A/N: Thank you a million times over to those who are patient, stuck around, and happy to see this story back! Thank you to those who are newcomers who are enjoying this story so far. It means more to me than you'll ever know. This story has faced a lot of setbacks, continuity errors, and changes in the Potter universe, but I am glad I pushed through the frustration and stress to continue putting out content. Thanks so much to each of you!

With that being said, I am not sure that I am 100% satisfied with this chapter or the edits I made. This is the last bit of writing I have from 5 years ago, so it was hard to push through it-especially with a lack of a beta reader. Everything that will come after this chapter will be completely newly written content-which makes me nervous. I am hoping to work on this story as my NaNoWriMo project. Wish me luck! 3

Maybe he would take a victim at a time? Slowly, unexpectedly. Or, perhaps he would barricade the Gryffindor students in their common room and watch from atop the stairs inside, witnessing a climax of chaos. He had little care if pureblood Gryffindors got in his way, he would cut them down just the same if they did.

His blood rushed and his heart pounded with exhilaration and excitement. His hair was neat and his masquerade robes were adjusted with obsessive care. Not only did Riddle want the night to be perfect, but he wanted himself to embody perfection just the same. And he did. He was the wielder of an angelic face and a demon's grace. Riddle's hands twitched, aching to point the monster in the proper direction and give his command. He would give Hogwart's a night it wouldn't soon forget. The walls have cried out for justice and soon he would deliver.

Everything had went according to plan—even with Goldstein's reluctance. After he ordered Abraxas to add a potion mixture to his drink to make the Ravenclaw boy more agreeable, the night had progressed flawlessly. He toyed with the latch on the diary until it opened, and he flipped through the pages rapidly. Inside his memories and musings lay upon the parchment, imprinted with striking black ink that was etched with precision. He had been given the diary during his first year at Hogwarts and kept it close.

Riddle's thumb caught on one of the pages near the beginning of the book. He pushed it open, eager to see what words from his past would connect to his current destiny. What prophetical wisdom or affirmations awaited him?

His eyes skimmed the rough cursive on the page. Riddle noted how shakily his letters looped and attempted to connect, but always remained in a strict line—never slanting upward or downward on the page like many children tended to do. His scrawl was reflective of an entry penned shortly after his arrival to Hogwarts, detailing the wonders of Hogwarts in comparison to the cruelty he endured at his "home" prior to Hogwarts.

Thoughts of the orphanage flooded his mind. His eyes closed and his mouth twitched downward in a tight line. He had been playing outside behind the rundown built-on, Victorian home when he remembered his first encounter with the caretakers. They had found him drawing crude figures—a farmer and a horse—in the soft dirt with a broken stick.

"Boy, what do you think yer doin'?" the male caretaker asked him.

"I'm drawing a horse and…" the young Tom Riddle attempted to explain.

"Yer tearin' up my dirt, you little bastard," the husband said. "Gimme that!" He yanked the stick roughly from Tom's hands. He looked up at the caretaker with dirt, smudged cheeks and eyes full of confusion. The too-skinny, tall man with a scruffy beard and patchy neck hair stared down at him with bulging eyes. Five-year-old Tom tugged at the frayed cuff of his donated jumper, feeling afraid. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he?

"I'm sorry, the other kids didn't want to play with me, so I thought I would play over here. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."

"Yer damn right you aren't 'sposed to. We barely have enough grass as is on this ruddy lawn," the husband said, spittle raining down over Tom's scruffy hair.

"Well, what's all this then?" The other caretaker, a woman—just as skinny—with crooked teeth asked, climbing the hillside in a stilted manner. Her heavy makeup had sunken into the ruddy lines on her prematurely aging face She had been scolding the children who were playing ball past the low-lying valley on the beach beside the old cave. She looked from her the man to Tom. "What's going on?"

