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Tom stares down in shock at the book in front of him. He glances up quickly, discreetly casting his gaze across the room to make sure nobody is watching, then looks at the book again. The words haven’t changed. The diagram is the same as it was a few seconds ago. Who would have thought that Secrets of the Darkest Art, that book he ignored in his studies just a year previous, would have the one thing he has been searching for since before he knew magic was real?
Tom grabs a spare piece of parchment from his bookbag and places it next to the book to copy the page. Books from the Restricted Section stay in the library unless students have permission from a teacher. Normally, Tom would go to Professor Slughorn, but he can’t ask Slughorn for permission to take this book out. Tom can’t be seen with this book, which has given him the answer to his fears and desires. He carefully copies the page onto the parchment, taking time to make sure everything is perfect.
The creation of a horcrux may only be undertaken by those who fear Death above everything else… The creator is known as a Horsíxsius… With their soul tethered to a physical object, Horsíxsi can never truly die…
“Avery, I hear your father is a well-known Potions Master,” Tom says during breakfast. The others—Dolohov, Lestrange, Mulciber, and Rosier—sit nearby, listening but not interrupting. After forcing their respect in third year, it did not take very long for Tom to define their relationship. None of them speak unless spoken to.
“Oh, yes, he is,” Avery replies, spreading jam on his toast. Tom smiles at him, and the boy practically glows under the attention. “Only recently, my father defined the many uses of unicorn hair in potions in the Potioneer—you’ve heard of that journal, yes?” Avery looks at Tom expectantly.
“I have,” Tom says with a polite nod. “Your father must be proud to have a son skilled in Potions such as yourself. Do you plan to follow in his footsteps?”
“Only if you want me to,” Avery says, honesty dripping plainly from his every word. “I would say Mulciber is better at Potions than I am, although I am the better duellist.”
“I am certainly in no lack of talented wizards for friends,” Tom replies thoughtfully. Avery blushes, and it is all Tom can do to not scoff at him. He can be derisive later, but for now…
“As a Potions Master, your father would have many different types of cauldrons at his disposal,” Tom starts, pausing to allow Avery the chance to nod. He does. “Now that we’re in fifth year, we’re entering into harder and more complex potions, ones that may require more than simple pewter cauldrons. It would be quite easy for your father to send over a few spare cauldrons for his son, don’t you think?”
Avery thinks for a few moments, probably trying to see how he could convince his father to send him spare cauldrons. Tom clenches his fist in annoyance under the table—he clearly just stated how. Still, he puts on a patient smile as Avery finally replies, “Yes, I think he would. What cauldrons do you need?”
With this, Tom pulls out a small square of parchment, on which he had already written down Avery’s instructions. “I require two pewter, one copper, and one silver, all standard-size two. I would like them by Samhain, at the latest.”
Avery glances up at Tom in surprise. “But that’s two weeks from now!” he exclaims.
“Will you have any problems, Avery?” Tom asks, his voice measured.
Avery frowns but nevertheless shakes his head. “No, I can do it, I just—I have to send an owl right away. I’ll see you later, Tom!” With that, he stands up, abandoning his half-eaten piece of toast, and rushes out of the Great Hall. Tom smiles.
The Potion of Souls must be prepared ahead of time, as it takes four months to brew… The brewing requires two pewter, one copper, and one silver cauldron to switch between… Once made, it will keep forever…
Tom stands before the giant statue of his ancestor with some small measure of trepidation. Today, he will begin the Potion properly, or at least start the preparation phases. He glances over to the four cauldrons laying innocently in one of the side chambers. Then, with a deep breath, he looks back towards the statue and calls out, “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!” With this, he watches in fascination as the mouth opens wide, wider than one would think possible, and something starts to slither up from its depths.
“Is it you again, Little Master?” a voice calls from the statue.
“Yes, Nathaira, it is I,” Tom replies. “Close your inner eyelids so that I may look upon your beauty.”
Tom watches as Nathaira’s giant body slithers out from the statue’s mouth to encompass almost the entire main chamber, surrounding Tom in a sea of aquamarine scales. They fill his vision hypnotically as she continues to move, and Tom has to force himself to and instead focus on Nathaira’s diamond-shaped head. Her mouth pulls into a snake-like smile, and Tom nods back while carefully avoiding eye contact. Her eyes would still petrify him, even with the inner eyelids closed.
