When Riddle and his group entered the Great Hall that morning, there was a distinct, uneasy air about them, fraught with fearful tension. Riddle was his usual relaxed self, strolling to one of the benches and sitting down confidently, observing the contents of the tureens, bowls and trays spread out on the table, then beginning to judiciously lay out morsels of thinly sliced pork chops, coddled eggs and golden triangles of buttered toast on his plate.

His cohorts, however, seemed jumpy and apprehensive, in spite of the general jovial mood permeating the room, brought on by its being Saturday. Even Lestrange's brooding seemed muted today. Rosier was nowhere to be seen.

Astraya tore her assessing gaze from the group, a slight furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

Had she given him serious injury last night? The spell wasn't the strongest she had – in fact, she hadn't used any of her most powerful Dark spells at all. She told herself it was because it had been a long time since she'd last duelled, that her natural penchant for the Dark Arts had grown rusty after spending so much time trying to distance herself from them.

But she knew it more than that. The refrain came from the same place that had held her back from killing Riddle – the place that had simultaneously pulled her back from the edge and nearly pushed her over it. The futile, almost subconscious desire of carrying out a dead man's wish, as if by doing so, she would be honouring his memory – giving back some of what she'd owed him. He, who was dead because of her. He, whom she'd failed.

She stopped that train of thought before it took her too far, and steered her mind into a direction that required less dwelling on the past and more strategizing.

She was willing to admit she'd underestimated Riddle. Clearly, he was one of those people who had a natural proclivity for the Dark Arts. Perhaps that was why he was so highly thought of in Slytherin. Which meant she would need to shore up her defences, and if another duel took place between her and Riddle – and she had no doubt it would – then she would need to get a hold of herself and not hesitate in using every forbidden, taboo spell she'd gleaned over the years. Not hesitate in releasing a part of her she'd kept locked away for over two years.

She let out a sigh, lamenting how she'd come to Hogwarts thinking it would give her peace, time to find herself again without having to fight. Only to find that here, too, she would have to fight for survival.

This Saturday was not only the first weekend of the term, but also the day of the Quidditch trials for Slytherin, who'd booked the Quidditch field first. Since Astraya was not particularly amorous or well-versed in Quidditch, she hadn't gone to the field with the others to wish Cora luck, who was trying for chaser.

The school corridors were deserted apart from the occasional passing pupil or teacher. It was a surprisingly sunny day, and nearly everyone had gone out to the fields to bask in the sunlight before the dreary, bleak winter gloom settled in.

This presented the perfect opportunity for Astraya to explore the Restricted Section. The library itself was quiet and empty, occupied only by the librarian, Madam Russett, who gave her a tight-lipped, narrow-eyed assessment, sniffing as though to see if Astraya harboured any ill will towards her precious books. Seemingly deciding she was safe, she turned back towards the ledger she'd been studying.

Astraya set out purposefully for the back of the library, where the roped-off shelves stood invitingly. After a circumspect glance, confirming that the library was indeed empty and Madam Russett was otherwise engaged, she swung a long leg over the rope – it was set low enough – then the other.

She walked down the rows of shelves laden with tattered books, stained, aged and mildewed. She was almost afraid to touch them, for fear they would crumble into dust at the slightest touch. Few had titles on their spines, their letters having peeled off long ago, if they had any spines remaining at all. Some were just a bundle of yellowed pages held miraculously together.

She stopped as one of the much less-damaged books caught her eye. Gingerly, she prised it from its place, stifling a sneeze with her hand as a miniature cloud of dust rose from the yellow, stiff pages. She skimmed its contents. The writing was mostly legible, except for one or two pages where the ink had begun to fade, or the parchment had been splotched, turning the letters into an incomprehensible blur. But she could make out instructions for malevolent curses, grotesque jinxes, sinister hexes, accompanied by rather disturbing drawings illustrating the effects.

She browsed the musty books leisurely, locating a few more she could start with, but she thought it would be pushing it to take out more than one book without someone taking note of its absence. Especially since she knew there was another who was illegally borrowing books.

Retracing her steps to the rope barrier, she stepped over it with a single, fluid stride, rising on tiptoe to avoid colliding with the rope and possibly tugging it loose.

And saw Riddle standing nearby, leaning negligently against one of the bookshelves. His dark eyes flickered to the shelves behind her, then back to her. There was a lazy smile on his face; he seemed to have brushed off his defeat last night fairly well.

"So," he said, "You've been doing some research, I see." He pushed away from the shelves and took a few steps closer. His eyebrows rose in mockery. "Trying to catch up?"

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she let a teasing smile, not unlike the one Riddle wore, curve her lips. "You're talking as if you'd actually won our little duel. I'm impressed; I thought you'd still be nursing your wounded ego."

