((A.N. Chapter 10. At last, the Moonlight Masquerade arrives! The ball will be split up into two chapters because it is very long. Thanks to EuphoniumGurl0, Oliver's Quidditch Crazy, Deepseadolphin, sexy-jess, Loriliant Angelisa Snape (breathe, girl!), b16, ydole3343, Quill of the Lark, Magic and Sparkle, Black-rose23, s.halliubll24, Jay Ficlover (wow you have some great ideas... do you write fanfiction of your own?), cocovanilla, Milka-Weasely, Amerise Rei (the answer to your question is YES, and I am so glad that someone caught on), Mitsuki Ashya, BabyGooGoo2, tom riddle rulz, silver gaze, blue ice2, innocenteen ( Thank you, I adore your story PUREBLOOD also, I'm voting for it at Dangerous Liasons! ;D), Tears-That-Fall, jaded emerald, steffy potter, and reader972. I am almost at gasps 200 reviews! You guys, that's crazy! I never expected this many at all... thank you so much! As always these chapters would have millions of mistakes if it weren't for DramaShethan, so thank you too! Enjoy:D))

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.

– Henry Van Dyke

Chapter 10: Moonlight Masquerade

"Just ask him," Hermione said, exasperated. "Merlin knows he's too stubborn to ask you." She glanced in Christoph's direction.

Emma looked at Hermione as if she had just suggested diving off a thousand-foot cliff.

"Helen, you can't just ask a boy. That isn't how it works, boys ask girls," Emma explained slowly.

Not in my decade, Hermione was tempted to say. Instead she uttered, "Not in Germany. In Germany, it's the other way around."

"Does this look like Germany to you?" Emma trilled.

"You're just making excuses and you know it."

"Am not!"

"Then go over there and bloody ask him!"

Hermione realized suddenly how loud she had been talking. The whole common room, in fact, was fascinated with the conversation of the two girls. Hermione flushed scarlet. What had happened to lying low? After people had looked away, Emma crossed her arms stubbornly.

"I won't," Emma said crossly. Hermione was reminded forcefully of herself and Ron in fourth year.

"Fine. In that case, you're going alone."

Emma frowned. "Why does Christoph have to be so bloody stubborn?"

"Not any more stubborn than you," Hermione intoned wearily.

"You're no help," Emma retorted, and stomped off to the dormitories.

Sighing, Hermione turned back to her book. If she had taken time to look in the mirror at all, she would have seen a pale, tired face staring back at her. There were dark blue circles under her eyes, and her lips were drawn tightly. Her cheekbones were terribly articulated, and her face seemed hollow, strained somehow.

All in all, she looked sickly, and she had a feeling it was from worry. She still had not found a way to get back, and she had a growing suspicion that something was terribly wrong. She was messing around with time as no wizard ever had; the consequences on the future could be devastating. She could sleep very little, if at all, and there was no escaping from the anxiety she felt. There was something aside from worry, too. Something that she did not want to face.

Harry had once told her a bit about Tom when the Slytherin was young. Apparently, he had lived in a Muggle orphanage until the age of eleven, his father having abandoned him. Then, he had come to Hogwarts and been sorted into Slytherin. Based on those facts, Tom had never in his life had someone that he could trust. Maybe it was not one event that had unhinged him, per say, but rather the fact that he had never trusted, much less loved, anyone.

Hermione thought about this for a moment, carefully, and from a logical point of view.

And suddenly, she wondered if there was a way to save him. To save him from becoming the heartless, merciless tyrant that he was destined to become. He was so cold, and so terribly distant, that Hermione wondered if there was anything left of him to save. Did he have a heart, a soul? Or was he already too far gone to help?

But Hermione already knew the answer. She had found it in the kiss.

The truth was, somewhere deep down inside Tom, there was a thing that resembled a heart. It had almost withered to nothing, and it was frozen solid, but it was there.

A voice in her head told Hermione that it would not be there for much longer if something was not done.

Though she did not realize it at the time, there was some essential part of Hermione that desperately wanted to reach his heart, not because the Wizarding world depended on it, but because by some twisted scheme of fate, she was falling for him too.

Sighing, Tom flipped through the pages of his diary, realizing that it was almost full. So many memories had been poured into that diary, so much pain. It was not as if Tom had written all of his troubles or feelings in the diary. He had recorded precisely what had happened each day, but only because with it he had been creating an incantation that ensured that if he died, he would live on through his memories. Literally.

He flipped back to the very first day he had written in it, his first year at Hogwarts. The words brought back memories that cut into his veins like icy knives. Tom had arrived at Hogwarts, ragged and miserable and stubborn and ambitious. In his heart he had carried a secret, desperate hope that perhaps things at Hogwarts would be better than at the orphanage. He had arrived only to find that things were not better. He had been sorted into Slytherin, and was an orphan half-blood among rich Purebloods. He was shunned once again, tossed aside for something he had no control over. For being who he was.

