Author's Note: I am super excited to finally start on some major plot building for this story. The plot line I have so far is beyond anything I have planned for it to be. But I am psyched to get to the good stuff, I hope you guys enjoy it and are just as excited as I am!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, the characters, locations, or cleverness. It all belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. Studios.
Hermione found herself in a spacious room. Taking a step forward, she could feel a shallow puddle of water splash beneath her foot on the stone-flagged floor. She looked around and saw nothing of familiarity; it was dark for as far as she could see down the never-ending corridor.
She cautiously walked further, her steps echoed—bouncing off the invisible walls, along with the hushed sound of dripping water plummeting to the surface of the below. Without thought, Hermione folded her arms across her chest—both to keep in warmth and to provide a sense of security she suddenly yearned for in the cold, desolate place she found herself in.
The sound of something sliding across the floor broke the silence, causing Hermione to whip around quickly.
"Hello?" She called out. Gooseflesh crept across her skin when she received no response.
Turning around reluctantly, Hermione saw a dim light in the distance. Hastening her paces, she strode to reach her salvation. As she neared her destination, she heard the sound of jostling and more sliding. In panic, her steps increased until she broke out into a full sprint. Her heart pounded and her breath came out in huffs as she desperately sprinted down the long, dark corridor.
In her unabashed lack of tact, Hermione's shoe caught a raised stone in the flooring—sending her tumbling to the edge of the walkway. Mere inches from her halted form, a dark body of water rested, surface undisturbed. She pushed herself up onto her knees and looked around. As her eyes reached the stretch of the water, she looked across to the end.
Hermione came face to face with a massive, stone carving of a wizened face resting at the water's base. The aged man's hair had been carved in disarray, whipping wildly in all directions from his face. She attempted to identify her surroundings—to recall being there before, but nothing of familiarity came to mind. But something in her remembered reading about it and having been told, as well… about what had dwelled in the forbidden chamber…
An ice cold feeling enveloped every part of her, making her skin crawl with apprehension. She slowly pushed herself up off the floor—easing her way to her feet— never breaking contact with the stone man's eternal stare. She looked around fretfully as anxiety began to creep in. Hermione tried to remember what made this place so dangerous; what had made it dangerous for her in particular.
She gazed intently at the large statue. Her eyes drifted from the statue to the pool beneath the face. It was as if the water was frozen; no ripples emitted from the mysterious black lake—despite the water droplets that continuously fell out of sight. Hermione absent-mindedly walked forward to the edge of the stones—her feet dragging her almost as if she were in a trance.
She made it to the verge of the blackened water and knelt down, looking into the stillness. In her reflection she saw no emotion upon her face. She stared at the figure that peered back at her through the waters. She lifted her hand to touch the unearthly paleness of her own skin—as did her doppelganger. This… this isn't me. Hermione shook her head and felt her brow furrow, but the mirage before her remained stoic, impassive in her objection.
Her eyes met the girl's in the water. Hermione watched as the face of the girl twisted into a crude smile that sent a haunting chill running up her spine. Disturbed, she nearly fell back—and would have—had it been possible.
Hermione desperately jerked her body, trying to wrench herself free from the unseen force that rendered her immobile. She felt the expression of the reflection slither up through her body in a wave of emotion that matched that of the face in the water. She felt as though someone had pushed her aside and took hold of her body—possessing her steadily despite her protests. She continued to fight the feeling that gripped her senses and rendered her body useless to her own devices. A strange emotion surged through her as if it were an electrical charge. She felt the hunger for power grow inside her.
Fearfully, in a final attempt to free herself, she desperately fought back against the creature that had invaded her. She fought harder and harder until she gained control of her right arm. Hermione's hand connected with the water as she splashed away the image of the ghostly girl. The feeling of the being within her ripped apart from her, like flesh from bone, and vanished with a shriek from the ghoul.