Some emotion swirled in his eyes like a maelstrom, and his smile became dangerous, the sort of smile that was more a baring of teeth, that hinted at an anger tightly reined and controlled. His voice was deceptively soft when he spoke. "A mistake, on my part. I underestimated you. Rest assured, it won't happen again."

"No," she said quietly, thinking of her own mistakes. "It won't." She stepped closer as his eyes narrowed at the promise underlying her words. "We both underestimated each other, Riddle. I think we can guarantee that neither of us is going to make that mistake again." With a glint of mischief in her eyes, she added, "Nice Asinisus Curse, by the way."

His head tilted slightly, surveying her with a calculating intensity. "If you'd known it, how come you didn't use it?"

She let her shoulders rise and drop in a shrug. "If I'd used every curse I knew, our duel would have been over before it had even begun." She made her way leisurely to a nearby table, surrounded by velvet-upholstered chairs, the sunlight trickling though the windows giving the wood a warm golden glow. "And I suppose I have grown a little rusty. It been a while since I've last duelled."

Now she felt his attentive gaze at the back of her neck, his mind no doubt storing that little bit of information, adding it to the small pile he must be mentally collecting.

She might not know fully what he'd intended to do with her last night, but she suspected that he had wanted in no small part to find out what she was hiding, to extricate every last secret about her past. She tightened her muscles against a shudder at the very thought. She wondered how he'd intended to do it. Confund her into telling him the truth, maybe. Or Veritaserum.

His curt question broke the silence. "How did you find the room?" He sounded oddly irritated, almost petulant.

Her eyes darted to his, her brow creasing in confusion. Then she understood. "Ah. You mean the hidden room on the seventh floor?" She shrugged. "It just appeared out of nowhere."

He continued to study her in that almost sullen way. She barely stifled a smirk. He looked like a child who'd lost his favourite toy.

"If you know about it, why didn't you tell your friends? It would have saved them some trouble last night."

"Why would I tell them of it?"

She turned around to face him fully, her eyes catching thoughtfully on his. Usually, they seemed so dark that the irises were indistinguishable from the pupils. But the soft sunlight relieved them of their void-like blackness, giving them a nut-brown colour that would have seemed warm, had Riddle not had his handsome features contorted in a scornful sneer.

"I suppose you wouldn't," she murmured, still holding his gaze. "I don't think you tell them much of anything."

How ironic it was, she thought, with a touch of melancholy, that he was surrounded by a school-full of people who swarmed about him and wanted to be his friends, yet he wanted none of that. No, he would have been just as happy by himself, operating alone, never having to share anything with anyone. She wondered whether anyone amounted to little more than a pawn to him, if he'd ever valued anyone for more than whatever use he might have for them.

Not that she didn't like to act by herself, to keep herself distant from others, to hide her own secrets and not divulge them to anyone, to not answer to anyone about anything she did. But that was more out of habit than a true desire to be alone. It was what she was most comfortable with, what she'd always known. That solitude had been forced upon her by her background, because even if she found herself burgeoning a friendship with anyone, she could never be completely honest with them. She could never explain everything, never explain that dark part of her character she was so ashamed – and afraid – of. She'd always be evading, and lying, and hiding.

Maybe if she'd been born a different person, if she'd been raised differently, she'd have grown up like Cora, or Ava, or Ophelia. She'd be just another young witch at Hogwarts, her biggest concern being to hand her homework on time.

A drawling voice reached her ears, severing the string of thoughts pooling in her mind. The familiar silkiness raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Both Astraya and Riddle spun to face the intruder.

"There you are, Miss Sader." Professor Blackwood. He eyed both of them speculatively. "What are you two doing inside on a fine day like this?"

Riddle had fallen instinctively back into his mask, as easily as he would have donned a pair of gloves. "We were just about to go to the Quidditch field, sir."

"As it happens, I want a word with Miss Sader," said Blackwood. "You wouldn't mind giving us a few minutes, Mr. Riddle?"

"Of course not, sir," he said smoothly. Astraya suppressed a snort. If he didn't stand nearby and listen in, then she was a Pygmy Puff.

Once Riddle had left, at least as far as she could see, Blackwood turned his thin eyes on her. She tried to keep her face composed and mildly curious, but his eyes held a cryptic glint that sent her danger censors into a frenzy.

"Miss Sader," he began. "First, allow me to offer my condolences on the unfortunate events of last week. It was a loss for the British wizarding community as a whole, not just for you."

Astraya's muscles locked and tightened instantly. Of course, she thought bitterly. Blackwood had been influential in the Ministry; he would have known.

"I came here to ask for a favour," continued Blackwood. "I do hope you won't disappoint me."