"This little shite thought he'd tear up our property instead of going down to the beach," the man spat, waving the pointed stick in the air angrily. Tom stood up slowly. Blinking away the moisture forming in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to! The patch was already muddy and there wasn't any grass, so I thought—"

"You thought? Oh, so you've a brain now, do ya? What'd you do? Dig one up from the ground?" the man asked. The wife screeched with a cackle and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. The man stood up straighter, clearly proud of himself for such a smart comeback, and leaned into the woman's touch.

"Why is it always you that's gettin' into all the mischief? Why can't you be like the other boys and girls, eh?" The woman prodded at him and crouched down to his eye level. "I often wish that whoever dropped you on this doorstep would've plopped you in the nearest well. You've caused us nothin' but grief since you got here, boy." Her voice was rough as it escaped through her ingenuine smile, her breath reeking of cigars. Had an outsider been watching, it would've appeared as though she were being kind, but the intensity in her eyes said otherwise.

"I don't mean to cause you trouble, Miss. The other children—"

"Oh, go blame it on the others again, won'tcha? Yer excuses are always the same. I've not once had trouble out of the other children, but you… yer always stirrin' up something when yer alone," the man's voice was harsh as he continued to use the stick to emphasize his scolding.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again—I swear!" Tears trickled down Tom's cheeks, leaving lines that were clear of grime upon his face. The woman stood, crossing her arms, and glared down at him. The man's face twitched as he watched the young boy cry. It contorted into something foul.

"Yer damn right it won't." The man's voice was low, as he brought the broken stick down upon Tom's back.

Riddle's eyes opened, his breathing coming to a calm, steady rhythm, his face passive of emotion. His destiny was clear as he recalled the first reason why. He wanted to remember what made him choose this path, what made him choose a destiny bound by blood-right.He had long kept it buried, often lost within him. But he had found it again: his purpose.

For years he endured cruelty and callousness for being unlike the others. When the other children weren't alienating him, the muggle caretakers were ridiculing him, and often attempting to correcthim through physical punishment. He spoke out against them when child services visited the orphanage, but the government man in the tan coat left with a few pounds in his pocket and Riddle was only punished harder. All of them were the same, right to the very core. Slytherin's gift had frightened them, but had protected him.It had empowered him. Slytherin would be honored to have an heir so worthy. This was his birthright and the beginning of his rise to power. He would commit well to it.

Riddle continued to flip through the diary, reliving his memories of arriving to the wizarding school.

During his first year at Hogwarts, Tom stayed throughout the Christmas holidays. He had nothing to return to at the orphanage. Everything that he was and would be rested within the castle. Everything he couldbe was here, in Hogwarts, and within the Wizarding World. It was the first place he likened to a home.

On Christmas morning, he had been greeted with baked goods from the kitchens, a house scarf, and a new book all wrapped neatly and addressed to him underneath the bristly tree of the Slytherin common room, courtesy of the Hogwarts staff. From what he could observe, the few other students that had stayed at the castle for the holidays had received the same courtesy.

A new robe and tart sweeties rested at the foot of Tom's bed come December 31st—a birthday gift from Slughorn no doubt; he had taken a liking to him. When night came, he snuck out of his dorm and into the astronomy tower. He watched the stars twinkle in the clear, night sky like a thousand floating candles. Below, a foot of snow blanketed the grounds, partially covering the frozen Great Lake. The air had been crisp and chilled, and the sky glowed with starlight for him alone. The world's meager gift to him for turning twelve, he liked to believe.

It was nearing midnight, the beginning of a new year. As he sat, his back leaning against the stone wall, he watched his breath fill the air in shallow puffs. He heard the screeching of a bird pierce the night. Before he could lean over the balcony to locate the creature, a large, tawny owl flew through the open balcony and landed before him, a rectangular parcel tied with string clutched in its strong talons.

