemed protected against such incidents and the fiery chips magically burned themselves to ashes within seconds.

"OUCH!"

The shrill scream, followed by a colorful explosion of expletives, took his attention back at Blaise, who was looking at her hands. The knife was on the table, cut halfway through a root

"Is something wrong, Zabini?" Snape sneered, heading back to them. Harry quickly turned his attention to his potion, which still had three minutes to rest.

"My hands…" The girl said in a wince, rubbing her hands together "they itch!"

"Is that so?" Professor Snape asked, his voice betraying a bit of curiosity. "Show me."

Meekly, the girl showed him her hands. Harry took a look for himself, and gasped. Her fingers' skin was bright red and was starting to swell.

"Hmm… You are to stay here after class, Zabini. For now, don't touch anything and don't scratch." And he walked away, leaving a seething Blaise.

"Don't scratch?!" she hissed under her breath, sliding her injured hands in her sleeves. "It feels like a dozen ants are tap-dancing under my skin!"

Blaise complained about her hands for a long time after this, muttering under her breath, cursing the inventor of Aconite to the other end of the world, wondering why Snape wasn't helping her now… the list went on and on. When the bell finally rang, Harry and Draco both stayed to wait for her, to the grateful and smiling girl's joy. Professor Snape lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy, didn't you hear the bell?" He asked.

"We're waiting for Blaise." Harry replied.

"I'll have to prepare the antidote; it might take a long time, and—"

"We've got all day." Draco interrupted.

"—and," Professor Snape continued forcefully and on a slower tone, glaring at the Malfoy boy, "I need all my concentration for this, or else it has a possibility to fail and take out what's left of her hands."

It was, in covered words, a strict order to leave, an order that all three Slytherins caught immediately. Giving the girl apologetic glances, both boys got up, lifting their bags on their backs.

"We'll wait for you in the empty classroom," He told her in a whisper. "Try to have fun."

"Fun? With Snape? I'd rather spend an hour with Fluffy in a small room." Blaise replied sourly in the same way.

"Doubt he'd appreciate that." Draco noted with a grin, remembering the way Blaise had single-handedly defeated the three-headed dog the previous year. She apparently remembered as well, seeing as she gave the platinum-haired boy a dark scowl.

"Don't worry, red hood, the big bad wolf doesn't bite without a reason." Harry replied, his tone amused.

"The big bad wolf hates my guts," Blaise noted gloomily. "That's reason enough."

Climbing up two different flights of stairs, the two Slytherins headed for the empty classroom, making their way through the happily chattering after-class crowd. More students smiled at Draco as they passed, causing the smaller boy to grin and puff his chest superiorly. Harry could only sigh in embarrassment. His friend was such a spotlight-hugger.

"Careful," Harry gave him a look and a smirk, "if you keep this up, you won't be able to pass through doors."

"Har, har, Harry." Draco replied flatly.

Grinning, the black-haired boy pulled a door open and stepped through, only to bang his nose against a solid stone wall, directly behind. The platinum-haired boy let out a guffaw.

"Now who can't pass through doors?" He taunted.

Rubbing his nose, Harry gave his friend a scowl before turning to the wall that had been hidden behind the pretend-door. "I was sure there was a staircase here…"

"There is, just not today." Draco replied with a shrug, as if disappearing staircases were common occurrences in a normal world. "I think the nearest one is beside the first attack's wall."

Harry nodded in agreement and the two switched directions. The crowds, as they approached the scene of the attack, became thinner and easier to navigate through – the freezing cold air seeping through a wall almost completely open with large windows made most avoid this passage as much as they could. Harry and Draco both shivered as they passed, rubbing their arms through the thin sleeves of their robes.

The black-haired boy was quite relieved to see that at least this staircase had not decided to take a sabbatical. The hallway was as dark as before, with, for only decoration the burning torches on the wall, giving away gentle and comforting heat contrasting to the chilly winter air, a door to some girls' toilets marked as "out of order" and the eerie, glowing message painted in red ink on the wall that had been pinned on him for the better part of the first trimester.

Their attention momentarily went to the wall as they headed for the staircase. This had been the site of the first attack, when Norris had been petrified, to the delight of the students and the horror of the caretaker – which no doubt added to the students' delight. But the next attack had completely removed that joy, seeing as the next victim had been human – and pure-blood, to boot.

