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"How dare that brat – ?!" decried Nymphadora, outraged on my behalf once I'd finished recounting my tale of woe to her. Her hair turned red with a loud pop. "Professor Dumbledore's got to go easy on you! That Flint and Pucey brats deserve it!"

I smiled slightly at her easy support. Unlike Draco who only craved my support, Nymphadora actually gave it. Though I'd known Draco longer, these two cousins of mine have the same place in my heart.

"It's okay, Nymph," I assured her.

Nymphadora decided to let my use of that nickname slide – for now. "Cedric's in shambles from worry, you should talk with him once Dumbledore's through with you … if you come out alive." We came to a halt before the gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's office. She looked intimidated as she eyed the stone statues warily. "For all the trouble I've gotten into, I'd never enter that place … it's for those who're bound to be expelled, I hear – not that it'd necessarily happen to you," added Dora hastily when she saw how white my face had gone. "Good luck." She tried to squeeze my hand in support but when it ended with an aching shoulder on my part for attempting to dodge, and running into the wall in the process, she desisted and just smiled one last time before departing.

I was alone.

I half-expected Snape to there, which would not help my nerves because he ostensibly hated my parents too. Thus I was surprised to find myself even more intimidated when only Dumbledore stood there, waiting.

He smiled at me, blue eyes twinkling like stars. They really twinkled as the books described; like shiny silver brandished under a bright sun. I offered him a tentative smile, resuming a seat when he gestured for me to do so.

"May I hear from you what happened?" he inquired gently, not accusatorily.

I blinked at his desk. "Didn't you ask others for their account of the story?"

"They were afraid to speak out against you," said Dumbledore kindly.

"Oh." I must've frightened them something fierce. Keeping my voice a low mumble, I reiterated what I'd told Dora, with a few alternations. And obvious omitting of who was actually in my bed. I hoped Dumbledore wouldn't ask: there wasn't an underage-sex rule enforced within the castle. Students in fourth-year and above were likely to be let off the hook for trysts but anyone below that age was considered too young. I think.

Then again, while extremely rare, it had happened before: teenage pregnancy, I mean. Case in point: my grandparents: Cygnus Black had been thirteen when my mother was born, Druella only three years older. My grandmother was a dropout, by the way.

A smothering silence descended upon us once I was done.

Dumbledore sighed gently. "Have a lemon drop, Mr. Lestrange."

"Have – oh." The bowl was levitated to my face. I had no choice but to take one even though I was no fan of lemon. "Thank you." I nibbled on the sweet as I nervously awaited my punishment.

"Children can be cruel," I tensed at the beginning of the sentence, "Swayed by negative emotions, they lash out without thinking. Like Mr. Pucey, I'm sure you're well-acquainted with what I'm saying."

I didn't dare look into Dumbledore's eyes: Riddle must be kept away from his scrutiny. Lord Voldemort did not forgive nor would he forget. If Riddle were to be destroyed, and I was the last person to be in touch with it … no amount of begging and reasoning would work on the man whose sanity had shattered decades ago. I didn't look forward to being Frank Longbottom Ver. 2.0: Voldemort would surely make my mother's Cruciatus Curse a sweet caress in comparison.

I shuddered slightly. Then I recalled Dumbledore would be awaiting a response. "Just get on with the punishment," I bit out, belatedly adding, "Sir."

"If I were in charge, Dumbledore," the nasally voice of my ancestor – Phineas Nigellus Black – said, "I would've let the boy off with privileges taken from him instead of scrubbing the floor. Maybe even points for this magnitude of magical feat." He smirked down at me.

"It's his attitude that is the problem," Dippet, Dumbledore's predecessor, interrupted, "We cannot have wizards rampaging in the streets simply because they cannot control their emotions! Hogwarts was built on that foundation; to right that wrong!"

"I'll practice Occlumency," I snapped at the infuriating blob of painting, eyes finally lifted from the Headmaster's desk.