Tom removed the package carefully. The note card attached simply read, "Tom" in a neat, slanting script.With careful hands, he untied the string and unwrapped the package. It was a diary. He caressed the leather cover gently, admiring a level of craftsmanship he had never quite seen in anything that wasn't an article of clothing. He turned over the journal and saw his name, "Tom Marvolo Riddle,"embossed in metal plating on the back, shining in brilliant gold. It was an emblem that marked the bound pages as his and his alone—no one could claim it but him. He sat, placing the book in his lap before pulling his knees—and the diary—to his chest. He wrapped his arms tight around his legs and cradled himself from the biting cold. Tom looked back to the stars that shined just for him. The clock struck twelve.

…

As the following days passed, Tom busied himself with filling the blank pages of his diary. Wary of its content, he jinxed it so no one could open it without consequence. At breakfast the day before students would be returning from the winter holidays, Tom sat in the Great Hall quietly eating and pondering if that Malfoy boy would remember him from the semester before. Tom was pulled from his thoughts as he heard a scraping jingle of what sounded like loose change and candy wrappers in a pocket approaching his table.

"Write anything good lately?"Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling beneath his auburn eyebrows. Tom didn't answer, but it appeared that Dumbledore hadn't expected him to: the middle-aged wizard was already walking out of the Great Hall, a smile resting in his bearded face.

Riddle looked at the now closed diary in his hand as his mind returned to the present. The cover was slightly worn, but inside had been kept in pristine condition—the pages still straight as an arrow. Riddle lifted the serpent mask to his face and secured it with a charm. He could hear the basilisk coiling and uncoiling behind him impatiently. He took a deep breath, and pushed the few concerns that attempted to plague him. Riddle strode to the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets and hissed, open. The vault-like door began clicking as a stone snake worked its way around the out rim of the barrier, unlocking it. The door opened fully to the darkness that lay just beyond.

With the diary clutched in one, Riddle lifted his other and pointed.

"Kill."

Hermione raced through the corridors and up the stairs in an effort to reach the Gryffindor House common room. Her chest ached and each breath was sharp as it tore into her throat. The air felt colder than usual, as though it were more than a draft slipping in through the open corridors. Dark Magic.She remembered that feeling. It had plagued her during the battle at the Ministry of Magic. It was heavy and oppressive like summer heat, but icy as a winter wind. The basilisk was on the move.

In the distance, she saw students still in gowns and suits clamoring into the open portrait of the Fat Lady. The Fat Lady mumbled her discontent whenever a student bumped into her frame too roughly. Nearly believing her own lie she had told Slughorn, Hermione initially looked for Christopher alone—or the wolf mask that had been hiding his face from view at the masquerade. Instead of Christopher, she saw a large figure holding a bear mask in his hand. Hagridand Minerva stood not so far behind him, looking disheveled, but safe, nonetheless. She let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding and rushed over to them.

"Hagrid! Minerva!" she called out. Over the bustle of students and prefects shouting their commands, Hermione's voice went unheard. She shoved her way into the crowd and grabbed Hagrid roughly by the sleeve of his coat. He turned around to her.

"'Ermione! What're ye doin' here?" he bellowed. Immediately the prefects descended on her.

"I must ask you to please return to your respective common room. Dumbledore's orders," a freckle-faced boy told her.

"I have permission to be here," Hermione retorted, still gripping onto Hagrid and refusing to let him go.

"By whom, may I ask?" The boy cocked his head to the side, waiting for her reply.

"Horace Slughorn," Hermione replied, still coaxing Hagrid from the crowd. At this point Minerva turned around to see the exchange.

"I hardly think that Slughorn's words override that of Dumbledore's, Miss… Sivad, is it? You're Slughorn's new pet project aren't you? Is he grooming you nicely?" The boy asked lowly. Hermione gave the boy a look of disgust.

"Look, I just need a moment with Hagrid, it won't take long," she ground out, attempting to be civil.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. Now, come with me, Miss Sivad," the boy reached for her, but pulled his hand back with a yelp when it was hit with a flying, stinging spell. His head snapped in the direction from which the jinx originated.