Hermione backed away from the water, attempting to steady her erratic breathing. Slowly gathering her bearings on the situation, she questioned the doppelganger's motives. It had been much like an alter-ego of her very own—almost as if she were Jekyll, and the other, Hyde, such as she had read in a muggle book once. But a nagging thought kept reoccurring to her. What if it had showed her true self? Or perhaps, her future self? Deep down, Hermione knew this wasn't what she wanted… was it? Power and respect, diligence and intimidation… Is this what she truly wanted, the type of person she always was?
"Prove yoursssself…" a voice called as she, once more, heard the smooth sliding of something across the water-ridden floor echo throughout the cave-like structure. Hermione immediately jumped from the floor and spun around, looking in all directions for the source of the voice. She stepped away from the edge of the pond—forcing the elder to redirect his ever-lasting gaze into her back—and began walking. Things had gotten out of hand and Hermione desired to reside no longer. She had to get out of there and go home. Wherever 'home' was...
"Just as I suspected… Another spineless fool entering on territory in a world they know nothing about... Death will consume you in the end and will leave you with nothing—not even the knowledge of who you are or what you could have become…" Hermione continued on as the sound reverberated throughout her—almost as though the voice were coming from inside her mind.
Hermione spun on her heel facing back to the statue of the large stone head and shouted, "I am not spineless!"
For reasons she could not explain, the accusation of the voice made her angrier than she had ever felt in the past—even when Malfoy taunted her during her third year, leading him to her fiercely punching him.. She clenched her fists tightly until her knuckles turned white. She had no knowledge of where she was or where she had been before, but now memories came flooding back to her in a rush… but, they were memories she knew wasn't her own… Memories that seemed to be fabricated from another time… another life.
"The weak will deny their divine gifts and take no action. The weak will die the most painful deaths that this cruel world can offer. But the strong… the strong and the cunning, will have power… they will have the world as their own. Power is given only to those who dare to raise themselves above the weak and seize it. Only one thing matters, one thing… to step up above the weak and the unworthy… to become what you are meant to be…"
Hermione stood, fuming and shaking from the anger and iciness she felt surging through her body. She looked into the black, desolate eyes of the stone face that stared back at her. She would take any insult, but she would not be called weak… Her head started to reel as more memories began to flood her senses. Running through a corridor. Dangling a locket in front of a man veiled in shadow. Laughing madly as a group of wizards tried to overpower her. Memories that she had never experienced, but came to be in possession of otherwise. She clutched her head furiously as the images began to spin at rapid speed, causing her it to throb with excruciating pain.
"I… am… not…WEAK!" Hermione yelled, fighting the pain, fighting the memories, and most importantly, the voice that taunted her.
"Prove yourself!" The voice commanded.
Releasing her head, Hermione outstretched her hand toward the stone face of Salazar and edged to the water. Anger, thirst, power, and memories flooded throughout her body… none of these belonged to her, but they now did... They were her past, present, and future…
Hermione opened her mouth wide and a low hiss began to emit itself from her mouth, "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."
Slytherin's gigantic stone face was moving. The mouth of the statue was opening, wider and wider, creating a large black hole. Hermione watched, hand still outstretched, as something stirred inside Salazar's mouth, slithering up from its depths.
Hermione watched fearlessly as the snake filtered from the dark and slithered through the shallow water, uncoiling itself. The king of serpents glided itself to rest in front of her, and rose up on its haunches to where it now towered above her, claiming its title properly.
Hermione looked into the face of the basilisk, straight into its yellow eyes, straight into death… but death did not come. The cold had not left her body, nor had it worsened. She felt no fear, and she felt no excitement… she only felt the power from the hiss that was still tingling on her lips.
Then the voice came back out of nowhere and reverberated one last time in a final tone, "So you have requested it, so shall I answer the call of the Heir of Salazar Slytherin..."
