I'm back! Life has settled down on my end a bit and after taking some time away from writing in general, I felt myself finally able to put my ideas together and finish up this chapter.

In the time I've spent away, I have had opportunity to think over the story I'm trying to tell. While none of the real fundamentals/end goals have changed, things will deviate from my original ideas slightly moving forward. Probably not very noticeable on the reader's end, but I thought I'd make that clear here and now anyway.

Still, I'm really glad to be back writing again and I just wanted to say thank you everyone for your patience and for reading this story at all. Ratings and Reviews are all welcome and appreciated, so please do so if you find yourself wanting to. I love any and all feedback.

Happy to be back,

-S.K.

Tom Riddle wasn't ever a man that felt for others. He hardly felt at all in that regard to be precise. He wasn't born with that level of emotional empathy. He didn't care because he couldn't care. Not like others seemed to. This wasn't to say that Tom was without emotions entirely. He had them. Anger, resentment, fear, misery. He could find joy in the little things alongside his great achievements, different as they were to what most would find joyous. Tom was apathetic toward anything not directly related to his own goals and desires. What use did someone else's thoughts, feelings, and ideals have to benefit him?

Instead, Tom's focus was self-centered and singular. Like the prodigal child that Salazar Slytherin could have only dreamed of, he embodied one of the founding wizards core ideologies better than anyone before him. Tom was ambition incarnate. His desire for grandeur was more than just mere delusion. As far as he was concerned, it was inevitable truth. Tom Riddle was destined for greatness. The reign of Lord Voldemort could not be avoided.

The irony of his current form did not fall on deaf ears. And though Voldemort was — for all intents and purposes — Tom Riddle, he wasn't really the same. Ideologies, desires, end-goals, they were similar. But there was no method to his madness. With Voldemort, there was only madness. To those that cowered at the mere thought of him, he was a demon. Pure evil. But Tom was no mindless demon.

Tom Riddle was the Devil in disguise.

Not truly, of course. Still, Tom was more self-aware than most of his detractors gave him credit for — or, he was now at least. Voldemort had not been, and in his weakened state, Tom had been gifted enough time to reconcile that fact. Voldemort had been a stage of his life, but not his true self. It was a time that he could now reflect on and dissect. What else could he do?

After the night of Voldemort's downfall, Tom was unrecognizable. If Voldemort was already hardly human, then at that time Tom was hardly a living being at all. He was a broken spirit, seemingly hanging onto the land of the living off of sheer will alone. Instinctual, primal, savage. Survival was all he could afford to think on. Every thought, every action, every ounce of energy left within him was set on resting, consuming, healing, and growing. That level of consistent panic, for years, took a toll on him. That if he misstepped even once it could lead him to wither away and perish. A high-strung tension he wasn't sure would ever go away. It elicited a desire for change. A need for it. Voldemort could not take control again. He needed to be Tom Riddle if he had any hope of succeeding.

Eventually, his mind did recover. He felt stronger, more in control of himself. In fact, he felt more himself than he had in a very long time. Since before the name Voldemort had ever gained its infamy. That was when Tom felt memories returning, alive once more, if only partially. Oddly, the first emotion to consume him was not anger. It was sorrow spurred on by intense regret. They were feelings he could neither name nor process immediately. He had spent days going through the catalogs of feigned empathy he had learned to express in his efforts to manipulate more effectively. He had to put those emotions into words, like a child would attempt to explain to their parents. And then he had to figure what his response would have been to someone else explaining those same feelings to him. That was longest process. Not because he couldn't find a response. That had taken hardly a second to accomplish. But his responses made little sense to him. He was Lord Voldemort. He didn't feel sad. He didn't have regrets. That made him angry. A familiar feeling at last. But that heaviness at his core, it didn't go away. It weighed him down. More and more, his focus was fading. His work, the attempts at regaining as much strength as possible, was suffering, slowing. And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle felt… unambitious.

