Thanks for bearing with me, guys! I was going to put this up yesterday, but FFnet was like NOO I THINK I WILL LOG YOU OUT EVERY TIME YOU GO TO YOUR DOCUMENT MANAGER. -_- So for a few horrible hours I thought I'd lost this chapter completely (because like an idiot I did not save it in its own word document).
So hooray for its continued existence! And hooray for these wonderful people:
ShimmeringWater, Twilight1243, TK Grimm, Sleepwriting, MandaPandaAR, Kissable-Luxury, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, Annevader, NS, McMuffin, le-femme-cavalier, EmeraldGoddess52, Lania26, moor, BeNeRre, Sachita, fallevelyn, gleeislove, akatsuki's hikari, Bandle, Weird-Chik2, sugurrushx3.
I have a hunch you may enjoy this chapter. (Though it is also short. I think that'll stop happening soon, though.)
Best -
Speechwriter
Riddle cracked the door to the library and poked his head out, his shrewd gaze scanning the empty hallway. Scorch marks on the stones - a recent fight. Why?
Then a mighty crash, and a voice yelling a curse - not a nice one, either: Confringo. Aimed at a person, complete human combustion would ensue. Sounded like it had missed, though, luckily for the intended target.
Riddle assumed this was one of his followers' doing. He Disillusioned himself - wouldn't want to get mistaken for some unimportant personage, after all - and crept down the hall toward the racket. Perhaps he could ask one of his followers to lead him to his future self, have a brief discussion on what course of action to take. Maybe theorists had unraveled the secrets of the Timeglass in the fifty-two years he'd lost.
Assuming it was still 1997, that was. No way to know.
And then the voice. The high, chilling voice. It rang off the corners of the stone halls, spoke from every cranny.
"I know that you are preparing to fight." A pause, and then it continued. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."
Tom somehow knew he was hearing his own voice, its rich baritone thinned by immortality and made piercing by amplification.
"Give me Harry Potter," said the voice of Lord Voldemort, "and they shall not be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded."
A great pause. Riddle's fingers tightened around his wand. Harry Potter, the cause of his body's destruction, was here in this very castle.
"You have until midnight."
From somewhere deep in the castle's bowels, chaos made its distant echo. Riddle was already running. He had to get to his sanctuary - he had to employ his darkest weapon. This Potter boy would be no match for it.
He strode into the tiled room, the Open already slipping from between his lips in soothing Parseltongue. As the entrance to the Chamber slid wide, he flicked his wand. A film of ice coated the rough pipe, and he hoisted himself in, gliding down to the gloom below.
Riddle's sharp eyes caught the wet, glittering footprints. Someone had been here mere minutes ago. His jaw tightened, and he cast a shower of golden light from his wand, illuminating the path ahead.
Who had dared intrude upon the Chamber, the last sanctuary of the just? Who could have broken in? Why had the Basilisk not dispatched them already?
My sweet, he hissed, moving forward. The breathy language reverberated off the stone around him. Where are you? Come to me ... to me!
Then he smelled it, and he stopped in his tracks.
The scent of old blood. Of tons of rotting flesh.
No. Slytherin's Basilisk ... my birthright! Riddle's aristocratic features twisted in rage. He stormed forward, flicked his wand, and the door to the Chamber tore itself from the wall, slamming into the stone floor with a heart-stopping crash.
Two figures knelt at the far end of the Chamber beside the tremendous corpse of the snake. One - a red-headed boy - shouted something, leaping to his feet. Riddle stood in the center of the ruined doorway, practically feeling the power pulsing in his wand, a perfect match to the bloody tint thudding in his vision. They will pay.
A feeble Stupefy came his way. He barely restrained a laugh as he deflected.
"Who are you?" Riddle asked, striding down the long room toward Slytherin's great statue. I want to know your names before I kill you.
"Who wants to know?" came the boy's strong voice. He was tall, wiry, and speckled with so many freckles he looked as if he had Spattergroit.
The girl stood too. "Don't tell him," she ordered the redhead, loudly enough that Riddle could hear her words. "You don't know who he is, don't tell him your name."
