A/N: Hey all, it's Yule Ball time. Thank you to Sachita especially for the reviews, and everyone who favorited. This chapter isn't that funny, but I tried to insert enough cuteness to compensate. Hope you guys like it!

The bathroom hadn't changed much, Riddle noted, as his footsteps echoed on the dirty tiles. Quite literally, it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since the little accident he'd brought about in his sixth year. He had never meant to kill the girl; he was well aware of what would stem from actual casualties. His inner sadist was content with Petrification.

Oh well. It wasn't very important anyway.

A whisper of parseltongue and a long slimy ride later, Riddle found himself in the all-too familiar surroundings of the Chamber. Seeing it again strengthened his resolve to renovate it. While he was at it, a decent entrance would be nice too.

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

The stone mouth opened, but no basilisk emerged. Riddle frowned. Surely someone couldn't have been there before him? And what good would it be? As far as he knew, he was the only heir of Slytherin... As if in answer to his question, a flutter of wings prompted him to draw his wand and wheel around, with a cry of "Immobulous!"

Lowther hung suspended in mid-air, frozen in flight, eyes livid. It was a most fitting moment for a dramatic soundtrack.

"Where is the basilisk?" Riddle demanded coldly, not realizing in his heated anger that toucans don't talk.

Surprisingly, Lowther answered. "I don't know." His voice was high-pitched and hoarse, with the scratchy feel of a gramophone recording.

"Why are you helping Dumbledore?" Riddle asked, anger still in full flow. "Tell the truth."

"I'm not," the bird replied.

"Liar," he sneered. "We really must teach you a little honesty, Lowther. Crucio!" As he cast the spell, he allowed the bird to drop to the Chamber floor, writhing in agony, terminating the spell after what seemed to Lowther to be ages. "The truth, Lowther," Riddle said again.

The bird stirred and spoke, voice hoarse from screaming. "I'm just trying to get rights for sentient magical beings."

It seemed to Riddle to be the most ludicrous thing he'd heard in a long time, and he'd heard quite a few. The most preposterous (albeit amusing) had been Cygnus Black's insistence that he had not missed the Death Eater meeting, he had acutally been there, and Riddle hadn't seen him simply because there was a large column in the dining room obstructing his view. He deserved points for creativity; they had met that particular evening in a graveyard, in an open plot of land. The stupidity of people often was appalling.

"You're telling me a doorknob I transfigured into a toucan hardly two weeks ago is a sentient being."

"I'm not the same toucan!" Lowther explained. "I'm actually a variety native to the amazon, known for qualities akin to Felix Felices, a potion I'm sure you're familiar with."

"I knew it," Riddle murmured. "So why are you in Hogwarts, and how did you get here?"

"All in good time. But Dumbledore is as guilty as other wizards of disrespecting magical creatures. He'll have his in due time."

"I'll let you live for now," Riddle said carefully. "If I catch you spying on me one more time, though, I will not restrain myself."

Lowther needed no other admonishment. He flew away, a toucan-shaped cloud in his wake.

Riddle looked for the basilisk, finding it curled up inside the mouth, too lazy to emerge. "I don't suppose you have that old diary of mine?"

Minerva's Chambers

A quick shower later, Riddle -devoid of any incriminating evidence of visiting dangerous magical creatures in a Chamber that was supposed to be sealed- paid Minerva a visit. He knocked on the door, smiling charmingly when she opened it. "I thought I'd pay a visit."

"Come in," she said, turning and grabbing a brush. "I'm just getting ready for tonight."

"Why don't I help?"

"If that's a dirty implication I'm ignoring it," Minerva said, "and besides, Pomo-"

"Is that what you're wearing?" He pointed at the conservative tartan dress hanging from the wardrobe doors.

"Yes, what's wrong with it?" she asked quizzically.

"Everything." Minerva frowned as he crossed to her closet. "I refuse to be seen with you if you insist on dressing like a woman twenty years your senior."

"You won't find anything to your liking," Minerva said smugly. "I make a point of only buying standard outfits."

"We'll see," Riddle said archly. He proceeded to wrench open the wardrobe doors, examining her dresses.

"Tom! Are you seriously rifling through my clothes?" Her voice was incredulously exasperated.

"Be thankful I'm not rifling though what you're wearing right now." He was sure to keep his voice smoothly casual, but a hint serious. Minerva blushed furiously, sputtering, as Riddle turned, smiling mischeviously at her over his shoulder. "What? I'm just being honest. It's been.. on my mind."