The alarm bells in his mind rang loud and clear when he realized that. Whatever those feelings were within him, they needed to be addressed. He knew were to start. Making what little preparations he could, he had figured out that the timing of his return to self-awareness was not ideal, but neither was it crippling to his efforts.

Her return to magical society was imminent by that point. That was a joy he had never known he could feel. It put a proverbial spring in hes step. She was magic. Of course she was magic. But that she could wield it was an improbability he thought could never come to pass. Tom knew he needed to insert himself within Hogwarts as quickly as possible. To ensure that she was… safe. Whole. That was the most important task. Everything else he could prepare in due time. Because that heaviness in his shattered soul was lightening with every passing second he came closer to reuniting with her.

Quirrell was happy to see that everyone had gathered on time. The children were sleeping in his classroom and he wanted to ensure he was back there well before they woke up. Luckily, the Dark Lord had allowed more than just a missive be sent to his subjects. He had summoned them here using the Dark Mark instead.

Sitting at a large table within an undisclosed home in a rural, undisclosed town, nine of the remaining loyalists to the Dark Lord sat staring at Quirrell or chatting briefly amongst themselves. It was a temporary location while Quirrell worked on securing a more permanent home for their meetings. The Dark Lord was particular about where he wanted to live when he returned.

"Are we to begin this meeting anytime soon, Quirinus?" Lucius was sat at the foot of the table, nearest the entrance to the somewhat dank and dusty room. Nearest to his left sat Narcissa, the pair of blonds staring intently at Quirrell. Beside Lady Malfoy sat the Carrow siblings, sister Alecto followed by her brother Amycus. And beside them, nearest Quirrell, was Corban Yaxley. On the other side of the long table sat four other individuals. The chummy veterans Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott mingled among themselves before hushing once Lucius spoke up. And finally, a face that many thought had long since perished. Even Lucius at one point considered him a traitor, but now he viewed him as one of the most loyal and capable members within their re-emerging organization. Regulus Arcturus Black. Not only had he proved fealty to the Dark Lord, but he had avoided Azkaban and gone into hiding, a feat his dear and good-hearted elder brother Sirius had failed to accomplish.

Quirrell stood at the head of the table. He dared not sit. Thought he carried the Dark Lord within him, he knew better than to overstep and presume himself worthy to sit at the head. Even if the Dark Lord allowed it, Lucius would certainly object. He'd rather keep things civil for now.

"Yes, of course, Lucius." There was no need to feign weakness in front of his peers, no need to gain sympathy via stutter nor quirk. "You were all summoned her today not by writ, but by mark." The room was still at the mention of the Dark Mark. Many experienced ghost pains during the long years that the Dark Lord was gone. But when that first summon finally happened just a few months prior, the terror in their hearts was like nothing they could have ever prepared for. Even Lucius, no matter how powerful and influential he had become, couldn't help but feel dominated and subservient when his Lord came calling. The Malfoys were king makers after all, and his king had returned.

"Our Dark Lord wishes to speak with you tonight. As you know, his return to this world without crutch," he said pointing to himself, "is on the horizon, fast approaching. But we have many plans to enact to facilitate that process. However, our Dark Lord wishes to speak individually with everyone here tonight about their respective roles within those plans."

"And will we hear directly from our Lord, or will we have to suffer your rotten mouth all night." Corban glared at Quirrell, evidently tired of hearing Quirrell speak about the Dark Lord with minimal evidence to support the claims that he had returned. In truth, they had all been skeptical about Quirrell and what he was telling them. The last few months had uprooted all of their lives and doubt was beginning to set in. Though, the summons via the Dark Mark should have left no doubt, Corban still mistrusted Quirrell.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott chuckled at Corban's harsh words before Lucius went to quiet them down, but he didn't need to. They were all left stunned, a cold shiver running down there spines. Corban yelled in excruciating pain, clutching at his arm. They all knew what that was. They had all messed up before and experienced it. Punishment for defiance. Noted. Quirrell had the mark as well, he had shown it to them all before to secure some level of initial trust. They knew now that if any spoke out of line, including Quirrell, the punishment would be swift and merciless. Corban's head made a loud thump against the wooden table. He was unconscious. The pain had overwhelmed his body. It took a minute for him to awaken, a silent minute within which they simply watched him. No one dared to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing. They watched Corban's groggy and confused expression twist up as realization hit him. He stared at his Mark, then up at Quirrell before averting his gaze and landing it on the empty chair at the head of the table.