"It's not a branch of magic taught in Hogwarts curricula," Dumbledore inputted gently.

"I have Aunt Cissa at home to teach me," I sniffed imperiously. I hoped Dumbledore wouldn't call me out on my obvious avoidance of eye-contact: there were only so many times I could let my gaze flit over the silver instruments decorating his office, admittedly stuff of which I'd never seen.

A fleeting assessing gaze had me registering that Dumbledore was smiling benignly. "Mr. Lestrange, you are a student of Hogwarts – and what is Hogwarts if not a school that educates its young in what they need to succeed in the real world?" I forgot to avoid looking directly at him for a moment, surprised. He sounded like he was actually going to— "Professor Snape is an accomplished Occlumens," said Dumbledore, "You will benefit from his guidance, I believe, Mr. Lestrange."

"What's the catch?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. I gripped the handles of the chair, knuckles whitening. "I'll have you know using this lesson as a ruse to gain access into my mind is pointless – I know nothing of Death Eater activities, I have no information to give. You know – you know my parents were sent to Azkaban when I was just a toddler." My voice cracked in spite of my best efforts.

"I remember the trial many years ago, Mr. Lestrange, for it was I who held you when you cried, until you were calm enough for your aunt to retrieve you."

… Say what?!

"You?! Really?!" I cried, mortified. Several Headmasters shot me disapproving looks for my admittedly rude tone. "I – sorry, I only remember seeing the Dementors taking away my family – not the part where people offer false consolation when they only wished I'd die to save them another Dark Wizard in their ranks—"

"I'm sorry that you've been orphaned in such a way." The dip of his mouth was mournful; the lines on his face seemed to sag, dragging his whole face down too. "However, your parents have made children your age orphans too."

"Neville Longbottom, you mean." Wasn't his mother alive and sane…? That's more than what I have, don't you think?

The smile that suddenly spread across Dumbledore's face was alarming. "Ah, forgive an old man's reminiscences. In the perils of old age, I'm constantly consumed by haunting what-ifs." True wistfulness crossed his aged face; perhaps the same expression I've worn not too long ago. "Your parents could've been much more than that they are now, I won't sugarcoat the fact I believe they've chosen the wrong path, and the consequence is sitting before me – where their own son can only be chided by his Headmaster instead of his parents for causing trouble in school.

"And speaking of consequences … yes, I think that will do." I tried not to gulp. I think my throat bobbed nervously. "For the next month, you'll be tutoring Neville Longbottom."

…

And here I thought he actually liked Neville.

~{X}~

"You'll be spending every Friday, Saturday and Sunday with Longbottom?!" spat Draco. Assaulted before I'd even taken six steps into the Common Room.

"Not of my own accord," I said coldly. I'd rather be tutored by Riddle: at least he'd have something substantial to give me. Unlike what I had to give Longbottom. Worse, if Neville didn't improve by the end of one month, it'd continue until next month and possibly even the whole year. And the next.

Talk about Cruciatus Curse.

Draco furrowed his brows. Something about the gesture struck me as familiar but I couldn't place it immediately. "… Can I join too? Me, Harry and Granger?"

"Yes, Granger might be useful here – and the presence of fellow Gryffindors ought to help calm him down."

"It's really torture, this detention," said Draco sympathetically, loping after me, either ignoring or not caring how the scant few Slytherins – those not too heavily affected by hypothermia or frostbite and had been released from the Infirmary – had scattered to the four winds once they saw me approaching. "I mean, Longbottom's really … well, his mind's really a long bottom – it'd take years for a spot of knowledge to reach the bottom where his brain is."

I laughed. Draco grinned up at me – I was taller by a few inches. "You should be grateful you won't be alone, Sal," added Draco slyly.

"So very grateful," I agreed.