So distracted were they that they did not notice putting their feet on a rather slippery surface. Loosing their footing, both boys slipped and fell on their backs with painful thuds, Harry's head bouncing off the hard stone ground rather hard, but not harmfully.

"What in the… UGH! The ground's all wet!!" Draco whined, looking down at the ground they had slipped on.

A thin, but wide puddle of water, most likely covering an even thinner layer of ice, spread across the ground, almost invisible unless one knew it was there and tried to see it. It covered most of the area around the staircase, making any attempted approach risky.

Deciding on the safest approach, the two boys took support on the wall and walked slowly, deciding against sliding when Harry's front toes got wet from water seeping through the front of his shoes, soaking his socks uncomfortably.

"The water's coming from under the door," Draco noted, frowning.

"There was water the day of the attack, too," Harry remembered, agreeing, "that toilet is out of order; it's probably for that reason. It leaks."

The two were silent, testing their foothold against the ice. The water was slightly warmer around the door, creating less ice for them to slip on.

Unfortunately, Draco took this as a safe sign and let go of the wall. His foot found a lone piece of ice laying there; he found himself falling sideways, knocking his shoulder hard against the door, thus opening it, and landed in a wet splash on the flooded floor of the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked worriedly, walking through the doorway.

"Oh, sure," Draco replied sarcastically, "I'm drenched, cold, my shoulder hurts, my back hurts and my hair is a mess. Never better!"

Harry shrugged. "If you're sure…"

"Who's there?"

The girl's voice interrupted Harry's reply. Quickly wary, the boy looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. Now that he paid attention to it, he immediately noticed something was odd. The air stunk of stagnate water, as if some of the liquid had stayed unmoving for years. Six toilet stalls were closed off, lined up against the wall. A bunch of sinks were arranged in a tall, circular structure near the opening, each of its taps but one spewing water at full force into already full sinks, thus flooding the bathroom. This could not be accidental, not even by magical means.

The source of the voice revealed herself, floating through one of the closed stalls. It was a ghost of a girl who looked perhaps one or two years older than themselves. Her rather rounded face was framed by thick glasses and marred with a handful of ugly pimples. Seeing them, she scowled.

"This is a girls' bathroom! Get out of here!" She snapped.

Thinking quickly, Harry replied, "We're just turning off the water."

'Maybe she's a psychotic man-hating ghost who protects the bathroom…' Harry mused, thinking that, at Hogwarts, anything was possible. 'We'd better get out as quickly as we can.'

The girl gave a sniff, crossing her arms. "Right, the only reason people walk in here is to turn off the taps and throw things as me!"

"Throw… but, aren't you a ghost?" Draco blinked. "It's not like it matters—"

"Oh, right!" The girl exploded somberly, before taking a fake voice: "Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!"

"Thanks for the idea." Draco replied with a smirk.

'Myrtle' gave a pitiful wail and floated right back through the closed door she had came from, a second before a loud splash came and more water splattered across the floor.

"…delightful company, that girl." Draco mused sarcastically.

Harry nodded, befuddled, and turned the taps off one by one.

"I wonder what had her so worked up, though." He thought out loud. "She said someone threw a book at her… I wonder what kind…" 

As I mentioned before, Harry is quite brave, quite smart, quite powerful, but extremely and undeniably curious.

"You've been hanging around Weasleys too much if you want to pick up other people's trash, Harry." Draco drawled, but did not stop his friend from satisfying his greatest fault. Knowing him as he did, Harry perfectly knew his friend was as curious as he was.

The inside of the stall was completely soaked. The walls were dripping with fresh toilet water, along with some of the ceiling and the floor. However, seeing as the entirety of the bathroom's floor was flooded, it did not make much of a difference. Checking around the toilet, Harry found nothing. Inside, however, was a small, familiar-looking black book.

Even more curious than before, Harry picked it up and shook as much water off it as he could. When it was relatively dry, he checked its condition. The book seemed in perfect shape, which made him wonder exactly why it had been thrown away like this, in a toilet where it would most likely be damaged. There were many trash holes around the walls of the school, and thus there was no logical reason to dump something like that here, unless one didn't want what was in the book to be read.