"Apologies, my Lord. Y-you will not see such disrespect again." Corban's voice was shaky. Everybody's Mark now ebbed with a dull pain, causing Corban to clench both fists in anticipation, before realizing that everyone was feeling it. Not punishment, but a clear warning. The pain faded as Quirrell cleared his throat.

"I can assure you, Corban, that our Lord wishes to speak with you directly tonight. I only ask that you bear with me for a little longer while I go over pertinent information our Lord has asked of me to deliver to you." Quirrell smiled at Corban, the latter glaring at the professor with clear distaste but simply nodding in return.

"Fantastic!" Quirrell gazed now at the rest of the small group present here. "There are three things our Dark Lord wishes to address with you all as a group. The first is my Lord's reincarnation. Plans are already in motion, but my Lord wishes for more aid on the front lines. Alecto and Amycus." The siblings shared a glance and then turned again to Quirrell, nodding. "Good. You will learn more details soon, but to be brief, your job is to infiltrate and assimilate into Hogwarts. Alecto, you will take up the role of my previous position within Muggle Studies, and Amycus will be teaching the Care of Magical Creatures class. The figures currently in charge of these positions have been identified as the easiest to dispose of. And in Amycus's case, unquestioned access to the forbidden forest is always an advantage."

The siblings continued to nod along as Quirrell finished up on his first point. "It will be a difficult job and will require excellent subterfuge. Polyjuice potion will be provided consistently. I will keep it stored in a safe location that you will both have access to freely."

Taking that cue, Quirrell turned to Lucius. "Speaking of! Lucius. How is Professor Snape?" Lucius figured this was coming as soon as he heard the mention of potions involved in their Lord's plans. Severus was a glaring omission from those summoned to the meeting. In fact, he had not attended any meeting since the Dark Lord's return. Yet, it wasn't by choice. He had simply not been summoned. And for good reason.

"Do you trust him?" Quirrell pressed.

Lucius wasn't sure how to answer that. Severus was his closest friend. Of course he trusted him. He trusted him with his life. He trusted him with his family. But this? After all these years. After all his time spent under that justicar headmaster of Hogwarts, Lucius wasn't so sure anymore that he trusted Severus with the Dark Lord.

"Surely you would know better than I, Quirinus. You work along side him daily. Does my opinion truly matter in this-" There was immediate sweat at his brow as his arm clenched in unbelievable pain. Searing along his forearm, it spread like a wildfire throughout Lucius's body, crumpling him down in his chair. "Aaah!" His yell was guttural, visceral. Such a spike in sensation that he could feel his eyes starting to roll into the back of his head, lights dimming around him. But then the pain vanished, leaving him panting, slumped. Narcissa watched her husband suffering. Everyone did. But unlike the rest of them, she suffered alongside her beloved, watching him tortured for refusing to give up his dearest friend. She had to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes.

Lucius sat back up, hands shaking as he cleared the sweat from his brow and fixed his tousled hair. Narcissa reached out to aid him, but he swatted her hand away. He would not be weak now. He was punished for not answering. He had to accept that on his own and remain calm in the face of death for the lie he was about to commit to.

"I trust him, my Lord." To say anything else would be to sentence his friend to death. Lucius needed now only convince Severus of following the Dark Lord again. An easier task than saving him from his Lord's wrath. Narcissa's heart skipped a beat at the obvious lie. She knew it not to be true. She had seen the changes in Severus. She was aware that his heart was no longer on their side. But she would not contradict Lucius. And she would not let it show on her face. They were husband and wife. A united front, always.

