Chapter Thirty-two:
The Secret Society of Slytherins

It was weeks later, when talk of the death of Professor Binns had slowly begun to subside, that Tom confronted me on a subject of which I had become wary.

For a time, I had become nigh what one would call a celebrity. Human beings, I knew, were morbid creatures, who delighted in the gossip of death and destruction, and so the retelling of what I had discovered—exactly as I had discovered it—seemed to turn into a highlight of my peers' conversation. In the beginning, I had enjoyed the attention, as anyone relatively unpopular might. Yet soon, I grew weary of recounting my horrific adventure, and there was no longer any pleasure to it as the words rolled automatically from my mouth, as though they left blisters upon my tongue.

-

One afternoon during Ancient Runes, I felt a slip of parchment being Banished into my lap as I contemplated the translations that had been assigned. Startled, I glanced about; after several moments of searching had passed, I looked at Tom, who was seated beside me. There were very few seventh years who had decided to take the subject, and so members of the four Houses who chose to do so were combined into a single class.

Unexpectedly, I discovered that Tom had been looking at me for what seemed to have been quite some time, and when our gazes met, his expression became meaningful. Comprehending, I plucked the parchment from my lap and commenced to discreetly untold it. I looked to Tom once more, but he had returned his attention to the assignment.

You have asked me of this before, it read, and that is why I feel I must tell you that it is my intention to hold another Death Eater meeting.

He had explained to me in passing once that this was the name he had chosen for his secret society of Slytherins. The ones who called him "Lord Voldemort." The initials, I had noted, were to same as the letters which had been the heading of the list of names I had found.

Those present will be the same as before, it continued. I frowned. Upon further inspection, the parchment upon which the note had been written seemed to have been torn from something.

-

This time, it is I who interrupts my tale as I pause, remembering. "I do not believe," I say, "that I mentioned before what it was that I did to the diary I found and gave to Tom so many years ago."

Albus stirs, and I notice the glint of curiosity flickering through his blue eyes. "Indeed, Ms. Riddle, I have been wondering that very thing myself," he admits easily, as though he has been anticipating his reply far longer than it has taken me to voice this statement.

I nod, feigning that I have not noticed this. "It began just as it appeared to be at first glance, of course: simply a blank diary. Or perhaps by that time, all traces of ink would have long-since vanished. No matter the case, however, the sole aspect that made it more than ordinary was the heavy preservation charm upon the diary itself, though it had begun to weaken from the dankness in which it was for centuries stored."

I pause for a moment, then continue. "It was initially the remaining fragments of this charm that had such an effect upon it after I began to tamper with it. It was stronger magic than I expected, I admit; in truth, I did little magic of my own. My first spell was one that merely resulted in the invisibility of words after they had first been written." I furrow my brow in sudden thought.

"No, invisibility was simply my intent. The spell fused with that which was preexisting, so that when penned, the letters left the surface entirely and seeped into…" I struggle to find an appropriate word. "Into the very heart of it. The writing was stored there, rather than upon the parchment itself. If it was so desired, a single page would be used an infinite amount of times, and would never have been filled.

"It was a different matter to read the diary then, however. Common revealing spells would not have brought forth what had been entered, though its writer—Tom—could view it with ease by simply opening the diary. It has been to long to recall the precise incantation I used, though I likely found it in the Restricted Section of the library—one of the few times I utilized it before my seventh year."

Suddenly, my eyes widen in remembrance. "Albus," I begin slowly, "I believe that it was you who granted me permission to do so."

He chuckles softly, which greatly startles me. I have expected a reaction much different from this, and I know he realizes this, so he prompts, "Minerva was present as well. Yes, Ms. Riddle, I do recall that day in astute detail, though I am afraid that she distracted me from attending to you as perhaps I should have done."

"You could not have known how I intended to se it, Albus," I tell him, wondering if this is truly what he means, "or what the diary was to become. Even I did not know of such things at the time."

He remains silent, which indicates that our lines of thinking are indeed crossed, or were at least in the moment which just passed.

I have forgotten of Minerva being but two years my senior, and most especially that we had once encountered in Albus' former classroom. She has become a ghost in my memory, as though my mind has attempted to obliterate her from it entirely. I do not remember if I ever spoke to her before or after it.

Wrenching myself from these thoughts, I return to those which had originally come into my mind.

"Anyone other than Tom would have had to have known how to look at the diary: how to handle it. When I presented it as a gift to Tom, it was assured that to be read, a wand would be required to be pointing directly into its spine. To reveal the writing, a nonverbal spell was needed—a spell which had no exact verbal counterpart."

"I trust, then," Albus says, speaking at last, "that this particular spell was of your own creation? In the past, there were rumors of an Unspeakable with similar abilities. I have heard this was quite an accomplishment, something her fellows could never quite master." He nods nigh respectfully to me, and I flush at the subtle compliment. Albus is the only one who remembers my former occupation.

"Yes," I reply, flustered but pleased in spite of myself. "Although I am sure you yourself could boast of such talents."

"Yet never so well as their inventor," he deflects, smiling gently. "And perhaps not as much as I might like. Though that is a matter I am sure will unravel itself in due course."