"Oh, and – the super secret diary," Draco handed me Tom as he spoke, "I didn't write in it." Only now I realized he was wearing dragon-hide gloves as he handled the book. I snorted softly, taking it from him with bare hands: I was unafraid of it. "Are you sure you're safe with it?"

"I'm safekeeping it for the Dark Lord," I lowered my voice to a whisper.

We reached the entrance to his dormitory. I waited for him to leave but he just bit his lip, frowning. "You … you truly believe the Dark Lord will come back?"

My answer was "Yes," without hesitation.

"…Oh." Then without another word, Draco turned and left. Poor kid. I didn't want the impending doom he'd go through to start weighing heavily on his mind when he was just eleven but the thing was – I couldn't protect him. Not when I was scarcely certain of my own survival.

Not when another challenge presented itself in the form of my dormitory.

Adrian wasn't there, that was good. Rosier and Montague, both of whom had escaped the tomb of ice, stopped whispering between them the moment I entered. "Hey, Sal!" greeted Rosier cheerfully, smile only looking slightly forced.

I blinked at him. Then at the clock beside his night table. It was way past dinner – Halloween's feast was a delight, uninterrupted by any trolls.

That's it!

No trolls! Even though today should've been the day Quirrell caused a distraction just to steal away with the Philosopher's Stone … unless … something else had been seized as a distraction … an opportunity …

The Slytherins shepherded to the Infirmary … the staff distracted with the commotion I'd left in my wake … My heart pounded, my eyes widened as my mouth parted in shock as another question nagged at me: Why had Riddle been wondering around looking for me? What had he done before he'd found me?

"Sal?" called Montague tentatively. "Are you feeling alright? You're so pale."

"He's always pale," muttered Rosier.

"Gotta go!"

Barely ten minutes back in the dungeons and I was already scrambling out of it: I darted up the stairs, right up to the third floor. It took me a few minutes of frustrated searching before I found the corridor Dumbledore had warned us against entering.

Riddle's diary was clutched tightly in my hand; a quill tucked into it. Glancing around to make sure no one was here, I hissed at the diary, flipping it open violently. "Come out – right now. It's urgent." It did not respond. Stubborn git. I scribbled hastily into the quill: What did you take?! You thieving git, give it back!

The diary's response was immediate: Once more, I extend generous pardon to your rude attitude on the account that you do not know me personally well enough to know I'm not a petty thief.

What do you have to say about the Muggle trinkets you stole from your fellow orphans in the orphanage?!

I'll be putting aside the wonder as to how you knew to say those trinkets were trophies of my victory over them. What's missing?

A troll – it's not where it's supposed to be!

… Even if I'm the thief, what would I do with a troll? What can anyone do with them?

Some nefarious scheme only you could concoct.

Trolls are so hopelessly stupid they make Crabbe and Goyle intelligent; whatever scheme I concoct, no matter how brilliant, would be wasted on them. Would you please elaborate on the circumstances that have you so frenzied? Was the item important?

I was wasting time arguing with him. Opening the door a crack – after unlocking it with Alohomora, which, to my eternal frustration, was so simple it was begging for students to infiltrate the traps within and challenge themselves to it – I peered in, wary of Hagrid's pet.

The Cerberus was awake, growling and drooling and the putrid scent nearly made me faint. There were no instruments anywhere and the trapdoor was still intact. As the middle head raised its hackles, ready to pounce, I retreated hastily and slammed the door shut, heaving a sigh of relief.

Sorry for the previous accusation, the thing's still there. Haha. ;)

You charged in flinging accusations at me without properly confirming the status of the item? [And ;)?]

I've got good reasons to accuse you. And I apologized, didn't I? If it's not enough – oh, I beg your forgiveness, it's never enough with you. [Never mind that emoticon]

Something to do with the troll.

Yeah.

Someday, Rasalas Lestrange, you'll be spilling all your secrets to me. I grow tired of guessing games. What's a troll doing in Hogwarts? Did your DADA professor bring it in for hands-on experience and a demonstration?