"Out of my room. If you're going to be disgusting, out of my-"

Riddle laughed, interrupting her mid-tirade, imprisoning her hands between them as he enveloped her in a hug. "Calm down." She struggled, twisting against him. Clearly she had no intentions of obeying. "I said calm down, Minerva. I was only teasing." His arms tightened around her. "Why do you insist on hiding your figure behind such hideous-"

"Have you quite finished dictating what I'm to wear?" Minerva snapped. "And I'd appreciate the use of my arms."

Riddle dipped his head, intending to kiss -and effectively silence- her when the door opened. Minerva smirked. "Oh, didn't I tell you Tom? Pomona will be helping me get ready for tonight. You must not have been listening." She smiled sweetly, placing her palms on his chest and pushing a very stunned Riddle away as his grip slackened. Sprout tried not to giggle as she watched.

"I don't want to interrupt, Minerva," she said, her voice choked from withheld laughter. "Go on."

Riddle brushed past the two women, pride severely wounded. He tried valiantly to cover it up. "Surprise me, Minerva. Sprout, please make sure she doesn't wear anything too... fifties."

Sprout frowned, confused. "But it is the fifties."

"No, I meant in terms of age." He left the room, slamming the door behind him loudly.

"Don't break the door," Minerva called after him. "I can't help it if you're a control freak." She and Pomona exchanged looks and laughter, cut short when Riddle replied without missing a beat.

"No, that's for later tonight." And then, under his breath, "I win."

Minerva turned red. Again. "And this round goes to Tom," Sprout chortled. "You two aren't... intimate already, are you?"

"Certainly not," Minerva said briskly. "Don't insult me." She looked ruefully at her violated wardrobe. "Now Pomona -and I say this with no intention of sounding cliche- what on Earth do I wear?"

Sprout examined the clothes with mercifully clean hands. "Whatever looks nice. Let's start, shall we?"

Yule Ball

Riddle was not the type to pace anxiously while waiting. Nevertheless, he found himself doing so as he waited by the stairs for Minerva and Sprout. Sprout's very existence threw his calculations off. He couldn't use his multiple personas and cater to what each would expect, not if she were to become a permanent fixture. That would be contradictory, and Minerva would never go along with anythign even remotely twisted -magically speaking, of course. Since Minerva was the mark, however, and he was already two weeks in, he decided to go along with his original guise. He just had to get through the holidays, and the Death Eater's Youth Movement- oops, Hogwarts dueling club- could begin. He'd have to keep a close eye on Dumbledore as well, as the old man was likely keeping a close eye on him keeping a close eye on Dumbledore keeping a close eye on him keeping a close eye on Dumbledore... It was rather circular in concept. He didn't think Minerva would be reporting the details of their encounters to the headmaster; she was far too proper, even prudish, for that -though their rendezvous that morning and afternoon cast doubt on that. Regardless, he'd rather not give the man too much of a show. Slughorn, on the other hand... it always helped to have a supporter, even if the supporter in question was a most irritating specimen of walrus. And of course there was Sprout. She would likely be Minerva's confidante, if she wasn't already, and therefore would also have to be added to the "watch list." These thoughts on his mind, he waited by the banister, drumming his fingers against the polished wood in his impatience.

Minerva and Sprout descended the stairs in a most brisk, business-like manner for two women attending a ball. They were apparently deep in conversation, or were perhaps merely having a bitch-fest about the trials of being a chaperon. It was a tough call. Riddle's back was to them, but the sounds of their approach caused him to turn around and observe Minerva appraisingly. If her intent had been to thwart him by dressing unfashionably, she had miserably failed. Her dress was empire-waisted red crepe, stopping shortly below her knees. The neck was wide, with the appearance of being perilously close to slipping from her shoulders, and the sleeves were superficial flutters of sheer crepe. There was little embellishment, save a star-like gold ornament, appearing to hold up the gathers of her dress, allowing them to drape smoothly. The column of her neck was devoid of jewelry, and her sloping shoulders were bare, as her dark hair was pulled up into a French twist instead of her usual bun. As she turned her head to talk to Sprout, a loose curl fell across her collarbone, along with the ribbon tassel holding the hair up, bright red against the sable. Riddle was rather taken aback. As she neared him, he noticed she had even applied light makeup, and a delightfully fresh scent of citrus lingered in the air around her. He must have appeared sufficiently astounded, as Minerva laughed, saying, "Surprised?"