Tom couldn't hold back his derisive laugh this time. He stopped several feet from them. "Smart. Though if you were smarter, you would have run as soon as the door blew up."
The girl looked bedraggled, exhausted, but at his combative words, anger crossed her plain features. She slashed her wand forward, sending another hex his way. Riddle sidestepped this one, pleasantly surprised by the healthy hum of power it emitted. Maybe she would put up some sort of a fight - breaking those with some degree of talent always felt so much more satisfying.
"All the Slytherins already left," she said, her bossy voice still overloud. "I - I don't know how you found your way here, but you can - you can leave now and go with them."
She seemed to know what she was saying was ridiculous - as if anyone could find Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets by mistake. The girl's eyes flickered from place to place, as if plotting some escape. Tom's lip curled in a sneer. Any departure she made from the Chamber would be decidedly posthumous.
"No, I don't think I'll leave," he said, folding his arms. He tapped his chin with a finger, as if musing. "You see, I'm quite curious as to how two persons so obviously out of place found their way here. Secondly ... I have some unfinished business to complete."
The sibilant quiescence of his voice seemed to make the cool air shiver. He could have sworn he saw the boy shrink back a little.
Recognition flared in the girl's eyes. "You're... you're Tom Marvolo Riddle."
A smile was his response. Instantly, hexes blasted from the two wandtips facing him. He flicked his wand, directing the spells into the gaping jaw of the basilisk. They hissed wetly and extinguished. But Tom's wand hand faltered as he realized that one of its fangs was no more than a broken stump.
His eyes flicked to the girl's other hand, which clutched the fang.
Desecration.
Distracted by his fury, Riddle barely ducked their next spells. "Crucio," he snarled, but they darted out of the way with surprising speed.
"Go!" the boy yelled. "Get out of here, Hermione!"
Riddle raised one eyebrow. "So that's your name. Incarcerous."
Ropes spat from his wandtip and wrapped up the girl's body, binding her from leg to neck in a tight cocoon.
"Run!" she screamed, even as she toppled to the floor. "Hurry! I'll be fine!"
"Oh, Hermione, that is a filthy lie," Riddle said, sending a casual array of curses at the boy, who blocked some and ducked others. "This is why killing Gryffindors is such a pleasure. You have this amusing notion of chivalry, as if you were the first people to sacrifice your lives for the ones you love so foolishly. You are not unique, Hermione. You are not special. You will die just as those before you: without dignity and without purpose."
She was already sobbing. "Please," she choked out to the boy. "Go, stay safe!"
The redhead shot off a line of spells from his wand, bellowing threats. Riddle batted the offense away with a few gentle swishes from his wand. He clicked his tongue, lips pulling wide in a cruel smile. "Now, now. No need to lose your temper. I don't have too much time to waste - I may be merciful. I may allow her a quick end."
The girl wriggled on the ground.
"Then again," Riddle said, "more likely not."
The boy let out a roar and bulled forward.
Riddle smirked. Check and mate.
He flicked his wand. The boy had no time to shield; his body flew sideways as if yanked by a puppet's string. He smacked back-first into Slytherin's statue, and, pinned there, finally ceased his infernal noisemaking.
Riddle froze the boy's body in place, but left his eyes free to roam. Free to witness the torture and execution.
"Now," Riddle said, walking slowly toward the girl. "Answer my questions quickly, and your death shall be expedited, rather than prolonged. Understand?"
To his mild surprise, the look she gave him rivaled one of his own in derision, even from where she lay in the disgrace of defeat. "Of course I understand," she spat.
"Wonderful." He summoned her wand from where it had fallen and tucked it into his pocket, making sure not to touch the Timeglass. With a flick of the wand, he Vanished her bindings. Watching his prey thrash and spasm was half the enjoyment, after all.
But then something happened he had not anticipated.
The girl yanked something from her pocket. Her other hand still clutched the Basilisk fang - but now its tip pressed to the surface of a small golden cup. "D-don't move an inch," she whispered.
