The Tale of Azure - Book I: Shades of Green and Blue

Chapter Thirty-One: The Heir of Slytherin's Goal

Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter", only my OC's. I certainly do not own the creepy message on the wall.

Warnings: paranoia, torture (implied)

For the last couple of weeks, thoughts of dead roosters and cold eyes had occupied Azure's head constantly, sometimes taking away her concentration. The other day, she had fallen asleep right in the middle of Transfiguration class. One week before, it was Potions and Ancient Runes; while Professor Slughorn had expressed his concern for her health yet again, Professor Selwyn was the opposite, as he had never liked her and the feeling was mutual.

Still, she respected him as a Professor of Ancient Runes. Ancient Runes was one of the subjects in which she tended to perform poorly. Myrtle's grades, however, were "Exceed Expectations" and this had only happened because she had to prove she hadn't cheated because Professor Selwyn, being the Pure-blood supremacist he was, believed that Muggle-borns – at least he never used the slur "Mudblood" – were inferior in magical prowess and intelligence.

She could have been expelled more than once, but her parents had always managed to get the idea out of the Headmaster's head. They never explained to her why she had to complete her education at Hogwarts when Beauxbatons, Mother's alma mater, was a possibility.

Finally, the Dark Aura; the presence she had sensed since she shared a compartment with Riddle was thicker than ever. It was smothering her, nearly making her pass out.

It didn't matter if he wasn't in front of her; just thinking about him made her skin crawl.

Like, now.

Gasping for breath, she turned her head around, but...there was nothing.

Bloody hell.

Shaking her head furiously, she continued at a much faster pace, trying to shake away the fact she was becoming too paranoid. Showing signs of great mental instability only meant one thing: a one-way trip to St. Mungo's.

"Paranoia. Just perfect," she spat after turning around the corner, a destination in mind: the Divination classroom. She had an apology and an assignment to deliver.

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A silhouette observed the empty corridor. Stepping into the daylight, the silhouette turned out to be a young handsome boy aged sixteen years old with black hair and an unreadable expression, the silver glint of the Prefect brooch contrasting against the black of his uniform and robes.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" A boy his age with short blond hair and caramel-coloured eyes asked casually.

Tom seemed a bit irritated at the fact he was being addressed with too much familiarity before he collected himself, a polite smile plastered on his face. "Nothing that you need to know. For now, Avery."

At Avery's side, stood Reynard Lestrange. Both were Lord Voldemort's "Knights" and his classmates to the public.

"Did you do it?" Tom asked Avery, who folded his arms, a sinister smirk on his face.

"He won't remember a thing, except for what he is supposed to remember."

"Good," Tom said, satisfaction clear in his voice; another part of the plan had been completed.

"My Lord," Lestrange addressed with deference. "Should we do something about the traître de sang?"

Tom's polite smile froze as Lestrange referred to the defiant witch whose mind he had slowly read for the past five years. "Not yet. She has unknowingly been useful to me," he smoothly replied, pulling his diary out of his robes. "That's the only reason why she is still breathing."

It won't be too long...

The self-proclaimed Heir of Slytherin allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction; patience was one of his virtues and he had dedicated his time to unveil every secret behind the blue-haired, watching her suffer during her "detentions" which had been nothing more than an excuse to practice the Unforgivables – the exception being the Imperio because Ashlane had an annoying immunity to it, something he had come across during his third year, and the infamous Killing Curse Avada Kedavra because he still lacked the power to cast it – and, most importantly, his Legilimency.

The results had been quite fruitful; he would be the first one to open the Chamber of Secrets, continuing what his Ancestor had planned to do one thousand years ago, and he would also ensure Azurelia Hildagarde Ashlane's utter destruction.

Two birds with one stone.

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Tim Collins, a fourth-year Muggle-born Gryffindor woke up in the middle of the Forbidden Forest covered in dried blood and rooster's feathers, hand still holding on a kitchen knife. Ten days later, after being interrogated by his Professors for his sudden disappearance and partial amnesia, the boy admitted he had no idea why he was holding the sharp utensil despite clearly remembering butchering the poor roosters. The Professors surmised he had been subjected to a memory-altering Charm, the author of which remained unidentified.

Following the celebration of Gryffindor's victory against Ravenclaw, Tim and his friend came across a threatening message written in human blood – his blood, he had later discovered – in the Charms Corridor's wall and under it, they found the Petrified body of a third-year Muggle-born Hufflepuff named Leonard Fairchild.

The message in question was: "ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE."

Headmaster Dippet concluded gravely that the Chamber of Secrets might not be a myth and reinstated a tighter curfew. The lives of his students were at stake.

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