Wiping some water from the cover, Harry saw golden letters inscribed on the black leather.

            Property of T.M. Riddle

"Him again!" Harry blinked. "He's everywhere!"

"Who?" Draco asked, no longer drawling.

"T.M. Riddle. He has three awards in the trophy room, and now this."

"T.M. Riddle…" Draco mused. "I know that name… the most brilliant student Hogwarts has seen in a century – nearly beat Dumbledore's scores, but not quite. He was a Slytherin, too."

"How do you know all that?"

The boy shrugged. "Father told me his story so many times, you wouldn't believe. I think he wants him to be my role model or something like that." He gave a disdainful snort. "I never heard of that guy anywhere except for back then, anyway. I doubt he did anything important after getting those awards. He probably got washed ashore by real life." He snorted again and mumbled, "Like I'd want someone who ended up like that as my role model."

Harry nodded, inspecting the book further. Based on the tag, it came from Vauxhall Road, which was, as far as he knew, a Muggle street. Therefore, Riddle either had Muggle ancestry, lived among Muggles or liked them enough to buy in their shops. Looking at it, though, he couldn't help but get a feeling of déjà vu, as if he had already seen it somewhere else before.

'Ginny…'

It clicked.

The book he was holding, property of T.M.Riddle, was Ginny's diary!! But why had it been thrown in the toilet? Had someone played a cruel joke on the Slytherin Weasley?

"Say… that's Weasley's, isn't it?" Draco asked, apparently just guessing. Before Harry could stop him, though, the platinum-haired boy snitched the book from his hand and flipped it open.

"That's private!!" Harry snapped at his friend, who shrugged.

"So?" He asked with a smirk. "Writing down something you want to keep secret is stupid. It's probably nothing… that's weird, there's nothing in here."

Curious, Harry took a look – sure enough, the pages were blank, apart from the date: February 19th, 1943.

"Maybe the water washed the ink off?" Harry supposed.

"Um… Harry, the pages are dry." Draco noted, letting go of it and allowing the book to fall in a small splash on the flooded floor. "This isn't a normal book."

Harry nodded, bent down and picked it back up. "Probably enchanted… A preserving charm, perhaps… And something to keep its words secret…"

"Or it's a living book." Draco supposed, more darkly. "In which case I suggest you let go of it."

"That's Ginny's diary – if it is a living book, then I have to know if it's good or not." Harry said, slipping it in his bag. "We'll show this to Hermione – maybe she knows a way to show what's written."

Draco snorted. "Right, I can imagine how that particular conversation would go: 'Hey, Granger! Could you show us a spell to help us read the private thoughts of Weasley?' I can just picture what would happen then."

Harry nodded. "She'd huff, berate us, take the book and give it back to Ginny pronto." He sighed. "Guess that idea's out."

"Not unless she doesn't know whose it is, though." Draco suggested surreptitiously.

Harry snorted. "And once she finds the spell and reads who wrote in it, how utterly pissed to you think she'll be?"

Draco winced.

"That's what I thought." Harry finished in a sigh.

They arrived in the empty classroom only a minute before Blaise did, her hands bandaged with linen and stinking of what probably was a potion, came in with Hermione.

"Guess what, I'm allergic!" Blaise growled as soon as she saw them. "Stupid git could have checked before giving us this stupid assignment! Now my hands itch, hurt, they're bright red and the size of Dursley's arse! And that salve stinks!"

"They're not that big." Harry noted, before shutting up upon receiving a glare from the frustrated girl who did not appreciate being corrected.

"Allergies aren't common for witches and wizards, Blaise. Our inner magic tends to automatically remove anything harmful from our bodies, unless it's too strong." Hermione said, probably quoting from a book, before receiving her own glare and shutting up. Blaise did not appreciate anyone taking Snape's side, either.

"Tell that to them." She snapped, waving her hands.

The rest of the day passed in the blink of an eye. The great hall was back to normal for supper, to the relief of everyone. Lockhart had apparently already forgotten his humiliation, unless he was really good at hiding his emotions – or very talented at grinning stupidly for no other reason than showing his teeth. Hmm, it was probably the last choice.