(I snorted. Riddle was just centimeters away from the right answer. Yeah, my DADA teacher definitely brought it in.)

You can try asking; in exchange forgive me for hurling justified but wrong accusations at you.

But you won't necessarily answer the question.

I can only promise honesty in turn. The silence dragged on for too long and no words appeared on the blank pages dated at the top with October 13th. What's wrong with you now?

I have so many questions it's taking me a troubling time to phrase them in a way I can get hints.

Ah, yes. Tell me, if you will, what is Lord Voldemort's fate in the end? What is my fate?

This was a question I actually didn't mind answering. An answer I desperately wanted him to know.

You'd be destroyed soon.

There are consequences to tearing your soul apart; only with a full soul can you transition from one world to another. Just as those Kissed by Dementors go nowhere but eternal nothingness, Voldemort would be trapped in limbo, in the flesh of a skeletal child, in torment.

Yes, he was defeated; yes, it was too late for him to repent; yes, he'd suffer an eternity of agony just as he'd feared. Even your father got to go to a better place than where your original incarnate ended up in. Merlin, if you'd seen your original incarnate – I think even you will be running for the hills. Screaming.

…This is the absolute truth? Not something to scare me with?

I … I thought you knew.

Knew what? The consequences of making a Horcrux? Of being one?

No. I thought you knew I did pity Tom Riddle. You are a part of him; a part he discarded and I pity you, Horcrux, for you will perish and enter nonexistence – no thoughts, no dreams or ambitions, with no one and alone.

Believe it or not, I think that's why the Mirror reflected nothing for you to see: you have no future, whatever you desire didn't matter because, in the end, you're just something the Mirror deem too ineligible to even reflect … a Horcrux.

Writing in the diary and seeing it respond had not really driven the fact in: Riddle was just … Riddle. Up until I'd written that word, I'd always considered him a separate existence from the Dark Lord suffering in his exile.

I've transcended death!

No, you've only delayed it. Everyone dies someday.

I sound like a hypocrite: I hadn't died yet. Everyone dies someday – did it apply to me? I who am living my second life, as someone else, giving advice to a boy fearing mortality that death was normal.

But – it's fine, I added in a hasty scribble, still crouched in the forbidden corridor, I mean, you're a Horcrux; you were never alive to begin with so you can't die in the same sense humans do. When this diary is destroyed, you won't even have the conscious to realize you're gone. So you won't even be afraid of anything!

That is supposed to be a consolation?

Well, what can I say to make you feel better? We're two different people with very different opinions on death – you're scared, I'm not, and I will never be afraid of it: what I fear is how little I've lived before dying. I'm scared of life – its trials, tribulations and agony.

That is the most you've shared about yourself. How irony toys with us: fate has given me a keeper who cannot even begin to understand me, and one who I don't understand either.

And had the diary had a voice, it would've laughed right now. Dark, cruel and haunting, mirthless in its biting laugh. The same hysterical chuckle fell from my mouth.

That we cannot empathize with another is evident: or I would've ended up in the same gutter as you, and you might not even be Lord Voldemort if you'd mastered death.

I concede to your point … Sal.

Good night, Tom.

There is no night here, I do not rest. I do not sleep. It's a ceaseless existence.

Then before Draco and I came along, wasn't it boring?

It was a ceaseless existence.

I don't get it.

And you won't: you know too much about me already, you don't need to know more – as it does not concern you anyway.

It's called sharing, Riddle. If your matron's never taught you that.

If I shared with you, what would you share with me in turn?

That's no longer sharing; that's trading.

I closed the diary before we could get into an argument about it. One that would result in my aching writing arm.

~{X}~

Even though I frequently fought ceaseless, tireless battles with insomnia and had rarely won – without my knight Dobby – I still put on pajamas and went to bed every night, with the dwindling, untruthful resolution to begin my battle anew, alone and unaided.