"Oh, sod off, Corristan," Minerva snapped as she slid her wand back into the pocket of her Gryffindor robe which she wore overtop her masquerade gown. A shiny "P" badge rested on the breast pocket of her robe. "I'm a prefect also, and if anyone is causing a hindrance tonight it's you.Dumbledore's word is more valuable than Slughorn's, you say? What of your own, then? Who do you think Dumbledore will believe: you or I? Last time I checked, you are on your thirdfalse report. One more, and you may be put on suspension of your duties," Minerva said, challenging him.

"Fine, McGonagall. If any of us get into trouble tonight, it's on you," he said. "All right, everyone, into the common rooms and to your dormitories!" The Gryffindor students finished piling into the portal behind the Fat Lady before pulling it shut.

"Wow, Minerva, I didn't know you had it in you to jinx someone so openly," Hermione said, her eyes wide.

"I don't. I think it's the spiked cider talking. So much for being off duty tonight," Minerva said, her thumb and index finger massaging her forehead in frustration. Hermione shook her head, a smile ghosting her lips. She knew, deep down, that was allMinerva. She was always brave when it mattered most. "Anyway, what is that you need Hagrid for? I thought everyone is supposed to be going to their dorms right now?"

"They are. Something bad is happening Minerva… I can feel it, I just know it. I needed to find the two of you and make sure you were safe," Hermione said, worry seeping back into her skin.

"What else could possibly be wrong? If something else is going to happen, we need to tell Dumbledore or Headmaster Dippet right away," Minerva said as she tugged on Hermione's jumper sleeve, ushering her toward the hall. Hermione pulled back.

"Minerva, I believe Dumbledore already knows," Hermione said grimly. Albus Dumbledore wasn't a fool. She knew that in her time Dumbledore had always more than suspected the basilisk's terror as Riddle's doing. She saw how the wizard watched Riddle occasionally: closely and with deep concern in his eyes. Dippet may be oblivious, but Dumbledore was not.

"If Dumbledore knows, then what is there to worry about?" Minerva asked. Hermione knew she couldn't explain the situation to them. Hopefully, she could end it all before the events even began and she wouldn't have to.

"I'm just paranoid," Hermione said, "I can't find Christopher." Minerva's brow creased with worry and Hagrid shifted his weight from foot to foot in unease. "I was hoping one of you would know where he is. Aviela is safe—she's in the Ravenclaw common room, but Christopher never arrived."

Minerva shifted from foot to foot, wracking her brain for an inkling of where he may be.

"I remember seein' him walkin' down the hallway on the first floor," Hagrid said. "It looked like he was walkin' towards the Slytherin common rooms. Not too sure 'bout that, though."

"Why would he be going there?" Minerva asked Hagrid. Hermione didn't have it in her to tell Minerva he had been spending more time with the Riddle and Malfoy lately. She knew that Minerva wouldn't be comfortable with the idea—especially with danger looming on the horizon.

"I'll go find out. Just, whatever happens—the both of you—stay here in the common room. I'll make sure to message you somehow when I find him," Hermione said.

"But, Hermione, if you get caught—"

"Slughorn gave me permission. I shouldn't have any trouble. It'll be okay, just… stay here." Hermione needed to find Christopher. With each second that passed, the hallways grew colder, the air more constricting. Minerva nodded to her and Hagrid patted her on the back, worry plaguing his large, brown eyes. Hermione disillusioned herself and casted a silencing spell around her before running through the corridor and back down the ever-shifting staircases. Minerva and Hagrid watched until she disappeared from sight.

Minerva provided the password to the Fat Lady and entered the common room foyer.

"Hagrid?"

"Yes, Minnie?" Hagrid asked.

"What in Merlin's name was Hermione wearing on her feet?" Minerva asked before closing the portrait shut behind them. What an odd set of trainers they were, indeed.

A/N: Thanks so much for sticking around! You all are the reason why I came back. I also added this story on Archive of Our Own. My username and story name are the same-so check it out there and let me know if you dropped by from here if you have a preference for AO3!

As always, please review, follow, and show this story some love! It lets me know if I am doing this fanfic thing right again.

Constant Vigilance!

-VS