Harry spotted Ginny sitting with her two friends, giggling at something McKinnon had said, while Chang blinked in confusion. It did not look forced at all, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. He felt a strange feeling at that moment – both relief and worry combined. Relief as thus she was no longer depressed – unless she was hiding it again – and worry because… well…

…he had her diary in his bag. One should not be happy when their diary is missing. Perhaps she didn't know yet? If that was the case, then he would do better to give it back…

But what if she was happy because she didn't have it anymore?

He hated to play with guesses. And there was only one way to turn those guesses into certitudes.

Hello?

Harry felt rather foolish, writing in the blank book within the comfort of his four poster bed and waiting for an answer. What if the book wasn't magical after all? What if it wasn't the reason? Come to think about it, this couldn't be the only small black book in school, could it? No, Ginny probably still has her perfectly normal

The message vanished.

…diary. Well, maybe not.

Words suddenly appeared as if someone was pouring ink down from the other side of the page to form words on the front.

Hello, who are you?

Harry hesitated. He had no idea of what Riddle's – if his interlocutor was indeed the original owner of the book – intentions were. There were already suspicious things about him – what exactly had happened to him upon coming out of Hogwarts? Someone as brilliant as him simply vanishing like that… and a Slytherin Head boy, to boot… there was no possible way he could have been "washed ashore by real life", as Draco called it. Even though the book was more than fifty years old, there was no way Ginny had not written something about him in it. No, better keep it in the dark.

Does it matter? Who are you?

To his annoyance, the book replied: Does it matter?

Harry frowned. The book was obviously intelligent. Harry had no wish to reveal his name, but there was no way he could earn its trust and learn things this way. Shrugging, he decided to take a different approach.

Not really. He wrote. Someone tried to get rid of this – why?

The answer didn't wait long.

This journal contains things that happened a long time ago and that many would kill to keep secret. No doubt one of them found it and threw it away.

Harry felt a sense of familiarity come over him – it felt like 'talking' to the Dark magic lexicon, with a few differences: 'Riddle' used cursive letters in a soft green ink that was pleasant to the eye, whereas the grey-paged book wrote in large, Germanic red letters. It also referred to itself as "it", while his 'teacher' used possessive words to itself.

'There's someone in there.' Was Harry's decision as he read over the line for a second time, thinking of how to phrase his next question.

What are those secrets?

Perhaps it was a bit arrogant to believe Riddle would simply hand over his secret like that. It never hurts to be hopeful, though… well, never hurts much.

Secrets hidden from the public eye. Secrets concerning events that happened fifty years ago, when the chamber of secrets was opened the first time.

'The chamber was open before?!' He gasped mentally. 'Riddle' continued to write.

Secrets… that I will not reveal to just anyone. Your name, for them. Do we have a deal?

While he had no real intention of revealing his name, he had to admit Riddle had maneuvered him into a verbal impasse. He needed to know, now. Perhaps 'Riddle' even knew where the opening to the chamber was! It was not an occasion he could afford to lose. He was about to write his name, before he hesitated.

Why is it so important?

Names can tell a lot on a person. 'Riddle' cryptically replied.

Harry frowned. Whoever it was, the person behind the pages was good.

What tells me you will tell me if I tell you?

You have my word.

Harry snorted. You were a Slytherin head boy.

Good point. The 'book' replied good naturedly. My name is Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Yours?

Harry sighed. He might as well oblige, if Riddle was going to be stubborn about it.

Harry.

Harry… Potter?

Alarm bells rang in Harry's head. The book was fifty years old – there was no possible way Riddle could know about him, unless someone had told him beforehand. His suspicions concerning the book and Ginny solidified. Riddle's book was, indeed, the Weasley girl's diary.

'I'll just learn what he knows and hide it in my cloak. Nobody will find it.' Harry decided, dipping his quill in his ink and writing again.

Yes. He wrote. Will you tell me?

I have no reason not to. I keep my word, unless it is to my advantage – what self-respecting Slytherin does not?

Harry did not reply, but nodded in an agreeing way. If one didn't respect his own word, then nobody would believe him and he would have one less bargaining chip.

Back when I was here, they said the chamber of secrets was a legend – a myth. That it did not exist. That was a lie. When I was in my fifth year, someone found and opened the chamber and released the monster inside. It attacked many students and ended up killing one. I managed to catch the one who opened the chamber red-handed and he was expelled.