The basilisk swayed in the air, its body mimicking Hermione's movements as she stepped from foot to foot. In the darkness, Hermione saw movement surrounding the basilisk, but she could not make out what was causing the disturbance. Looking into the face of the serpent, a haunting hiss escaped from within her. The creature then rose up higher and higher above her, its presence commanding. The beating of thunderous wings sounded within the cave, slowly in the distance, then grew louder and closer.
The basilisk relinquished a cry that mixed between the powerful screech of a hawk and the menacing hiss of a serpent. Before Hermione had time to even begin to question, she felt her body slowly falling backward into the darkness as weightlessness overcame her. The last thing she recalled was the cry of the winged serpent disappearing into the shadows.
Thunder crashed and shook the castle as rain and wind tore at the highest towers. The darkness stretched from corner to corner of the halls. An eerie foreboding couldn't help but creep upon all who traveled within the passageways that evening. Even the staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whom had taught for many years, pulled their cloaks tighter around them as them as they made their rounds. The owls in the owlery could be heard hooting frantically off in the distance as the storm shook their domain. Even the tiniest creatures on the grounds scurried for shelter against the brutal weather.
A man with a long, graying beard stood looking out of a corridor window and onto the grounds of the academy. Albus Dumbledore had been part of the school for many, many years having gone there himself as a child, but he had never seen a storm such as this quake the castle with such ferocity. He continued to watch the rain pound the Great Lake, filling it to its brim, as he heard the sound of old, worn shoes hitting against stone. Having felt rather than see the young man pass, Dumbledore called out over his shoulder.
"Quite a dark and dismal night tonight…" Dumbledore mused more to himself than to the figure that halted behind him. "Wouldn't you agree, Tom?"
Dumbledore turned to face the young man he had watched grow over the years. His pallid features reflected in the dim flicker of the torches lining the halls. Dumbledore looked into the eyes of the boy he had seen progress and excel from imprudent childhood antics to the peculiar calm of a wizard with vigor. Tom Marvolo Riddle had grown indeed and had changed undoubtedly over time, but his eyes remained as dark and desolate as the day Dumbledore had met him.
"Yes, sir. It has been an… unexpected night, indeed," Riddle agreed, recalling the events of the evening he had experienced. He stood tall and firm, facing the wizard before him. His hands clasped behind his back and his face impassive.
"Without a doubt. It's not every day that one happens across a young lady and her belongings scattered across the grounds outside the castle," Dumbledore said with suspicion highlighted in his tone. He had no inkling of how this occurrence came to be, but with his arousing suspicions of Tom's secretive life, he wished not to forgo the current events without giving them deep thought.
Tom said nothing, but remained focused on the Transfiguration professor. Dumbledore turned his attention back toward the window and away from the darkened figure of the young man. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Tom, would you please go check in with our guest in the infirmary? I would like to speak with her as soon as she has awoken and recovered," Dumbledore said inquisitively.
"Yes, sir," Tom spoke clearly and went about his way, processing down the hall. As Dumbledore's eyes bore into his back until he turned around the corner, Riddle's jaw clenched repeatedly as he ground his teeth together. The wizard had been keeping an annoyingly close watch on him lately, sending him on many useless errands just to keep an eye on him. His nostrils flared in heated anger at the man's foolish endeavors.
Riddle had been seen as a golden student, as a prospect of great things to come in the future. The Headmaster considered him second to none among the students that he had seen filter throughout the halls of the school. The girls fawned over him, admiring his handsome looks and charm. The boys looked up to him for guidance, for inspiration in hopes to exceed or be equal to his stature. The rest of the staff admired his skills and often boasted that their proficiency in teaching was to thank.
Riddle scoffed at the very notion. He could outperform any student and any teacher that claimed their strength in magic—with the exception of Dumbledore. His temples throbbed once more in disgust. He may have despised the codger, but one thing he credited the man for was that he wasn't foolish like the others. Although Riddle liked his games and the entertainment of remaining undetected by others, Dumbledore was quickly beginning to bore him and become a nuisance.