The pages of the diary fluttered again, and Tom found himself in second year, when he had traced his mother's lineage back to discover that he was a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin. He had begun searching through old manuscripts, and had found a multitude of prophesies concerning the 'Heir of Slytherin.' He had read about how he would open the legendary Chamber of Secrets. He had read about how he would release a terror that had been a thousand years dormant to the world. He had read about how, through him, Salazar Slytherin would live again.

He was descended directly from Slytherin . . . who else could these prophecies be alluding to but Tom Riddle?

Tom had realized then, at a mere twelve years of age, that his whole life had been planned out for him. Who he was, who he would be, had been decided long before his birth. He was to be Lord Voldemort. It was his destiny.

And all of his life before that Tom had believed that choices were what sculpted a man's future. He had found, in the end, that he was tied to this one destiny, this one inevitable fate that he would never be able to change.

Cold hatred for the world grew in him then, hatred for a world that had expected him to be evil and terrible and hateful. A world that had not even given him a chance for redemption.

So what else was there to do but to embrace this fate, this destiny, this dormant evil within him?

For a moment, Tom was tempted to throw the diary into the flames. He wanted to burn his past away so much, but he paused and looked down at the leather bound cover.

Carefully, he tucked it into a niche on the shelf, thinking that perhaps it would come in handy later on.

The night of the masquerade dawned cold and clear. At eight o'clock, the moon rose sharply about the peaks of the Forbidden Forest, illuminating the turrets of the castle in a pearly white splendor.

In the Gryffindor common room, girls were running back and forth from the bathrooms, their hair half done and with dresses in their arms. Boys were either up in their dormitories showering and dressing, or in the common room, lounging around rather nervously.

Emma tapped her foot anxiously on the stone floor, wondering how much time they had left to prepare. After what seemed like hours, Hermione emerged from her room, face aglow like the setting sun.

"I look absolutely ridiculous," she hissed at Emma, unknowingly mirroring Minerva's words. The other girl only smiled.

"And how, exactly, do you look ridiculous?"

"This dress!" Hermione burst. "It's so . . . so . . ." she gestured with her arms, at a loss for words.

"So not you? So unstuffy? So revealing? I know," Emma said, as Hermione nodded vehemently. "It's brilliant."

The dress was not that provocative, Hermione decided. But for the girl who was always in baggy jumpers and trousers, the dress was a bit of a stretch. Emma and the other girls had insisted on curling her hair and doing her makeup, also. Hermione finally dawned a pair of strapless heels, and descended down the stairs with Emma.

Why are you even going? Hermione chastised herself, but deep down she already knew the answer.

When they reached the common room, they were greeted by gasps and gushes about how wonderful they looked. The girls congratulated themselves on a job well done when they saw Hermione.

Emma had chosen a sweeping red dress that sparkled and glinted in the firelight, and her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun. She really did look amazing. The girls were most shocked by Hermione's appearance, though.

"Is that you, Helen? My gosh, you look gorgeous!"

"I don't even recognize you . . ."

"Your hair is perfect–"

"I feel so ridiculous," Hermione said after a few moments, flushing. "I don't even have a date."

"Who said you didn't have a date?" a voice at her side sounded. She looked to see Christoph Black at her shoulder, grinning playfully. Her face paled quickly.

"Technically, I do have a date. He just isn't here right now. He's in Ravenclaw," she invented quickly. "But . . . I don't think Emma does."

"Does what?" Christoph asked, obviously distracted.

"Have a date," Hermione repeated patiently. Christoph looked over at Emma, and they glared at each other for a few moments until Christoph flushed a wonderful shade of magenta.

"I suppose I could escort you down," he said quickly.

"I suppose you could," Emma said, a bit haughtily.

Christoph looked dashing; he wore a deep crimson tunic, and a black cape with silver lining. Hermione noticed that his mask covered his face and hair completely. Emma's mask was red and feathery, and when she put it on there was no way of telling who was behind it. Hermione's was black silk, and her hair was covered by a thin satin veil.

As she and her friends left the common room and made their way down to the Quidditch pitch, they encountered many more mysterious figures in masks. It was a night when all house rivalries were forced to be forgotten.

Hermione gasped when she saw the Quidditch pitch. It was unrecognizable, really. The stands and hoops seemed to have disappeared, which left only a large, grassy expanse of land. Light emanated from what looked like fireflies twittering around, but on closer inspection proved to be fairies. Some were periwinkle blue, or rosemary pink. Others were lily green, and they flitted about, tiny spots of light in the darkness all around. Silver and gold ribbons were suspended in midair, showering tiny shooting stars on couples as they walked by.