I nod in agreement. "For the present, however…"

"Continue, by all means," he prompts, and I comply.

-

Instantly, I recognized the shape and thickness of the parchment, realizing that it had been taken from Tom's diary. My frown increased as I watched the lettering fade until the mottled surface was once more blank. I dipped the tip of my quill into an inkwell, and in response inquired, When is it to take place? With a flick of my wand, the parchment had folded itself and flown into Tom's awaiting hand.

We continued in this manner for some time, our translations temporarily forgotten. When the note was returned to me for the second time, I was satisfied to see that the words which had formerly disappeared now gleamed at me as though they were still freshly penned. Beneath my own queries he responded and by the time a quarter of an hour had come to pass, I was preparing to attend another Death Eater meeting, this time in the Slytherin common room, for the former meeting place they had unintentionally rendered inaccessible. My heart momentarily flared into a nervous flutter at the prospect of once more facing those who viewed me with obvious dislike, yet as if reading my thoughts, his fingers brushed against mine.

"They will look upon you as one of them now," he whispered, abandoning the parchment to speak aloud. "Yet soon they will learn they are mistaken: their worth is nothing to compare to yours."

That night after completing our duties as Head Boy and Girl, Tom and I met at the top of the staircase which led to the dungeons below. The corridors had quieted, as the curfew had already passed, and our footsteps echoed in our cavernous surroundings. Even if Tom had not led me through the darkened passages, I could easily have found my way, so many times I had come to traverse them

Just as we passed through the entrance of the Slytherin common room, our ears were met with snatches of argued conversation. I scanned the room, and after a moment, my gaze fell upon a small group encircling a chair, the back of which faced us. Swiftly, Tom strode toward them, noiselessly coming to stand behind the boy who appeared to be the one speaking. Tentatively, I crept closer until I was able to hear what was being said. To my surprise, in the chair sat a sullen-looking girl, who was glaring at the boy as he snarled at her.

"What is this, Abraxas?" Tom inquired coolly, and the boy froze.

After recovering, he gestured to the girl. "It's Prince," he sneered, his face flushed. "Thinks she's good enough to stick around when everyone else has gone to bed like they've been told." The girl said nothing, and it seemed that indeed she had yet to open her mouth at all.

"The others have left, then?" Tom asked, drawing me to his side.

"Yes, Lord Voldemort," Abraxas confirmed. "All except this filthy excuse for a Pureblood." I feared that he would spit upon her.

Tom considered for a moment, then at length said, "Allow her to remain if she so chooses."

Abraxas laughed uneasily. "The captain of the Gobstones team hardly has a place here. And I wouldn't put it past her to betray—"

"Then her memory can be easily be modified," Tom cut in evenly, and the boy looked defeated.

"Of course," he nodded quietly.

Tom's eyes lingered upon the girl briefly, and I realized that he was evaluating her in some way. From the faint expression that glinted within his eyes, it seemed that she found truth in the boy's words. Disinterested, he turned and walked to another place in the common room, and the group—save the girl—followed.

When I seated myself beside him, all eyes were instantly drawn to me as they had been the first time, though Druella Rosier, I noticed, remained silent. At length, it was an older boy who spoke.

"She is here with you again?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course. There is no reason for her not to be."

After that, as Tom had assured me would occur, they queried no further and seemed to accept my presence among them. There was little more talk at first, for Tom had fallen into a silence that indicated he was thinking, and out of respect, they did not interrupt this. It was for me uncomfortable to sit in such absence of conversation—though on a usual occasion, I might have relished it—yet the remaining Slytherins were at ease, as though they had grown accustomed to it.

"We convened last in December," he said at last, and there was a great stirring amongst the group as they each looked up at him. "And the results were as satisfying as I could have desired. I apologize for the length of time it has taken to tell you this; there were other matters that needed to be attended to."

I wondered at what these matters had been, knowing that few of them had likely involved me. Yet we had not been apart for great amounts of time, so it was difficult to imagine what he had done and when he had found an opportunity to do it. From the curious expressions splashed across the faces around me, it was apparent that they too desired to know, though not even I would ask into it.

"I have also called this meeting for reasons more than simply praise," he continued, gazing at each of us in turn. We listened, enraptured, as he told us of what he had planned. At first, I had expected something similar in nature to the burning of Hogsmeade, yet I was surprised to discover that this was not so. Instead, he discussed with us matters that went beyond Hogwarts, after he and our fellow seventh years had left the school.

As the night pressed on, he informed us of his desire to return as a teacher, much to my astonishment, and indeed that of the others as well. Yet it made perfect sense, the more I pondered it, for what better way would there be to collect and train followers of himself and the Dark Arts? Although, I found it strange that he had gained work from Mr. Burke when it was his intention to follow a different occupation. He was planning something else that he chose not to divulge, or was preparing for something, I did not know which.

My mind drifted from this and I returned my attention to Tom, who seemed to be approaching the conclusion of his speech.

"It is my hope," he was saying, "that each of you will educate as many as possible, whilst we have temporarily gone our separate ways. If you are successful, you will return to me when the time is right, and we will have the strength to force our intentions into reality."