But, Tom was biding his time. Soon he would be ready to act, ready to induce the punishment for their ignorance. Not all was safe and secure in Hogwarts. The imprudent beings that walked the halls, so used to their coddling, would soon be jolted awake. The world wasn't made of indulgences that insignificant people could come by with a stroke of luck. Dreams weren't something that children were welcomed to with awaiting arms as they drifted into slumber. Dreams and niceties that the students and staff at Hogwarts were pampered with made his stomach churn. Until they had experienced true nightmares and witnessed a life of filth and contempt, he would not stand by idly. He would make those who crudely served him his fate repay for their transgressions. Life wasn't made to be kind to those who were of true deserving—just as Riddle had learned in the real world, as he had learned at his place in the orphanage.
Riddle rounded the corner and strode into the infirmary. The plump medic witch who had been bent over a cart holding various medicinal vials jumped in surprise, slightly jostling the trolley. Mentally cursing his ignorance for not regaining his calm composure, Riddle quickly affirmed himself and placed back up his charming façade.
"So sorry, Madam Meriwether, I came at the urgent request of Dumbledore to check on Hogwarts' current guest," Riddle said with false sincerity.
"It's quite alright, deary. I haven't seen you in quite some time, how have you been?" The medic witch, clearly fond of the young man, patted his arm and smiled sweetly. Riddle longed to retract from her sickening touch, but found it in his best interest to remain at ease. The medic hadn't seen him as a patient since his third year when he contracted some nasty muggle flu at the starting of term. He had no doubt that it was from the foul conditions at the orphanage in London, but thankfully magic had him healed by the end of the day.
"I've been doing very well, albeit quite busy with the prefect duties Professor Dumbledore has been assigning me lately. It's to be expected, I suppose, but I just wish I had more time to study further into runic theory for my current class," Riddle said with light disappointed tone. He always appeared to hold high esteem and regard for Dumbledore, but behind closed doors he wished ill fate upon the man—but the others had no inkling.
"I have to say, Dumbledore has been working you to the bone lately, Mr. Riddle. I'll be sure to have a talk with him very soon," the elder witch wagged her finger as she envisioned giving Albus Dumbledore a good scolding. Riddle smirked inwardly too himself. The witch was a nuisance when it came to caring for even the slightest injuries, so her reprimanding of Dumbledore should buy him enough time to plan carefully and carry out his deed soon.
"It isn't necessary, but if you decided to do so, I would be forever grateful," Riddle thanked her with false grace in his voice. The witch smiled sweetly as she adjusted the askew vials on the cart that she had knocked over previously.
As the witch quickly busied herself to tend to her task before addressing Riddle with a report for Dumbledore, the young man walked to the foot of the bed and glanced down at the girl lying under the white duvet. Her hairline was still speckled with mud, despite the evidence of Madam Meriwether trying to clean the girl the best she could for now. The young woman's dark, matted curls, peeking out from a wrapped bandage, were sprawled out on the pillow where her head rested. Her hand dangled off the side of the bed and head was tilted to the side due to the medic's continuous prodding and checking of her bandaged wounds, he assumed.
Riddle tilted his head slightly in curiosity as he stared at the girl's motionless body. His brow furrowed as he recalled the events that had occurred that afternoon.
(Flashback)
Tom Marvolo Riddle was doing his afternoon rounds as a prefect. With Grindlewald's rising threat, the teachers implored that extra precaution be taken, thus Riddle had been sent by Dumbledore to do a round outside of the castle for "good measure." Despite the professor's seemingly good intentions, Riddle knew that he had been finding favor in him for tasks so that he could keep track of him.
The rain beat upon the boy's exposed head, drenching him completely by the time he had stepped down the last stair of the entrance. Hot fury rolled through him as his aggravation for the mission grew. Quickening his pace, Riddle wished to finish his task a quick and painlessly as possible. He had a meeting with the Knights of Walpurgis that night and he would be damned if another one of Dumbledore's outrageous orders kept him from another gathering this month. Although the majority of the members within the organization were fools who understood very little, being the leader, Tom was able to keep them under his thumb quite easily.