And then there was the moonlight, intensified tenfold by a charm around the Quidditch pitch. Unearthly figures in fanciful dresses or cloaks danced under its silver white gleam. Moonlight poured onto the masqueraders like a waterfall of mercury, drenching the entire scene in a fantastic silver glow. To Hermione it was beautiful in a breathtaking, unreal sort of way.

Her attention was drawn to a group of masqueraders walking past them. The leader was dressed in green and black, and had a dominant air about him. Hermione immediately knew it was Tom and his gang of Slytherins. He walked right by without even glancing at her, and she felt her stomach flip.

"I'm going to go find my date," Hermione said to Christoph and Emma, anxious to give them some privacy. They nodded before going off to dance.

Hermione made her way to the punch bowl, pouring herself a drink and glancing around. She noticed that many of the boys were eyeing her speculatively, perhaps working up the courage to ask her to dance.

Tom saw her from across the Quidditch pitch, and knew that it was Helen he was looking at. She did not need to remove her mask for him to see that; it was in the way she walked and held herself and looked around. And he thought she was by far the most beautiful girl there.

Her gown was the color of twilight. It was that purple pinkish hue just before the midnight blue of evening falls. The soft grayish pink of a summer sky at dawn, mixed with the pearlescent purple of a setting sun. The dress cut off at the shoulder, with translucent veil sleeves that fell gracefully as folds of mist. The cut was slim and simple, made of a gauzy material that fell perfectly. Her hair was curled, and cascaded down her back like a waterfall of so many golden hues. She looked soft, alluring, like an angel in the sunset.

He wanted to ask her to dance, but thought better of it. He already had a pretty girl on his arm (he couldn't count the number of girls that had pleaded for an invite), and this date did not slap him across the face whenever she felt like it. This date did not yell at him and he did not make things explode around her. This date did not do funny things with his stomach, or make him feel out of control. She was safe. Helen was not.

Hermione, in the middle of her second dance, looked up to see another boy standing there. She quickly realized it was Christoph, from his red tunic and boots.

"Do you mind if I cut in?" he asked the anonymous boy dancing with her. His voice was deeper than usual, and colder.

"Not at all," the other boy said grudgingly. He let go of Hermione a bit reluctantly, and she frowned. It was not at all like Christoph to cut in on other people's dances. What if he likes me? She thought with a start. Oh no!

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her, no trace of the usual grin on his face. She could not see it very well under the mask, though. Once again, his voice sounded more mature. Perhaps he was nervous.

"I don't see why not," Hermione said after a moment, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He encircled her waist with his hands.

Hermione noticed how he smelled immediately. It was not how she had expected Christoph Black to smell. He smelled like cloves and pine and sharpness, a scent that did not remind her of Christoph at all.

"I'm . . . sorry. About earlier," he said quietly. Hermione assumed he was talking about the situation with Emma. Why does he like me, and not her? Hermione thought desperately.

"Look . . ." she started, as nicely as possible, "We'll always be really great friends, but I don't like you in that way, if you know what I mean."

Immediately he went rigid in her arms, and a terrifying cold began radiating from him. She had not thought he would take it this terribly. Christoph was an easygoing person.

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "It's just . . . I like someone else."

"Who?" rasped Christoph, his voice colder than ever. What was wrong with him?

"I . . . I can't say. He's someone, well, very different from you . . ."

Now she knew something was wrong. He had taken hold of her wrists and his hands were icy cold.

"So all of this time . . . it's just been–" his voice was like a thousand needles in her veins.

"Christoph, I–"

And suddenly all of the tension went out of him. He seemed limp in comparison to the tenseness in him a few minutes ago.

"We need to take a walk," he said quietly. Hermione frowned, not sure that she wanted to go anywhere with him. He had acted so hurt, but it was odd, because Christoph and Hermione had never been anything but friends in the first place.

"Alright," she agreed reluctantly. She had the feeling that something was up.

They went away from the Quidditch pitch and pixie fairies, eventually finding themselves in a rose garden, with only the moon for light. Christoph stopped walking, and looked for a moment at the bushes. He brushed his fingers against a crimson red rose ever so lightly.

"Intriguing, isn't it?" he intoned softly. "How sad that its beauty is such a fleeting thing. Every moment it is dying little bit more. This crimson rose will wilt in eternity's heartbeat, and will be forgotten even faster. Yet its beauty seems never-ending in this moment. How tragic that this rose was born to perish."

Something was immediately wrong. Christoph was not romantic or alluring or cold. Christoph was nothing like the boy standing in front of her.

"Christoph–" she said, but he was staring at her in a disconcerting way. The only person who ever stared at her like that was . . .

He pulled off his mask, and Hermione gasped in surprise. It was not Christoph Black, but Tom Riddle who stared back.

((A.N. Dun dun dun! Now be honest with me here... how many of you didn't know that it was Tom Riddle all along? Review.))