"Very well," Quirrell smiled. "Lucius, you will be in charge of bringing Severus up to speed with what has been happening in our meetings. The Dark Lord and I will meet with him privately in a few days to set up the polyjuice production. Have him informed by then please." Lucius nodded at Quirrell, affirming that he understood his task.

"Excellent! Now on to the final topic at hand." Quirrell knew the first two points the Dark Lord had him announce were menial compared to what he was about to tell them. Of all the many changes Tom Riddle wanted to implement into the new Death Eaters, this was one he could not introduce slowly. She was too precious to let sit by the wayside any longer. And after the events from earlier, her powers needed controlling otherwise she hurt herself. He needed to return to the flesh and blood as quickly as possible. That was the goal. But Tom needed to ensure her safety until then as soon as possible.

"There is a child at Hogwarts, a child of great importance," Quirrell continued. A name immediately made it's way out into the damp air of the underground meeting room.

"Harry Potter…" Regulus whispered. But the room was quiet enough when Quirrell wasn't speaking that everyone heard it. The fact that Regulus was brave, or stupid, enough to utter the boy-who-lived's name in front of the Dark Lord was astonishing. There was a small gasp coming from the three men sat to the left of Regulus. Even Lucius squinted at the mention of the boys name in the presence of his Lord, preparing himself mentally for whatever putrid shriek Regulus was about to let out in response to his indiscretion. But it never came.

Instead, Quirrell chuckled. "Oh, dearest no, Regulus. Prophecies be damned, my friends. Yes, the boy needs eliminating. But the many watchful eyes guarding him are currently an issue we are incapable of facing head on, and will be unable to do so for some time. No, My Lord does not speak of Potter." Quirrell kept his eyes trained on Regulus, the corner of his lips upturning into a knowing smirk. "We speak instead of a lost child of the Ancient and Noble House Black."

Hermione woke up as a ray of the morning sunlight angled in just right from the half-closed drapes, illuminating the soft features of her waking visage. She brought a small hand up to cover her eyes, the brown irises enlarging as her pupils contracted against the bright light. Her neck was stiff, having slept sitting on the floor and leaning against one of the many cupboards in Professor Quirrell's classroom. She stretched her arms out attempting to sit up a little straighter before realizing that there was a weight on her lap. Hermione peered down. Pale blond hair that was almost white. A mean face even in his sleep, handsome as the young boy was. It made her chuckle how even in his dreams he was likely bossing others around. That was something she admired about the boy, however. As many issues as she had with him, Draco was a leader of people. He was much like his father in that regard. Status and name, he certainly had, but the aura that he gave was different from others in similar positions. He made you feel like his decisions could never be wrong, as if to follow him was to guarantee your own success. She understood why Pansy fawned over him so much, though she didn't quite agree with the deeper sentiments.

"I f-find it hard t-to b-b-believe that it w-was just a childish argument that s-started everything, M-m-mr. P-potter, b-but I'm not here t-to interrogate you." Professor Quirrell chuckled beside Harry. His laugh was a little odd, but it had a way of diffusing tension. "S-still, it m-m-must have b-been quite a s-stressful situation for M-m-miss Granger, for her magic to l-lash out the w-way it did."

"Is that common, Professor?" Neither Harry nor Quirrell seemed to have noticed that Hermione had awakened. They were sat at the Professor's desk discussing the events of the day before as Harry continued. "Losing control of your magic even after coming to Hogwarts?"

"I w-w-wouldn't call it c-common, b-but it can happen. Especially f-for young w-witches and wizards like yourself and M-m-miss Granger who grew up away f-from the m-m-magical w-world. The lack of p-p-parental guidance during the formative y-years as to m-m-magical control does lead some f-first and even s-second years to lose control occasionally. However, w-while it's difficult to say w-without having b-b-been there, from what y-you've told me I find m-m-myself w-wondering just how p-p-powerful a w-witch she may be destined to b-b-become. You and Draco w-were very lucky to not have b-been m-m-more severely injured."