Riddle's stomach twisted. Was that ... his plan ...
"I have your final Horcrux," she said. "The only one that hasn't been destroyed. The only thing holding you to your miserable life, Voldemort. If I stab this, you're finished."
"You lie," he hissed, but his heart thudded hard. He could technically have an incorporeal form, if someone had destroyed his body. This cup could be the last vessel of his soul.
"Want to test it out?" she said, her voice escalating rapidly to a shriek. The words rang off the high ceiling, off Salazar Slytherin's unforgiving carved image. "You move one inch, you're dead!"
Riddle cursed inwardly. If he sent a spell at her, she might dodge, strike the cup. He couldn't take that chance - and he still couldn't tell if she was bluffing. Her face was smudged with filth, her expression unreadable. Could that really be the last Horcrux?
How would the others have been destroyed?
"If you're telling the truth, why have you not disposed of this before now?" he said, his eyes trained on hers.
"We were going to before you barged in. I won't do it if you let Ron down."
"Ah." Riddle's eyes flickered to the redheaded boy still pinned against Slytherin's statue. "Then we are at an impasse. You see, I do not wish to release Ron at all, as that provides your single incentive not to ruin that piece of advanced magic in your hand. And if I may explain: This is a nasty type of curse holding your friend. If I don't personally undo it, Ron's flesh will slowly peel from his bones, from toe to head."
A complete bold-faced lie - it was a pinning spell, hardly more Dark magic than the average Cheering Charm. But he could tell the girl was scared enough to believe it. Especially when the threat was delivered in his silky, persuasive tone.
"I'm going to walk toward you and take my wand from your pocket," said Hermione, her voice shaky yet defiant. "If you move, you're finished."
"Go on, then." Riddle didn't care about her having her wand back. If she wanted to use it properly, she'd have to put down the Horcrux, and then he could just kill her. She wouldn't be able to break his hold on the pinning spell, either, so he wouldn't relinquish any leverage.
She approached him with utmost caution, as if nearing a raging Erumpent. Sudden, murderous rage flowed through him as he stood immobile. Students could not be obstacles to Tom Riddle. This pathetic little Gryffindor should not have had an ounce of sway over his actions.
Her hands kept the fang pressed to the cup as she reached for his pocket. With the spare fingers on her cup hand, she lifted the wand.
Riddle could see the concentration on her face. All he really needed was to knock fang or Horcrux from her hand ... one sharp blow to the temple ...
He acted in a whirl, throwing out a fist.
Everything happened at once. She did not scramble away, as he'd expected - she threw herself into him, knocking him back. He overcompensated in his lunge, and his fist flew over her shoulder. The top of her head collided with his chin, snapping his jaw tight shut. He saw stars.
Through the swirl of disorientation, he saw her dig the fang into the cup.
Riddle let out an animal roar and shoved her forward. He slammed her against the Chamber wall with such force that the cup and fang, united in final partnership, flew from her hand. She gave a yell of pain.
The cup emitted a horrible screeching sound - it went on, on, on - and clattered to the stone. Riddle felt the noise in his bones.
"No!" He could not die. He could not die. With one hand, he gripped the girl's throat. With the other, he dug his wand into her jaw. "Avada -"
But he realized too late the other noise, the sound mingling with the shrieking of the cup.
A high-pitched whine.
Tom Riddle's heart stopped beating.
The girl's hand was still fisted in his pocket. Around her wand, but also around -
He thought to pull away. But then the BANG - the deconstruction of the scene around them, the twisting of light and the stretching of the wind through their rent-and-dispersed-and-torturously-realigned molecules - dammit, they should have been dead; why were they not dead? -
The pain in her every pore leaked into his body through his fingers, which still clutched her small neck. Time and space crushed them together.
Her scream ripped up into his ear, and agony bound them in one twisting mass.
This time, he cupped his cry of anguish in his larynx, and he would not let it go.
Then she stopped touching the Timeglass. In the next instant, they were slamming into the stone floor.
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Thanks! Let me know you're here and reading along? :)
Speechwriter