"If I say yes, it'll seem as though I don't find you this beautiful every day. If I say no, you'll accuse me of lying," Riddle replied. "I'll avoid the question entirely."

"And I'll take it as a compliment," Minerva said, winking at Sprout. "You know Pomona picked this out. Doesn't she have wonderful taste?"

"Certainly." Riddle inclined his head in Sprout's direction.

"You look nice as well," Minerva said, eyes flicking quickly over his body. "Very... dapper, I should say."

"Thank you." Riddle had never been a fan of dress robes -the styles for men were never very appealing, and bordered on effeminate, with all that lace- and he had opted for a black suit, leaving off the tie because damn it, dark lords are too good for ties. He offered Minerva his arm.

She took it, smiling. "Darling, aren't you going to complement Pomona, too?"

Riddle raised his eyebrows, a sardonic grin playing around his lips. "But I'm not obligated to like I am for you, minette." He turned to Sprout. "Pomona," he began. The name seemed so foreign. He looked for something to complement.

Sprout -or Pomona, as he'd better get used to thinking of her- had showered, which in itself vastly improved her appearance. She had also worn a periwinkle blue ensemble, with just enough embellishment to set off her rather sparkly blue-grey eyes. But there was something very distracting about the getup...

"Pomona," he tried again, "what a lovely..." He cast around for something to complement, and landed on the single thing he couldn't- "plant." Mentally, he cursed himself.

Pomona raised her hand to the live daisy that appeared to have been uprooted moments ago. "Thank you. I love the earthy feel. And it's lovely having a daisy in winter." She gestured. "Shall we go in?"

Riddle walked in with Minerva, who seized the opportunity to whisper with more glee than was fair, "Plant? Really, Tom?"

"Stop breathing in my ear."

"Oh, it bothers you? Here." She raised herself onto her tiptoes, and blew in his ear quite deliberately.

Riddle turned his head quickly, and their noses brushed. "Stop."

She smiled, sweetly. "Make me," she whispered. She let go of his arm, and hurried over to Pomona, waving him over as the teachers were divided up into separate areas of the hall, and they waited for the students to arrive.

Three hours of handing out drinks to students and breaking up overzealous couples, Riddle frowned at his wineglass in distaste. "Problem?" Minerva asked.

"Obviously."

"What's the problem?" she pressed.

"This entire party. For the students." He snorted derisively.

"Dance with me. It'll take your mind off of-"

He looked around. "What happened to 'I don't want anyone to know about this?'" he asked. "And why aren't you with Pomona?" Minerva shrugged and gestured to the dance floor, where Pomona was doing a lively jig with a couple of professors, and took another sip from her glass.

"She's dancing. Like she's supposed to." Minerva drained her glass and attempted to set it on the table, missing it by several inches. Riddle hastily caught it, looking at Minerva with concern. She couldn't be...

"Are you drunk?" He kept his voice low, catching her elbow as she swayed.

"Certainly not," she snapped. Riddle didn't believe her. He leaned in, still holding her elbows, and inhaled slowly.

"You smell like firewhiskey." He found himself a bit relieved; he had found her "proper" thing a bit tiresome. "I'll take you to your room."

She pulled herself up to him, arms around his neck for support. "No, you're going to dance with me. I won't buy any 'I can't dance' excuses either, Tom, so move it."

Riddle was horrified with himself. He seemed to be growing morals. Ordinarily, if placed in this situation, every fiber of his being would be screaming for him to take full advantage of the fact that she was wasted and make her commit to anything via unbreakable vow, be it sabotage, treachery, or even something as random as crocheting. But for some mortifying reason, doing that to Minerva while she was drunk seemed... wrong. No, not wrong, he amended, too easy. A copout. Yes, he wasn't turning sensitive, he was just looking for the easy way out. Well, he couldn't have that. She'd surely see through it at some point, and then sabotage it in any way she could. She was a remarkable witch, after all. So instead of doing what the Voldemort of two weeks ago would have done, Riddle allowed Minerva to pull onto the dance floor, telling himself firmly whatever grief he would get for it later was for the greater good.

"Are you fit to dance?" he asked, placing one hand on her waist and taking the other in his own. "You're definitely not seeing straight, my eyes are a little higher up." He tilted her face up and their eyes met.

"Shut up, Tom. I'm perfectly fine. Now," she said, taking his shoulder, "waltz, or polka?"

"Are you coordinated enough for either?"