This was lucky? Hermione couldn't fathom what being unlucky would have meant. She didn't dare try to imagine it. She could feel the clamminess in her palm at Professor Quirrell's insinuation to Harry. But what struck her oddly was his calling her powerful. She was smart, hardworking when she found the motivation, but powerful? That was something she never had been described as. The thought alone was a joke, surely. But why would the Professor lie to Harry like that? Why would he want Harry to believe her a potentially powerful witch? Or perhaps he wanted her scene as dangerous? Maybe he was out to isolate her as well. Maybe she was just destined to be alone. Maybe being alone was better…

That nearly white, blond hair shot up from her lap, the weight gone from legs — the warmth was… missed. But his groan immediately startled her out of her train of thought.

"Draco! Are your still hurt?!" She place a hand on his back, delicately, afraid to apply much pressure at all against him. Malfoy turned to her groaning again as he did, though not as pained as he had before.

"No, I… I think I'm fine. Just really sore." Her concerned expression, her touch, the thought of where his head had just been resting — he took a moment to himself to let the flush on his pale cheeks die down then slid himself back slowly to sit beside her.

"That's… That's good. I'm.. so glad," she whispered the last part. Hermione brushed some of her wild hair back behind her ear. She smiled now, but it was clear to Draco that she was only hiding her concern. There was no doubt to him that the guilt of what her magic had done to himself and to Potter was eating at her. Those damned belittling thoughts she had that served only to weaken her. But the magic she had displayed, it had terrified him, thought he would never admit it. He had never seen something like that, potential like that, form someone his age. But a power like hers didn't need doubt to keep it hidden away. It required confidence to tame it, the belief that she would not let it overwhelm her again.

Then her eyes became more resolute. "Draco, I'm s—"

"Don't be." Silver eyes glared at her. Draco wasn't going to accept any apologies from her today. Why was she always so quick to take the blame? Why was she okay with being degraded and shamed and bullied. Why was it okay for her to suffer? His thoughts were swarming in his mind. Realizations threatening to cloud his normally egocentric viewpoint. "Why do you let me bul—"

"Children! It appears you're f-feeling b-better, M-m-mr. M-malfoy?" Quirrell was pacing towards them, Harry moving ahead of him and stopping just in front of the seated pair.

"Good morning!" He seemed in a good mood. There wasn't much that seemed to faze the Potter boy.

"Good morning, Professor…" Then Malfoy turned briefly to Harry and nodded, "Potter. I'm feeling better. Just sore is all."

"Same for me. My back is quite stiff, but nothing a bit of rest won't take care of."

"Excellent! Good n-news indeed. The s-soreness should get b-b-better throughout the day. But as M-m-mr. Potter said, you both n-need your rest. I expect n-no Quidditch from either of you for at least a w-week." The pair made to complain to Quirrell but he quickly hushed them. "Gentlemen, I'm b-b-being lenient here. Y-you can either abide b-by that, or we can get a s-second recommendation from M-m-madam Pomfrey." The two immediately halted their protest. They didn't want Pomfrey knowing they had been injured, let alone a recommendation from her. The stubborn woman would sooner see them never fly again if she could, plus news of whatever accident they had would spread like wildfire, even with a nearly empty school. For Draco, that meant his father knowing that he had caused trouble the very moment he returned to school. That wasn't an option.

"Fine," they surrendered in unison.

There was a silence between them for a few seconds, an air of awkwardness that hung around the students. Quirrell, as much as he wanted to intervene, could not. They needed to sort it out themselves. And having them all on good terms, this group of three in particular, was incredibly beneficial for his Lord's plans.

Hermione broke the silence. "I know you boys might not want to here this."

"Granger, no." Draco's tone was practically commanding her to stop.