The worst part was that when my eyelids would drift to sleep, a memory would jump at me – of the Dementors, of my first life's death, of my parents being dragged away, of Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom being tortured, of scenes in my previous life leaping at me, taunting me to reach forward and grasp a life that had been peaceful – and I'd jerk awake more alert than ever.

It was agonizing: nearly falling asleep only to be torn away from what peace sleep provided. Roughly so.

But that night on Halloween, I fell asleep. I swear! When I blinked drowsily at the hangings, and fully opened my eyes again, it was to the rousing of my dormitory mates: Rosier waking Adrian. I tensed at that, determined to pretend I was asleep. Hopefully, they'd get the hint and leave me alone.

It was refreshing to be so fully rested. I was positive I didn't look quite like a panda. Then I remembered: it would be Friday, it would be a tutoring session I'd have to suffer through.

And one thing – that I had a blank stretch of memory between blinking drowsily at night and waking up in the morning – bugged me. What if I'd been possessed by Riddle? He had once demanded to use me as host, a better replacement to Draco; he'd said yesterday he'd gotten a sliver of understanding of me but that we also confirmed we'd never truly empathize one another in any aspect had led me to conclude he was incapable of possessing me.

I rolled around, scowling and reached blindly for the diary. Instead, I felt the swaddled sheets of my bed. My eyes popped open as I stared at the indent on the space next to my king-sized bed and the shape of a head on a pillow I certainly did not remember placing in such a way.

My bed had a total of five pillows – Slytherin's dorms were a luxurious comfort to compensate the chilliness and gloominess – and bolsters and whatever I could request from the house-elves. I only used two: one to rest my head on and the other to cover my face.

Someone – something – had slept beside me, while I was unaware.

Hairs standing on end, a bloodcurdling scream tore from my throat.

"What's wrong?" demanded Montague, ripping open the hangings to my bed. I stopped screaming at once when I saw Adrian at his shoulder, staring wide-eyed.

"It might be faster to ask him what's right – then we'd know what else is wrong," said Rosier jokingly.

"Something snuck in here and – and –"

"And what?" asked Montague somewhat impatiently. His eyes flitted to where I was pointing. He seemed to notice there was an indent. "Did someone … sleep beside you … the whole night?" His brows were rising higher than usual.

"That's what I want to know!"

"You didn't know?"

"No! And I'm an insomniac, remember? I don't sleep, I should know if anyone's came in through the door!"

"So who made that? You're not nearly big enough to fit the criteria," noted Rosier thoughtfully, coming to the other end of the bed, squinting at it. "Can't be anyone younger than a fourth-year," he confidently stated. "Is it your boyfriend?" he wondered innocently. "Fli—"

"Are you insane?!" I shrieked, tearing silk beneath my fingernails. Rosier reared back with a flinch. The other two had scrammed, leaving Rosier to my mercy as I sprang to my feet on the bed. Boring holes into him with the sheer intensity of my glare. "I told you: it was libel! Adrian started it!"

Rosier's eyes widened. He swiveled his head to look at Adrian. "You did?! But – why—?" spluttered Rosier, taking Adrian's silence as an affirmative. "You lik—"

"Conrad," groaned Montague, flapping his hand to keep him quiet.

I made a disgusted noise, jumping off my bed, anger quite flushing out the hysteria I felt at the knowledge some stalker had snuggled up beside me and I'd actually gotten comfortable enough to fall asleep due to it. "Yeah, you ask him: I'm not interested in knowing why." That said, I stomped into the bathroom and slammed it shut. The ringing drowned the first part of Rosier's sentence, his rant.

"—ou messed up, idiot! Sabotaging is not a way to profess your undying lo—"

The spray of water on rocks dashed away the conversation from my hearing.

~{X}~

Quirrell was still in class the next day.

