Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

By Silver Sailor Ganymede

An icy north wind blew down the corridors of Hogwarts, seeming to be not wind but the breath of a hungry Dementor that is searching for a soul to kiss.

The moon was full on that chilly June night, it's pure silver rays flowing in through the castle's high windows and causing imaginary demons to take form on the walls like shadows twisting in agony in Hell, begging, writhing and screaming for an escape from their prison.

The corridors were deserted but for one boy who walked fearlessly down these corridors as though he could not see the shadows dancing on the walls. The boy was clad in his usual thin, worn robes and did not seem to feel the soul-sapping cold. His unnaturally shaded eyes were visible even in the darkness, and they glinted with malice as he silently walked off the corridor and into one of the dungeon classrooms.

The classroom was deserted and seemed to have been that way for decades. The chairs and tables, which littered the room, were overturned and covered in moss, cobwebs and dust. The boy did not seem to care about this, but he leant against the stone wall in order not to cause the rotten wood of one of the desks to snap.

There was silence for a while, then a voice, which seemed more like the snarl of a wild beast due to years of not being used, spoke up from the shadows.

"Well, well Riddle, punctual as ever I see."

If the voice seemed ghastly, it was nothing compared to the being to which it belonged. He was the type if ghost that had inspired muggle horror movies and novels for centuries. His eyes were gaunt, blank and misted as though he was permanently stuck inside his own memories. His face was scarred and his hands were gnarled like the branches of an ancient tree. But the most terrifying aspect of this ghost's appearance was the fact that his spectral form was covered in translucent, silvery blood.

The boy, Riddle, did not say anything to his ghostly mentor, but instead let his thoughts wander once more as to how the ghost, nicknamed the 'Bloody Baron' came to be so covered in blood.

Riddle knew, and this was from an account by none other than the Baron himself, that the story behind the blood was more then what met the eye. Most believed that, during a raid on his castle sometime during the sixteenth century, Baron Satanael Slytherin had been murdered by enemy troops. The truth, which very few knew, was that Satanael's insane wife, Gabrielle, ordered the raids as a distraction while she brutally slew her husband in his sleep and then used 'Avada Kedavra' to kill herself. Six of their children, four sons and two daughters, were killed in the raids, but the youngest, Serafina, was away at the time and therefore survived. She married Henry Gaunt and founded the line of Slytherin from which Riddle himself was descended.

"Surely there was a reason for telling me to meet you here, other than us standing together in silence, of course" the Baron said.

Riddle nodded, "of course there was a reason, Baron."

"Then tell me, why are we here?"

Riddle sighed. "My plan worked; the Basalisk has killed a Mudblood, just like our ancestor, the great Slytherin, wished to happen. Blood has been spilled at Hogwarts."

"You seem troubled" the Baron noted. "Why? I thought that you of all people would have been pleased that this school is being purged of those who are unworthy to study magic, those whose filthy blood has tainted the world of wizards."

"I am pleased with that" Riddle replied. "Nothing could please me more, in fact, than knowing that there is now one less mudblood in the world."

"Then what troubles you, young Riddle?"

Riddle inhaled deeply and muttered something unintelligible.

"Would you speak up a bit? I can't hear you", the Baron said.

"I overheard Professors Dippit, Dumbledore and Slughorn talking earlier. Dippit said that the school will have to be closed if the attacks continue and if the person behind them is not caught."

The Baron frowned, "that is, indeed, worrisome news."

"I don't want to go to Azkaban for this" Riddle hissed. "I deserve a lifetime much better than an endless sentence in Azkaban. I, the last living heir of Slytherin; I must honour my ancestor's wishes."

"Who says that you're going to get caught?" the Baron hissed. "You are, in no way, like your mother, Merope, your uncle Morfin or your grandfather Marvolo. You aren't rash like a Gryffindor: you know what you're doing. Think, Riddle, think; is there nothing else in this castle that could kill a student?"

Riddle thought for a minute and then it hit him; "The Gryffindor third-year, Rubeus Hagrid. He has an acromantula in the castle. That monster could easily be blamed for the killing. Dippit will be convinced that I am right, and Hagrid will be expelled – and there will be one less half-breed polluting the air of our noble school!"

The Baron smirked, "I have taught you well, young Riddle. Yes, you truly are a Slytherin, unlike the others of our line."

"Even though I am a mudblood?"

"You may be a mudblood now, but soon, young Riddle, you shall be more pure than they could even hope to be."

Riddle nodded. He turned around to leave, but as he reached the door he stopped and turned around. His sable hair fell into his eyes, which had turned from their previously unnatural colour to a deep red, the colour of blood.

"But Baron, who is Riddle? Riddle does not exist anymore; the mudblood in me is dead, or at least he soon will be. Riddle is dead; I am Lord Voldemort."

Then the heir of Slytherin, with his eyes like hellfire, strode from the darkened room. And just as the Baron was covered in blood, so his apprentice's hands would be bloodstained also.

The Baron sighed; the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Voldemort's were bloodstained.