She managed to pry her stiff lips apart to say, "Of course not, professor."

"You see…" He sighed, arranging his features in a regretful frown. "I'm sure you've noticed that your friend Miss Selwyn has taken great pains to avoid me. Even her brother hasn't attended any of my classes. I'd like you to assure Miss Selwyn that I mean her and her family no harm. Just because her father and I had a minor tiff at work doesn't mean I harbour any animosity towards her."

Astraya thought calling it a 'minor tiff' was a gross understatement, given how resentful Ava was towards him, but she still managed a stiff, polite, "I'll try, sir."

With another smile that did not quite reach his eyes, he walked away. Astraya's muscles remained tense, then slowly unclenched, and a great breath rushed out of her. Her hand came up and rubbed her temples in frustration. Really, Blackwood and his creepy smiles were enough to deal with; his bringing up memories she'd rather remain forgotten was just too much.

Starting to stalk towards the front of the library, she felt the stolen book she'd hidden in the folds of her robes hit her thigh. The thud reminded her of another book she'd come to the library to retrieve. This one, at least, didn't need any skulduggery to obtain.

After rifling through the history section, she walked to Madam Russett's desk with two large, faded, leather-bound volume in her hands, one titled Hogwarts: A History, and the other detailing the myriad legends and mysteries that were woven around every nook of the ancient castle.

Both promised to provide some information about that mysterious room. And she wanted to find out what other secret rooms and passages were threaded through the castle's walls. In a place with as much magical heritage as Hogwarts, Astraya doubted one could walk down a corridor without accidentally stumbling upon an abandoned room, or a mysterious tunnel.

The Slytherin common room was cold in spite of the warm weather. However, in a rare deviation from the norm, the lighting in the room had a faint yellow glow that softened the grand, detached atmosphere, instead of making it ghostly and intimidating, as the green lighting did.

Astraya had wanted to make sure her newly acquired book was safely hidden before heading to the Quidditch field. She had thought she'd find the common room empty, but as she stepped inside she caught a familiar glitter of dark golden hair.

She kept her face carefully blank as Rosier unfolded himself from the chair he'd been sitting in. "Morning," she said pleasantly. Her eyes ran over him carefully, noting the pallor of his skin, and the small, empty vial set on the low table next to him. Other than the faint smudges of purple under his eyes, he didn't seem to have suffered lasting effects from her little curse.

He noticed her discreet examination, and said in flat voice, "The wound's healed. Riddle gave me instructions for a healing concoction, and it seems to have worked miraculously." He gave a careless nod to the vial.

Astraya arched an eyebrow in a taunting manner, though she was inwardly glad that no major damage had been done. "Why didn't Riddle brew it up for you himself? You're his friend, aren't you?"

His expression shuttered, and he turned away from her to close the vial and tuck into one of his pockets. He was just as subdued as the others had been at breakfast.

"That was his punishment for failing last night, wasn't it?" Her voice came out gentle, though she hadn't intended it to be. And she found herself feeling an odd sort of kinship towards Rosier. She was no stranger to harsh punishments. From the looks of him, Riddle had left Rosier stewing in pain all night before he'd deigned to help him. Bastard.

Rosier's gaze came back up to hers, his eyes alert as they flickered between hers. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He started to make his way to the door, but halted when she said, "There's no use in dodging around it, Rosier. It was obvious to me from the start that he's more your master than your friend."

He spun around, that keen gaze latching on hers again. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, hesitation flashing momentarily behind his carefully blank mask. Then as if reaching a decision, he demanded, "What happened between you and him last night?"

Astraya realised that he hadn't told them about the duel or its outcome. A smirk worked its way across her lips. "We duelled. I won."

The words seemed to have a hard time sinking into Rosier's head. He stared at her, his hard mouth going slack, a furrow appearing his eyebrows. "You… won?" He spoke as though testing out a new, foreign language.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Guess Riddle's not as invincible as he makes himself out to be, huh?" And now she pondered whether Rosier would have the courage to face Riddle with the information, or he'd just keep it to himself for fear of his retribution.

She made to leave, intending to leave him to mull over the revelation that his leader, was, after all, beatable.

"Who are you?"

His abrupt question startled her. She blinked, her muscles tensing in a defensive instinct against the intensity of his scrutiny.

"I've never seen Riddle so interested in anyone and I've known him for four years. I've never seen anyone get so easily under his skin as you do. And I've certainly never seen anyone willing to go head-to-head with him as you have."

"Maybe it's because I'm willing to go head-to-head with him that I get so easily under his skin," she said softly, realising that it may well be the truth. Riddle certainly wasn't used to not being feared, or being challenged.