But Professor Dippet, the headmaster at that time, was so ashamed of what had happened that he ordered me never to reveal it – bought it, if you will, with that shiny medal in the trophy room. They were told the girl who died in the bathroom was killed in an unexplainable accident. But I knew this could – and would – happen again. The monster is still alive and the one who has the power to release it was not imprisoned…

'He has a flare for the dramatic.' Harry noted, feeling as if he had stepped in a mystery novel. He didn't know what to think, though. Yes, that explanation explained a few things, such as the medal for magical merit he Riddle had received. Slowly, he pondered on his next words. Seeing as Riddle was obviously feeling talkative, he decided to push further.

Who was it? He simply wrote.

It's happening again, isn't it?

Harry nodded, before belatedly realizing the futility of the action. Riddle had taken his silence as an answer, though, and continued:

That's what I thought. I can show you, if you'd like.

Harry blinked and had to re-read three times.

Show me?

Yes, show you my memories of the day I caught him. Do you want me to?

His instincts screamed at him to stop. His mind told him not to trust the book. His curiosity, however, had taken the bait and was being reeled in. Hoping he would not end up gored like a fish, Harry wrote his reply.

O.K.

Please remove your hands from my diary. Riddle wrote as soon as the ink had disappeared.

Almost as a reflex, Harry obliged upon reading the words. There were none of the grey-paged book's polite words of gratitude, no mentions of noticing the hands were gone, except for the sudden shuffling of the diary's faded, yellow pages. When it settled, Harry had just the time to read the date, June 13, before the pages began to glow. Harry suddenly felt something grab him and pull him forward, directly in the now violently white pages. Blinded by the light, Harry closed his eyes.

The pull suddenly stopped, and Harry found himself falling unceremoniously on cold stone tiles, like the million others covering the floors of the inner castle. Quickly, he pulled himself up, whipping his wand out of his wrist-held holster as he did, before analyzing his surroundings.

He was in an office. It was a small, circular and unfamiliar office with walls covered by portraits of various people, most of them snoozing or sleeping. The one nearest to him bore the name of Dylls Derwent. The setting sun out the large windows piercing the wall section behind the lone desk of the room bathed the room in a brilliant red color. Something in the room was giving him a chill in his back, though, and his forehead felt oddly warm, as if he was getting ready to cast a dark magic spell.

A lone, small, wrinkled and except for one or two rare white hair, nearly bald old man was sitting at the desk, reading a letter. He looked extremely weary, as if he had not had a wink of sleep in the past week; the bags under his eyes were so large they could have been used as broom closets. He also appeared to have taken no notice whatsoever of Harry's stumbling arrival in his office, even though he had certainly not been silent about it.

'This must be what he meant, show me… this must be Hogwarts, fifty years in the past.' He mused silently, looking about. One of the old people in a portrait behind the man was reading the letter over his shoulder, looking grave, but, even though Harry was almost directly in its field of vision, he took no notice. Harry found it a bit unsettling.

Curious about the content of the oh-so-grave letter, Harry headed behind the desk and attempted to read…

…but it was blank.

'Of course, I'm in a memory! Riddle has no idea what is in the letter, so I can't read it.' He mused, frowning. There went a possible source of information.

Only now did he notice something. The portraits, the clouds, the old man, even the flying owl outside the window… everything was frozen still, as if time had stopped for everything but him.

And, suddenly, someone knocked on the door. The owl's wings took a beat; the old man's eyes drifted down a line; a portrait's character's quill moved an inch. It was like someone had played the "play" button on a video flick. Looking up, the old man said in a haggard voice,

"Enter."

A young man stepped through the open door. Harry immediately noticed there were many similarities between them – both of them had rather messy black hair and a relatively short and thin figure. That was where the likeness ended, however. The shape of the young man's face was very different, and he was much older and taller, standing a bit more than a foot taller than the young twelve years old. There was also a shiny prefect badge on his chest.

"Ah, Riddle." The old man said, rubbing his temples.

"You wanted to see me, professor Dippet?" "Riddle" asked, looking a bit nervous.

'That's why the memories started…' Harry mused. 'Until now, the room's appearance and everything else was guesswork from him.'

"Sit down," Dippet said, motioning wearily to a chair set in front of his desk, "I read the letter you sent me."