“I am the most beautiful snake in the land,” she brags, and Tom forces himself to smile. All snakes are vain, Tom knows, but Nathaira has to be the most self-centred, narcissistic being in the entire world. Tom doesn’t necessarily blame her for this, although it is irritating. After all, when one spends a thousand years with nothing but themself and their reflection, it is easy to inflate their own ego.
“None can hope to match your beauty, my dear,” Tom says. He waits for her to stop moving before he continues. “I have started a new project, of which you will be the most important aspect by far…”
“Oh, tell me, Little Master!” she cries eagerly. “What is it that requires my brilliance?”
“I am going to brew a potion, and for this, I require your venom and your scales. The Potion will never work without them, as they are central to its completion, and through this potion, I shall gain that which I have always wanted. Once I do, you will never have to be lonely again, and I will come down to praise you every day…”
“Will you bring others to praise me, Little Master?” she asks.
“I cannot,” Tom replies. “My gift is not one that can be shared, and for that I apologize.”
Nathaira hisses in anger, and Tom slowly fingers his wand. It is always a challenging game to appease her. “Then what shall you give me in return for my venom and scales?” she demands.
“What do you wish for?” Tom counters. “I can give you a great many things; all you must do is ask.”
Nathaira stays silent for a moment, and Tom holds his wand tighter, considering the best spell he could use to kill her if necessary. Basilisk scales are resistant to spell-fire, but if he can get her mouth open, then a well-aimed severing charm to her brain would do the job just fine, and that’s only considering Light spells. Then Nathaira’s head snaps towards the exit. “I wish to be let out!” she yells with another angry hiss. “I have been trapped here for almost my entire life, and I want to leave, to see the forest and the castle and scare all who come across me with my deadly beauty!”
Tom thinks quickly. There are only three options, and only one has a hundred percent chance of Tom coming out alive. Nathaira, although vain, is far too intelligent to let Tom get away with harvesting her venom and scales before he delivers on his promise, and since she’s the one who can kill him with just one tiny prick of her fangs, betraying her isn’t an option. Neither is killing her unless Tom is desperate, and he is most certainly not desperate. But simply letting her out isn’t the best option either…
“I cannot let you into the forest,” Tom says. “There are centaurs and all manners of beasts that will notice you, along with Ogg, who practically sleeps in there. If you go, you’ll surely be caught.” Nathaira writhes in fury, and Tom dodges her tail as she swats at him. “But I can let you into the castle, my dear. If you stay in the pipes and follow my voice, I can guide you through even the most secret parts of the castle no other student has seen. All in exchange for just one vial of venom and a few scales.”
“I like this plan, Little Master,” she says, giving another snake-like smile. “You will return tomorrow night to let me out and then collect my venom and scales.”
“Of course, my dear,” Tom replies, this time with a real smile. As Nathaira slithers back into the mouth of his ancestor’s statue, Tom quietly walks away, mentally planning the route he’ll guide Nathaira on and who to switch his Prefect rounds with to make it happen.
The Basilisk venom must soak inside the silver cauldron for exactly one moon cycle before the brewing process begins… The scales, to be used later in the Potion, must be collected at the same time as the venom…
Tom walks quickly through the halls, hissing descriptions to Nathaira under his breath so that no passing student would hear. “This is the Trophy room, which displays the accomplishments of students ranging all the way from the mid-1200s, which is when it was created, to the modern day. I hope to get a trophy or two of my own before I graduate, although without being part of the Quidditch team, my options are limited…”
“Are they shiny, Little Master? Do they glitter like my scales do in the light? I wish to exit the pipes so that I may see them for myself,” she says, and Tom has to stop himself from snapping at her. For the past hour, Nathaira has been asking to leave the pipes nearly nonstop.
“You cannot leave the pipes, my dear. If you do, you could kill somebody, which we can’t have happen.” The yet goes unspoken. Tom wants his first horcrux to be symbolic, and what would be better than having the symbol of his ancestry strike down the filthy mudbloods who roam about, pretending like they belong. Of course, that can only happen after he finishes the Potion of Souls, so he clenches his hand around his wand and keeps walking, telling himself that his current annoyance is all for something with lasting benefits… living forever.
“If I keep my inner eyelid closed, I’ll only petrify them.” The voice comes from directly behind him, and Tom turns around to see Nathaira’s aquamarine scales filling up the hallway, her diamond-shaped head hidden somewhere within the hypnotic mass. This time, Tom can’t hold back a suffering sigh. He should have killed her when he had the chance.