"Polka it is," she said, as though she hadn't heard. Riddle endured the dance, preoccupied with her sobriety, or lack thereof. She seemed fine, though, and perfectly comfortable with even some of the closer dances, something he hadn't expected of her. Perhaps she was a social drinker, and alcohol merely loosened her up? He couldn't say, though it seemed to be the case. Minerva was surprisingly graceful, even in her semi-intoxicated state, and they drew Dumbledore's attention more than once. Riddle was sure to appear attentive, which wasn't difficult, concerned as he was that she would lose balance and fall, but nothing of consequence happened. As they danced, Riddle looked around and for the first time appreciated the Great Hall, made festive for the holidays. The glistening candles, the streamers of tinsel, the strategically charmed ice sculptures, and even the students, formally dressed in various bright shades, brought a cheerful, warm ambiance to the room. Minerva looked quite at home in her surroundings, cheeks pink and eyes twinkling. After their fourth dance, she threw her arms around his neck, laughter coming in short gasps from the exercise.

"Let's stop, I'm going to pass out."

"I'm impressed that you haven't already," Riddle said, taking her hand and brushing his lips against it as he noticed Slughorn out of the corner of his eye. "How many shots of firewhiskey did you have again?"

"Seven, and I'm perfectly fine," she replied. "Don't pretend you didn't have as many. Walk with me?"

"I have, but unlike you, I can handle it. And I will, but only because you can't walk straight," he said, his arm around her waist again. "Let's check the grounds. Remember, not too long ago we were prefects catching amorous underlings in broom cupboards, and I won't be surprised if we catch students at it tonight."

"Yes," Minerva agreed, looking at him from under her lashes. "Balls always were breeding grounds for... regrettable behaviour." She looked at him meaningfully.

Riddle passed it off with a laugh. "Merlin, you are drunk, Minerva. You wouldn't be talking this way if you weren't."

"I told you I'm fine, Tom," she said with annoyance. "What's the matter with you? You're not yourself tonight."

"You're telling me," Riddle said, smiling. "I just don't want you to make a fool of yourself while intoxicated." To further his cause, he added in a hopefully sincere tone, "I'm worried about you."

She smiled. "That's so sweet." Her smile became mischevious. "And so unlike you."

"I have my moments." My artificial, fabricated moments.

They were in the moonlit courtyard, cleared of snow and decorated with roses, poinsettias, and holly. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were green, a most beautiful green generated when he cast the killing curse. How ironically perfect.

"You certainly do," she said softly, lips slightly parted. A cool breeze lifted the few hanging curls from her shoulders, and she wrapped her arms around herself, stepping closer to him. As though he were a walking cliche, Riddle pulled off his coat, draping it over her shoulders as she pulled herself to him.

"Wait," he said suddenly. He strode over to a bush, muttered a quick "Diffindo!" and effectively humiliated the formerly unabashed -and miraculously unfrozen- fifth years. "Cadwallader, Macleod, get inside now. Detention to both of you, this Saturday." Ah, the joys of authority.

"I'll be happy if we don't see any more," Minerva remarked, as they walked through the courtyard after catching five more couples. "It feels almost hypocritical."

"Not really. Teenagers are notorious for this crap." He shrugged. "The difference between the smart ones and the dumb ones is getting caught."

"You speak like one with personal experience," Minerva said coyly. "Elaborate?"

"I don't think so." They stopped near the fountain. "Shall I leave you with Pomona?"

"No, but thank you."

"Should I leave you at your room?"

"That would be preferable."

"Shall I kiss you goodnight now, or later?"

"Now, if you please."

He had only intended a quick kiss, so Minerva took him by surprise when she showed him she had no such intentions. Behind a veil of green ivy, they conducted themselves like the students they had reprimanded moments ago. Finally Riddle broke away, resting his forehead against hers. "Merry Christmas, Minerva."

"Merry Christmas, Tom." Together they returned to the hall, where she ended up leaving with Pomona after all. "Good night," she said, waving casually as she and Pomona walked up the stairs to their chambers.

"Same to you," Riddle replied. Once he was back in the sanctity of his room, away from the chaos of house elves tidying up, he restrained himself from banging his head against a wall.

What the hell just happened?

A/N: Ahahahaha. TBC on Voldy's thoughts on this matter. Hope y'all enjoyed it, this was hot off the presses, fresh and unedited because dammit I really wanted to write a Yule Ball chapter! Again, not sure where I'm going with this so suggestions are always welcome. Have a good weekend! And be so kind as to click that little review button there.