"Oh…" Riddle sat down, his hands clenching in each other over his knees, "and…?"

"And, my dear boy, I'm afraid I just can't allow you to stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

"No," Riddle said immediately and assuredly, answering the same way as Harry would have had he been asked to go to the Dursley's for the winter, "I'd much rather stay here at Hogwarts than go back to that… to that…"

"You said you live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, didn't you?" Dippet asked interestedly.

"Yes sir." Riddle's face reddened in shame, as if embarrassed by that fact.

"And you are muggle-born?"

'Why would he care…?' Harry wondered.

"Half," The young man replied quickly. "My mother was a witch."

"And your parents are both…"

"My mother died soon after I was born – she barely had enough time to give me my name: Tom from my father, Marvolo from my grandfather."

Dippet nodded. "Normally, we could have arranged for you to stay here this summer, but I'm afraid in the current circumstances…"

"The attacks, you mean?" Tom queried.

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. That clenched it – this was Hogwarts, when the chamber was opened the first time, fifty years ago. Riddle hadn't been lying.

But then, it meant that he had caught the culprit, and that he was still somewhere out there. Perhaps the reason the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle had never been heard outside of Hogwarts afterwards was because he was hiding from the original heir.

"Yes," somberly replied 'Dippet'. "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 the light of the recent tragedy ... the death of that poor 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 ..."

"Sir – if the person was caught… if it all stopped…" Tom supposed with hope in his voice.

"What do you mean?" Dippet demanded, sitting straighter on the old, used chair. "Riddle, do you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir." Riddle quickly replied.

'That's a lie.' Harry immediately thought. The answer had been too quick… too nervous to be honest.

Dippet did not see through it, however. He sank back in his chair, looking dejected and haggard.

"You may go, Tom."

Riddle got up and left. Following his insatiable curiosity, Harry followed him closely. On the way out, Harry gave a look at the plate adorning the door, from the other side:

Headmaster A.Dippet.

'The headmaster's office…' Harry thought, filing the information for later. Quickly before he lost the older boy, Harry trailed him down the dizzyingly twisty flight of stairs and past the statue of a gargoyle, which he remembered once seeing on the second floor. The halls were empty of life, as if nobody wanted to be out, even before the sun had set completely. Harry couldn't resist a shiver at the sights of the virtually dead hall and the echoing sound of Riddle's footsteps on the cold stone tiles.

Would Hogwarts, the place he considered his home, end up this way if the heir managed to kill someone this time? He had no illusions on Dumbledore's predicament should such an event happen. He would simply not be able to hold the proverbial dam of silence up, and the following flood of information would no doubt kick even him out of the office.

Harry's forehead was starting to feel very hot, yet it did not prevent him from shuddering involuntarily.

They reached the great hall, which looked very much like it did in the present days – Valentine decorations excluded. A tall wizard with auburn hair and a long beard called Riddle.

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

Harry knew he had seen that man somewhere before… those blue eyes…

He gaped. That was Dumbledore, fifty years younger!

"I had to see the headmaster, sir." Tom replied.

"Well, hurry off to bed," Dumbledore gave one of his piercing looks to Tom. "Best not roam the corridors these days. Not since…" A long, shuddering sigh. "…well, good night."

And he strode away, leaving Riddle and Harry alone. Tom waited until he was gone before he left as well, toward the dungeons. Following, Harry noticed the path did not seem to lead toward his common room. For a moment, he thought Riddle would inadvertently show him a secret passage he hadn't learned yet, but as they went through the twisty, cold and dimly lit corridors of the dungeons, it became evident that the taller boy was not going to the common room. In fact, he recognized the path as one he took every time he had to go from the great hall to Snape's classroom.

Strangely enough, the boy hid himself in the exact same room where, fifty years later, his greasy-haired head of house would teach his classes. After noticing that Tom was doing nothing but wait for someone to walk in the halls, Harry decided to wait outside and to try to organize his thoughts.

What were they doing down here? Was the chamber somewhere close by? Who was the heir, and how had he managed to get back in the school unnoticed after all those years? Surely a sixty-something years old man couldn't just walk in like that – especially one who had been expelled in the past.

There was a possibility that the heir had transfigured himself into a child, but he doubted such a thing was very likely. If hiding your age was this easy, why didn't everyone do it?