Before hatred clouded his senses, Riddle heard a series of thuds hitting the ground ahead. A deep frown set itself into his face. His frustrations gave him little time to spare, but his deep rooted curiosity acted before he rationalized with himself, his feet already pulling him toward the tree resting beside the Great Lake.
At the distance from which his steps had halted, he could already see a body lying face down on the ground—the upper half hidden from sight by the tree. Riddle moved forward until he was at the base of the tree staring down on the figure.
The young woman, drenched and quivering slightly struggled, turning her face to the side. His face, impassive—yet inquisitive, watched as her eyes scanned from his shoes until they met his face. The weary eyes of the girl met his momentarily as her mouth opened, forming the words "Help," despite the rumble of thunder masking her voice entirely.
Without speaking, he lifted his wand, pointing it toward the girl and her scattered belongings. Her head fell back to earth as she lost consciousness. Riddle resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatic situation. He had wasted too much time already.
The thunder rumbling in the distance grew louder as he whispered an incantation, levitating the girl and her luggage together to form a neat line. Riddle began the trek back to the castle, with the girl in tow. As he walked silently in the torrent of the storm, he studied the girl that had mysteriously appeared. Mud caked nearly every inch of her, shrouding her in the most unflattering way.
Riddle scrutinized her features. Her hair still held a curled frizz to it even while wet, her slender form was curved fully in good health. She was young enough to be his age—give or take one year—but she had clearly not attended Hogwarts. Riddle had made personal note of every being at Hogwarts, their status, and who they had ties with—but nothing about this girl was remotely familiar.
He could sense the magic slightly humming from her small frame, but he wondered her status in blood purity. Her looks did not show the aristocracy and hold the heir of a pureblood. Perhaps she was a half-blood, just as he was; perhaps a magical mother as well—her line tainted by the filth of a muggle. Or perhaps a magical father who fell sickeningly in love with a pathetic muggle damsel whom he couldn't shake off.
Or maybe she wasn't either. She didn't hold the characteristics to any significant blood lineage from what he could observe—but then again, neither did Riddle. The rumored unsightly looks of the Gaunt family had clearly and obviously not been passed along to him. Perhaps she was a Muggleborn; just a filthy spot of luck that had occurred in a world of the damned and denied.
Riddle grimaced in disgust at the unconscious girl floating by his side just thinking of the notion. There were far too many of their kind walking the halls of the magical institution, something Riddle hoped to change very soon. As he entered the doors leading to the castle foyer, his arrogant manner returned to him as he mentally patted himself on the back for his clever thinking and careful plotting.
Riddle continued to scrutinize the mysterious girl who seemed to be stirring in her sleep. He stood at the foot of her bed and instead waited. Madam Meriwether had returned to her medicine storage momentarily, leaving him to stand over her form, watching like a vulture in the shadows.
The girl's head straightened and her hand lifted itself to rest on her blanket-covered stomach. With a wince, the girl's eyes fluttered open slightly, dazed, landing on him.
Unexpectedly, Madam Meriwether returned carrying a medicine tray holding a glass filled to the brim with a strange, brown liquid. Muttering something to herself, the witch clumsily hit the side of an infirmary cot, nearly dropping the tray and spilling its contents. Riddle caught the tray quickly with expertise, preventing its fall. The medic let out the breath she had been holding, relieved.
"It took me two weeks to receive that shipment of herbs for this batch to be brewed completely—I don't know what I would have done if I had foolishly wasted such precious time and ingredients! Tom Riddle, you are a dear," The witch graciously thanked the young man whose eyes had not left the girl.
Hermione jolted awake, wide-eyed and breathing erratic, as she looked into the darkness of the eyes of Tom Marvolo Riddle—the eyes of the future Dark Lord.
A/N: To those who have read up to this point, favorited, watched, and reviewed, I am ever thankful. I hope that as this story progresses, you will stick with me!
-ViperStripes