“I’m not going to ask how you managed to get out of the pipes while in the middle of a corridor, but this was not part of our deal,” Tom says angrily. “You are going to turn around and return to the Chamber of Secrets, and I will follow you to make sure you don’t wander off. When we get back, you will give me your venom and scales as forfeit for breaking your part of the arrangement, and perhaps I’ll find a new place to brew my potion so I don’t have to see your insufferable face again!”
“No!” Nathaira yells, and she rushes away faster than a bullet. Tom chases after her while mentally cursing himself. He was so close, and he just had to screw it up by letting his temper get the better of him. Now, of course, the new goal is trying to figure out how to get Nathaira back inside the Chamber before another student or professor runs into her and gets him expelled.
It isn’t until Nathaira’s body suddenly halts while in the middle of turning down a hallway that Tom is able to catch up to her. He starts to slow down while trying to catch his breath, and he hopes that she has got over her rebellion enough to reconsider. Although it is odd that she stopped so suddenly, not even moving to curl around herself… Once her body starts trembling, Tom immediately breaks into a run again, turning the corner so fast that he almost loses his balance, and skids to a halt at the sight of a body. “Shite.”
Tom slowly walks towards the body, passing Nathaira’s head where she was still staring at it. It was a Gryffindor girl, first or second-year by the looks of things, and a mudblood. How could she not be with those filthy, faded Muggle trousers? Tom forces himself to swallow his disgust as he touches the body to see if it is dead or just petrified. When her arm refuses to move at his nudge, he sighs a breath of relief. If she had died, then there would be investigations and the Ministry involved, and he doesn’t want anything to interrupt his brewing once he starts. Petrified, however… that he can work with.
Most of the upper-year Slytherins and all of Tom’s dormmates know he’s a Parselmouth. Any person with half a brain who knows would make the connection between Tom Riddle and Salazar Slytherin, despite his unfortunate upbringing, and the possibilities are endless. Yes, his friends are of rather high standing—Avery, Lestrange, and Rosier are all Sacred Twenty-Eight, and Dolohov and Mulciber purebloods in their own right. And their families have all sorts of useful connections that will be his once they are of age. However, he cannot truly say that any of them are wealthy, at least not on the same level as Malfoy, Nott, and the Blacks. Those are the true prizes, but they are, as of yet, out of Tom’s reach. He needs to impress them before they can fear him.
“My dear, it would be best for you to return to the Chamber now,” Tom says without turning to look at Nathaira. She slithers away, finding some sort of entrance into the pipes in the wall and using it to make her way back. Tom only reflects on the oddness of her following his orders for a moment before returning his attention to the petrified girl in front of him. He smiles.
After being collected, the Basilisk scales must be treated daily with an elixir of morning dew and ground unicorn horn until the time comes to add them… Do not allow anything else to come into contact with them…
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
A week before Yule holidays, Tom finds himself standing in front of the Forbidden Forest, holding a heavy bag. He isn’t afraid of the forest, simply cautious. The last time he was in there was at the end of fourth year, and he has no doubt that the centaurs wouldn’t be kind to a Dark wizard only a few years shy of adulthood. But he knows that he has to go in. The entire brewing process of the Potion of Souls rests on his success today, exactly one month after collecting Nathaira’s venom. Timing is critical.
Taking a deep breath, Tom walks confidently into the forest with his wand in one hand and bag in the other. With it only ten days from the winter solstice, the forest becomes very dark very quickly, and Tom has to pause for a second to let his eyes adjust. Once he can just barely see his hands in front of his face, he continues farther into the forest, counting his footsteps to ensure he’s going the right direction. After arriving at his destination, Tom finally holds out his wand in front of him and whispers, “Lumos.” An entire herd of Thestrals blink back at him.
Tom wanders through the herd until he finds the perfect specimen—a young adult with tail hair much longer than the average Thestral. He pulls out a piece of raw meat from his bag, courtesy of Nathaira, and holds it out to the Thestral, who sniffs at it curiously. Then Tom tosses the meat in the air, and the creature eagerly snaps its head around the meat, swallowing it whole. Tom takes a few steps back and repeats the process. The Thestral then takes a few steps towards Tom, and Tom smiles.
Tom guides the creature through the forest and into a small clearing while making sure none of the others follow him. He glances towards the carefully-hidden entrance to the Chamber to make sure he’s in the right place before turning back to the Thestral. He gives it another piece of meat. The Thestral playfully nudges him for more, and Tom obliges. When he has only one piece of meat left, Tom softly strokes its wing.