The only new adult in the school this year was Lockhart. Harry nearly burst out laughing at the thought – Lockhart was not only too young, but he was far too much of a bumbling incompetent to even manage something like that. Besides, there was no reason.

Let's see… who did he know could be over sixty years old, and hated muggles? Dumbledore, that much was certain. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the man had seen the founding of London. But there mere thought of Dumbledore attacking students was ludicrous.

McGonagall as well, but for the heir of Slytherin to be the head of Gryffindor and ruthlessly fair to everyone was ridiculous.

Flitwick, perhaps, but imagining the tiny professor guiding students to their deaths… that mental picture was also laughable.

Filch…? Filch hated students enough, and could easily be over sixty years old, even with the wizarding people's evidently extended lifespans. However, the first victim had been his cat, to whom he was nearly holding a cult. Scratch that idea.

Mrs Zabini? Hell no. Not sixty, not at school and definitely not a Muggle-hater. More like a Muggle-lover, or perhaps 'Lover-of-a-muggle'.

The Weasleys, with the number of kids they had, could easily reach the age. But, like Blaise's mother, were not in school, and Mr Weasley… if Filch formed a cult to his cat, Mr Weasley was devoted to understanding the mysteries of Muggles and eckeltricity.

Who else… …no, he couldn't really think of--

His musings were interrupted when a massive shadow appeared down the hallway.

'Hagrid?!'

It was him. There was no mistaking him – that enormous bulk of his was hard to miss. Wide enough to block more than half the hallway by himself and having to bend down a bit to avoid hitting the ceiling, he was dressed in a Gryffindor-crested version of the Hogwarts robes that could easily house even Dudley and his face was, amazingly enough, almost shaven. He had the same small black eyes Harry remembered, though, darting nervously about, as if he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.

Hagrid… Hagrid had been expelled, that much Harry knew. He also knew, through extremely simple guesswork, that the remains of his wand were hidden inside the pink umbrella he had once used to open the magical gates to Diagon Alley. No normal umbrella would do that. Hagrid, based on what he was seeing now, was also over sixty years old, although he looked to be on the better half of his forties.

As Hagrid passed in front of the classroom and walked ahead and Tom soon came out of the classroom to follow him, realization began to dawn on Harry. But Hagrid had never shown any signs of hating muggles – Uncle Vernon excepted and to be taken as a very bad example of the opposite. Harry had also been with him during the third attack…

…no he hadn't. He had been with Snape, and had left Hagrid soon before. He would have had enough time to find the chamber and use—

That made no sense.

Fluffy…

Ok, so Hagrid did love monsters and claimed that Dragons, who were some of the most violent and dangerous creatures in existence made cute, gentle and cuddly pets. Perhaps not in so many words, but it was intended. But even he would not keep a monster that attacked students for no other reason than killing.

Keeping these thoughts in mind, Harry followed Tom on the trace of the loud footsteps of the large boy, deeper down in the dungeons than Harry had ever been. Tom stopped on the corner of some kind of large antechamber. Harry, though, perfectly knowing that nothing could affect him in the memory, continued forward and looked. Hagrid was kneeling in the open door on the other side of the room, holding a box.

"C'mon, gotta get yeh outta here ... c'mon now ... in the box ..."

Harry suddenly found felt like he was pushed aside by a tangible bubble of air as Tom burst out of hiding, directly where Harry was standing. The twelve years old boy managed to right himself against the wall in time to watch the rest of the scene unfold.

"Evening, Rubeus." Tom said, confirming Harry's suspicions.

Hagrid slammed the door shut, whirled around and asked: "What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

"It's all over," Tom said, taking a calculated step forward. "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," Tom interrupted, "that you had any intention of killing anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you must have let it out to stretch its legs a bit…"

"It hasn't killed an'one!" Hagrid declared, his back against the door, which began to make odd clicking sounds.

"Come on, Rubeus. Don't be difficult," Tom said, taking a few more steps. "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered ..."

"It wasn't him!" Hagrid protested in a shout. "He wouldn'! He never!"

"Stand aside," Riddle snapped, taking out his wand from a holster on his waist. A brilliant flame shot out, illuminating the room. The door shot open so hard that Hagrid was sent against the wall. And beyond the door was… something. Looking it over quickly, Harry noticed three things that stood out.