"I agree, Hermione. You have nothing to apologize for."

"But I do!"

"Things like that happen, Hermione. Isn't that right, Professor?" Harry looked up to Quirrell. He nodded back. "See? Hermione, you lost control of your magic, but never did I feel like you were intent on harming me. I'm sure Malfoy feels the same." Draco gave a curt nod. He wanted no part of her pathetic attempt at an apology. She did nothing wrong. She did not need to feel guilt.

"I know…" Her voice was starting to tremble a little, but she pressed on. "But I promised myself it would never happen again. Losing control like that… It's cost me so much already." There was a pain to her voice that drew all of their attention. They could hardly imagine what magic like that could do in the muggle world. "Draco, Harry," her eyes shot between them, warm brown affixing a serious stare at them both. "I'm not sorry for hurting you because I wanted to. I'm sorry for hurting you because I'm too weak to control my magic like the rest of you do. It should be something so simple. Our first year isn't far from ending, and still this happened to me. I'm… I'm s—"

"M-miss Granger," Quirrell interrupted. It appeared no one would let her take accountability for her faults this morning. "Y-yes, out of control, w-wild m-m-magic is not a common occurrence for Hogwarts s-students. F-first years are taught control from the s-start for a reason." Her body slumped before perking up again as Quirrell continued. "However, I f-fear Hogwarts — or at the very least us as a s-staff m-m-meant to guide and teach young w-witches and wizards such as yourselves — m-m-may have failed you."

"Professor…?" Was all she could eek out. All three children stared at him, curiosity spiking.

"You are not w-weak, M-m-miss Granger. On the contrary, you have great p-power w-within you. Unanticipated p-p-power. A p-power, w-with the help of your friends here I hope, that I w-would like to help you understand, control, and m-m-master. Once w-we've had rest and done our p-proper research, of course."

Harry smiled at her, agreeing immediately to be at her side and help her control her magic. Draco took a more measured approach. He watched her for a moment. What was her reaction to this news? A Hogwarts professor was in no uncertain terms telling her that she was different, special, powerful. But Draco wasn't in the business of helping people who didn't want to be helped. She was a Slytherin, same as he was. So for once in her life, he needed to see more from her. The virtues of a Slytherin. Anything that made her worthy of his aid. There was no point in great magical power given to a weak-minded person.

To his surprise, Hermione answered his challenge. Her eyes locked on his. For a moment he could have sworn they were violet, but no, they were their usual brown. But her gaze was determined, self-assured even, despite a reddened watery sheen.

"I want to learn. I… I don't want to lose control anymore. I don't want to be weak…" There were tears now sliding down the apples of her cheeks. She wasn't sure when the last time it was that she directly expressed her desires like this. At least since before the hard days started at the orphanage. "I want to be in control of my own magic. I want to master it. Wield it without worry that it'll go wrong!"

"Why?" Draco's voice stopped her dead in her tracks for a moment. She had just admitted that she wanted more than her lot in life to the very boy that oppressed her. A fool's move in Hermione's book. But if she stood down now, if she acquiesced to him like she always did, nothing would change. Fear and misery would continue to reign over her, and she wasn't sure just how much longer she could take that. Hermione wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrists, then stared Draco dead in his bright silver eyes.

"Why?! Because I refuse to be someone's puppet any longer! If I am… different, then I'll find a way to be special. I may not know much, I may be behind others. I may be muggle-born. But I can be great too!"

Never had Draco seen this in Hermione. She looked at him with unmitigated defiance, an expression he didn't even know she could make. So she wanted to be great? That was good. He could work with that. Ambition was vital to any successful Slytherin. Draco grinned. Hermione blushed. Harry choked on whatever words he was planning to say. Never had either of them seen such a genuine smile on Draco Malfoy's face. Quirrell, on the other hand, was itching to jump with joy at her declaration. But his Master halted him. Though, even Tom couldn't help but feel… pride?

"Let's see you try," the Malfoy heir affirmed.