“Hello, buddy,” he says carefully. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” The Thestral nods and nudges Tom for more meat. “I really need your help,” he adds, widening his eyes. The Thestral tilts its head to the side, as if asking Tom what he needed. Tom almost scoffs at how easy this is. Thestrals are rather like little children—easy to convince if one emphasizes comradery. Forcing himself to focus back on the task at hand, Tom continues, “I’m brewing a really special potion, and in order to brew it, I need a strand of your tail hair. Do you think you could give one to me, since we’re friends?”
The Thestral appears to think for a little bit, then nods its head eagerly and turns around. Tom carefully strokes its tail hair and fingers one strand. He pulls on the strand, and to his surprise, it lets go with hardly any effort. Perhaps the creature purposely released it. Either way, Tom pockets the strand in his cloak and then takes out the last piece of meat and tosses it at the Thestral, who snaps it up and jumps around ecstatically, happy to help a friend.
Tom watches the Thestral play for a few moments while considering the best way to go about the next part. No matter what else, it can’t be able to fly away. He waits until the Thestral takes a small pause, facing away from him, then holds his wand out and whispers, “Diffindo.” Both wings fall to the ground, and the Thestral’s happy chirping immediately turns into terrified screeching so loud that Tom is forced to cast a silencing charm on the creature before it attracts anything else.
Now the Thestral is panicking and trying to run away. Tom conjures ropes to tie its legs and neck against a nearby tree. The creature still struggles, but it can’t move enough to lash out or break free. Tom holds out his wand steadily towards the Thestral’s chest and again whispers, “Diffindo,” while drawing a circle the size of his head. The Thestral screeches ever louder underneath the muffling charm, and Tom has to resist the temptation to kill it now and get it over with. Instead, he points his wand once more at the Thestral’s bleeding chest and says, “Accio Thestral heart.”
With the creature’s heart now beating wildly in his hands, Tom quickly casts a temporary stasis charm on it and hisses to open the Chamber entrance. He bolts into the entrance and runs through the labyrinth of tunnels to get to the main chamber, pausing just long enough to close the entrance behind him. When he gets to the main chamber, Tom rushes towards his side-chamber and cauldrons and releases the stasis. He only waits long enough to make sure the heart is beating before throwing it in the silver cauldron.
Nothing happens except for the soft sizzling of the basilisk venom starting to eat its way through the Thestral’s heart, just as it should. Sighing a breath of relief, Tom walks back to where he had left the dying Thestral and releases the binds. He levitates the now-deceased Thestral into the middle of the clearing and sets it on fire. While it burns, he vanishes the creature’s blood and carefully searches for any other signs of what had happened to get rid of. Nobody will ever know.
The Thestral tail hair must be freely given to the brewer, not forced through magic or trickery… Put the still-beating heart of the same Thestral that had given the hair in the venom and allow it to sit for eight days…
THE BLOOD OF THE PURE SHALL FOREVER ENDURE OVER THAT WHICH RUNS LIKE MUD.
“…now that there have been two attacks, I implore you, whoever you are, to come forward. You will not be expelled, just please, come forward. And if anyone, and I mean anyone, has any idea as to who the perpetrator is, I ask that they talk to their Head of House or to myself.” Dippet finishes his speech with a helpless look and sits down at the centre of the Head Table. Then the food appears.
As usual, Tom does not speak during dinner, and neither do his friends, not even to each other. Instead, they silently eat chicken and salad and mashed potatoes. The same cannot be said for Tiberius Nott.
“Did you see that petrified mudblood’s face?” he calls loudly to Alphard Black, who is seated right next to him. Black opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Nott adds, “It was even better than the first one. The utter terror that only a muggle can feel! We’ve got the mudbloods in Gryffindor and now Ravenclaw, and I’ll bet Hufflepuff is next!” Then Nott turns to Tom and says, even louder, “Or maybe the Heir’ll want the mudblood pretending to be a wizard and disgracing Slytherin’s name!” Tom clenches his fist underneath the table.
Earlier, Tom had thought that anyone with half a brain could connect his Parseltongue abilities with being the Heir of Slytherin. After all, Dumbledore already cornered him and questioned him about the Chamber, but he was unable to do anything without proof, especially once Tom suggested that the perpetrator could be someone simply pretending to be the Heir. Tom had thought opening the Chamber would be a perfect way to impress Nott, Malfoy, and the Blacks. Unfortunately, Tom underestimated Nott’s stupidity. The fool has an eighth of a brain at most.