I stared blankly at him, wondering when the last time I'd even paid him attention was. I learned more from the Room of Requirement than I did from him. Sitting in his class – and Binns' – was a waste of my time; I generally turned those sessions into study hall time. Golden time I could use to hone my skills.

I raised my hand.

"Y-Yes, Mr. Lestrange?" squeaked Quirrell tremulously. Focusing on him solely now, I noticed that he was unhealthily pale: the bags around his eyes sagged, and made my 'mascara' look minor.

"I – sir, do you need a Pepper-Up Potion?" I blurted the question out before I could stop myself. He suddenly reminded me of Dobby, a frightened servant misbehaving, did something wrong. And Dobby always had my compassion. "I mean, I'm going to the Infirmary too, I can subsequently get you something? Excuse my forwardness, sir, but you look extremely pale."

Quirrell's lower lip trembled, eyes shining too bright all of a sudden. Then, much to my horror, he burst into tears and sank to his knees, weeping. Disturbed, I sprang to my feet. My classmates swept murmurs around the room, snickering scattered here and there, belittling the man who got too far in and didn't know how to get out.

I decided to spare him further humiliation. "I'll get a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey! Conrad, Graham, escort Professor back to his office." I turned to the Slytherins in class – DADA was one of the classes that did not mix two Houses together. They probably knew if Gryffindor and Slytherin were arranged together, there'd be a genocide waiting to happen. "Class, dismissed!"

My insides squirmed slightly at how quickly everyone obeyed.

Then I remembered, as Conrad and Graham seized Professor Quirrell by the elbows and coaxed him out of the classroom, that I'd promised to get my teacher a Calming Draught.

I quickly made my way there.

Madam Pomfrey didn't look happy to see me. Only then, looking into her disapproving face, I recalled that the only times I showed my face here, I was the harbinger of bad news – I'd brought injured students here to be treated. Clearing my throat awkwardly because I was also carting bad news now, I said, "Um, is there a Calming Draught here – Professor Quirrell really needs one."

Concern softened the lines around her eyes. "What happened?" she asked as she went to her cupboard. I remained at the doorway, noticing no one was perusing the Infirmary this hour except for those who'd been Petrified and they were hidden behind curtains of white.

"Nervous breakdown," I replied shortly. "The stress got to him."

"That poor dear," sighed Pomfrey, bustling back to me with a potion of sky-blue color. "Where is he now? Does he need me to check up on him in his office later?"

"Oh, no," The last thing I wanted was for Pomfrey to walk in on Voldemort and Quirrell – and wow, did that sound wrong, I'd never think like that again – and get killed. "A sleep and a pick-me-up should do him justice." I mustered a faint smile her way. "Thank you for your help."

Her periwinkle blue eyes beamed at me as she patted me out of her domain.

Conrad and Graham didn't leave until I arrived. Rosier and Montague were standing outside his office when I arrived, potion in hand. "How can you be sure he hasn't committed suicide if you're staying outside?" I asked incredulously, stopping short when I saw them whispering to one another.

Montague shrugged. "If he wants to die, what can we do anyway? I'll rather not have an Avada Kedavra my way in a misguided attempt at compassion. In any case, do you need us to accompany you?" He looked pointedly at the potion.

"I'll be fine." I waved them off. "One of you – please send a house-elf with Firewhiskey and Butterbeer up to Quirrell's office?"

"Why're you so nice to Quirrell?" asked Rosier blankly, straightforward. Since I'd technically ordered the whole of my House to be upfront with me, I shouldn't be surprised at this less-than-subtle approach.

"Because I'm a walking, talking personification of kindness," I responded drily, eliciting matching grins on their faces, before they sauntered off.

I frowned at the door, then I entered.

xXx

It has been way too long. I didn't even realize I had this chapter done months ago, and had left it gathering dust.

Next chapter, the story will divert into more. The Philosopher's Stone can apparently grant a corporeal body though how it does that exactly mystifies me ... does anyone have a substantial theory?

R&R