It had eight legs, covered in black spine-like hair,

It had eight glittering black eyes that seemed to glow in the renewed darkness of the antechamber,

And it had two long, pointy and hooked fangs that Harry did not want anywhere near his person.

It was a spider.

Ok, so, it was four things and an opinion. Sue me.

Riddle lifted his wand to inflict the killing blow, but was too slow – the spider shot out of the room at blinding speed brought by desperation, running along the walls and leaping down the corridor. Tom pointed his wand at it, but…

"NOOOOO!!!"

The massive figure of Hagrid rammed right into him, messing his aim and allowing the monster to escape…

And suddenly, everything twisted on itself and Harry found himself back in his bed, his throat constricting in an effort to hold the rising bile down.

Based on what Tom showed him, Hagrid, the monster-lover who had once cared for Fluffy, the giant three-headed dog, and attempted to keep Norbert, a baby dragon, as a pet, had opened the chamber to release the creature hiding in it.

…said like that, it made a sick kind of sense.

Let's rephrase this:

Hagrid, who had once pushed Vernon across the entrance hall of #4, privet Drive, was the heir of Slytherin, whose mission it was to rid the school of everyone with muggle blood.

…I said it before, using Vernon as proof of anything was a bad idea.

Again: Hagrid, who was one of the most harmless and rather misunderstood people Harry knew, had been found by Tom Riddle, the Slytherin Head boy and mysterious vanishing genius, with a monster, and immediately been pointed at as the culprit, even though the monster had escaped.

Ah, that was better.

Harry had no illusions – Tom had attempted to lie to him. While the theory of Hagrid opening the chamber and releasing the monster made a little bit of sense, there was no reason why he, who was obviously a Gryffindor and thus could not be the heir of Slytherin, hadn't ended up being the first victim. Not of the chamber's monster, but of Tom. And besides, he would not do the same thing twice. He was not the brightest light bulb in the pack, but he was not dumb, either.

No. He knew he was being lied to. Perhaps the best choice was to ask Hagrid, himself. But every time Harry had attempted to steer the conversation on the reason of his expulsion – or any other "touchy" subject – the large man would clamp up and would not say a thing until the subject was changed. And Harry did not want to trick his friend into getting drunk to get his answers – which was, from what he had heard, a good way of pumping for information.

The monster was also a mystery. If Hagrid was not guilty, then the spider he had seen was not the creature in the chamber of secrets. It made sense – why would Salazar Slytherin choose a spider to represent his scourge, after all?

Then, came Tom's part in this. He had obviously known about it for a long time, based on the way he had acted. His words upon catching Hagrid red-handed had been too fluid, too calculated to be improvised. There was also the mystery of why he had let Hagrid's monster attack people, if he was to be believed, up until a student was killed, and only acted then. Perhaps an act of revenge against Hagrid, waiting until things got to the extreme to act and ensure his expulsion?

They had been on first name basis, as well. Scratch the idea of revenge – Hagrid apparently thought of him as a friend before that.

He did not want to talk to Tom any longer. The lie he had been told might have passed by someone less in control of his emotions or less observant, but Harry prided himself on those budding talents he had developed in his two years at Hogwarts. Sure, it came to a shock, but after the being poisoned the previous year, he wasn't just going to believe someone he didn't even know properly, much less someone who was surrounded by mystery, like him.

With that in mind, Harry shut the diary, pulled open his curtain, allowing a bit of chilly winter night air to pass through, lifted the lid of his trunk open and stuffed the diary as deep as he could inside it. He hoped he would never have to see the diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle again.

Author's notes:

Gah, I hate my writing skills. One whole week writing nothing, I scrapped the start twice and re-wrote it until I was relatively satisfied… *sigh* and suddenly, I spend two days writing page after page within hours.

By the time you read this, I've started to write part 20 of SWL book 2, and the end is planned and in sight. It will be about 22~23 chapters, depending on the length of them. *sigh* and the original has what, 18 chapters? Of five or so pages each?

I'm crazy. *shrug* guess that's the result of my addition to the SWL cannon. Can't really say what it is, though, since… well, it's a secret ^_-.

uation ^_-