Letting that statement hang in the air, she turned on her heel and walked to the door on the right of the mantlepiece, stepping into the corridor of girl dormitories before he could ask any more questions. Expelling a breath, she strode to her dorm. The space was disturbingly quiet, as she'd become used to it being filled with the chatter and laughter of the girls, and the petty bickering of Ava and Theo.

Kneeling beside her trunk, she lifted the lid slowly. Taking out her wand and the book, she muttered, "Illusio."

The appearance of the book shifted. At a passing glance, it would look like a simple worn journal. But even still, she placed a few hexes around it before tucking it amidst her carefully folded clothes. Then, taking a steadying breath, she fumbled between the folds of fabric until her hands found the polished wood of a slim box.

Slowly extracting it, willing her hands not to tremble, she opened the box, revealing the wand nestled inside. Swallowing a wave of repulsion, she forced her unsteady hand to reach for it, to touch the dark glossy wood. At first glance, this and her current wand looked no different: the same wood, about the same length. But she felt that disgust like bile at the back of her throat. Not just with the wand itself, but at the intrinsic rightness that flooded her when she held it. After all this time, she still felt more comfortable with this wand than any other.

This was the first wand she'd ever used. The wand she'd cast her first spell with, the wand with which she'd mastered nearly every spell she knew now. But it was also the wand she'd first killed with. The wand that she had practised Dark Magic with.

The wand that they had given her.

Her heartbeat pulsed in her throat, in her ears. She felt unsteady and dazed, the air rushing in and out of her lungs in frenzied bursts. She forced herself to push all the thoughts and memories clustered inside her head aside, to steady her clammy hands and slow her frantic pulse.

This wand was her past. The past she tried to forget. But if she wanted to win the game she'd started with Riddle, she had to find that past again. She had to reconnect with it, at least if she and him ever had another duel.

So, steeling herself against that rising tide of shame, the shame at breaking the promise she'd made never to use this wand again, she pocketed it. And she was balefully surprised at how safe she felt with that ill-used wand once more close to her.

Rosier found Tom sitting with Nott, Avery and Mulciber in the stands in the Quidditch field, watching Lestrange, who was trying for beater. He wordlessly took his place beside Tom.

Tom gave him a brief examination out of the corner of his eyes then turned his attention back to the players. "The potion worked, I see."

"Yes, my Lord," Rosier said quietly, inclining his head.

Tom spoke without glancing at him. "You disappointed me last night, Rosier. I expect better from you in future."

There was a faint note of shame in his voice, as much emotion as he would let show. "Yes, my Lord." A pause. "I sent the message you asked of me."

Tom glanced at him sharply. "Good. Lestrange sent his before coming to trials."

He'd asked both of them to send owls to their fathers, who were both highly influential in the Ministry, inquiring about Blackwood. Something about their newest professor rang false to him, and he intended to find out what.

But from Rosier there was another thing he'd wanted to find: information about Astraya. Rosier's father had been good friends with Astraya's before he'd mysteriously disappeared from Britain. There was a chance they'd even kept in touch during all of his years abroad. If there was anyone with an inkling of what Sader was up to during all those years, it should be him. And Tom's curiosity was burning, especially after hearing her conversation with Blackwood.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the sound of Astraya's laughter reached his ears, jarring him out of his musings. He gritted his teeth. He'd never heard a sound more annoying, with the exception of, perhaps, the pestilent whining and wailing of the children at the orphanage.

He turned his head to see where the sound had come from. Astraya was sitting further down the bench with her friends, giggling about something or other. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turned and met his gaze. Her eyebrows arched, and she gave him a brilliant, sarcastic smile.

He tried to summon his own taunting grin but he found himself remembering what her eyes had looked like when she was angry, when she'd closed in on him at the end of their duel, how bright they'd been in anger. And then he recalled the way her breath had gently fanned against his cheek, how the loose strands of her hair had brushed against his face.

She'd met his gaze unflinchingly then, just as she did now. But instead of being narrowed with rage, her eyes were now dancing with challenge, and an unwavering confidence. Things no-one had ever dared show to him.

He found himself inexplicably drawn in, unable to tear his eyes away. He wasn't aware of the way his followers exchanged looks with each other, or even the baffled glances they gave him.

He felt a strange, unknown feeling manifesting in his chest, so subtle it was almost non-existent. But he felt it all the same, maybe because it was so new.

One of her friends snagged her attention, and Astraya turned away. The feeling dissipated before he could even closely examine it. He spun his head back to the pitch, shoving the memory of that nascent feeling aside.

It was probably nothing he ought to worry about. He should direct his attention to getting to the bottom of the mystery that was Astraya Sader, and beating her once and for all, so that she wouldn't dare to look at him in that audacious way again.