Luckily, all those around him have an ounce of sense in them, if their terrified shushing is any indication. Black throws Tom a fearful, pleading stare, as if begging him to not punish Nott for his comments. Tom smiles but does not say anything. He will punish the imbecile eventually, but luckily for Nott, his pureblood status saves him from facing the wrath of the Heir.
Tom turns towards his friends and says, “I think I will drop by the library for an hour after dinner. Would you care to join me?” Their quick affirmatives please him. They don’t even know what Tom is really planning and already agree to cover for him.
After dinner, Tom leaves his friends at the library and makes his way up the stairs to the second-floor girls’ bathroom. It’s been eight days since he killed the Thestral, and now is the time for him to add its tail hair, freely given. Tomorrow, the others will leave for Yule, and Tom will be left to his own devices.
After adding the hair of the Thestral, the Potion must be checked on daily for one moon cycle… Stir anticlockwise fifty-one times each day… Do not move the cauldron even one hair’s breadth from its location…
Tom watches the clock impatiently, holding his wand in one hand and an empty vial in the other. As soon as the minute hand twitches, he points his wand at the back of his hand and whispers, “Diffindo.” He watches impassively as blood drips out until it fills up the vial, then heals his hand and caps the vial. The minute hand twitches again and comes to rest with the hour hand, pointing straight up. Another wonderful birthday come and gone again.
Tom walks out of the Common Room and silently makes his way through the dungeons, casting muffling charms on his feet and notice-me-nots on his person. Even though he knows any professor who he might run across wouldn’t try to stop him, he doesn’t want to have to come up with an explanation for his actions. And he certainly doesn’t want to run into Dumbledore, who would confiscate his vial and ruin everything. Timing is critical.
“Open up and give me stairs,” Tom says to the snake in the faucet, and he watches as the sink glows a brilliant white and descends into the floor, leaving behind a pipe large enough to slide into. Ridges jut out from the edges of the pipe, just large enough that Tom can stand on them and just small enough that he doesn’t hit his head while walking down. After reaching the bottom, he makes an immediate right down a smaller side tunnel, leading him to the main chamber in a fraction of the time the main tunnel would take.
Tom turns to the side chamber where his four cauldrons sit and place the vial of his blood next to Nathaira’s scales on the nearby shelf. Then, with a small sigh, he pulls up his sleeves and turns to the Potion. He holds his wand above the cauldron and begins spinning it anticlockwise, counting under his breath. “One… two… three… four… five…” Oh, the things he does for immortality.
The prospective Horsíxsius must collect a vial of their own blood at the exact moment of the anniversary of their birth… The blood must be allowed to congeal and must be added two moon cycles after the scales…
IT IS THE WEAK THAT FALL TO THE STRONG, THE LATTER TO WHICH THE PURE BELONG.
“… due to the latest attack, there will be restrictions put in place for the safety of the students,” Professor Dumbledore announces to the rest of the Great Hall. Everyone immediately starts whispering, ignoring the bacon and sausages in favour of trying to determine who the victim of the previous night is and what the new restrictions are going to be. Once the whispers die down, Dumbledore continues. “All students will travel about the castle in groups of at least three. Curfew will be brought forwards an hour and more strictly enforced. Common Rooms will be locked at night. Thank you.”
The entire Great Hall breaks out into nervous chatter. Tom watches as over half of the students at the Hufflepuff table refuse to eat, looking sick. The empty spot where the newly petrified second-year is supposed to be sitting appears very ominous indeed, and a sense of satisfaction rushes through Tom as Malfoy follows his stare to the grieving Hufflepuffs and blanches. Tom sends Malfoy a small smirk.
“Hey, Riddle, where’s Headmaster Dippet?” Lestrange asks, interrupting the silent conversation between Tom and Malfoy. Tom turns to Lestrange and gives him a pointed stare. Lestrange, quickly realising his mistake, ducks his head nervously as the other four glance between the two with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
Tom glares at Lestrange but still chooses to reply. “Well, Lestrange, let us think a bit,” he begins slowly, as if talking to a child. “He isn’t obligated to attend, but he certainly loves his English breakfast. His favourite part of the day, or so I’ve heard. In fact, I would imagine he’d only skip it for something very important, such as, perhaps, another petrification, yes?”
“Right,” Lestrange mumbles, his face red. He opens his mouth again but closes it. Only when Tom raises an eyebrow in askance does he add, “What about the restrictions?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the restrictions,” Tom answers to the group. “Rules are, after all, only as good as those who enforce them, and with only twenty professors to monitor ten floors across three separate sections of the castle… they’ll require assistance.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Alphard Black flinch ever so slightly at his words. Nott is, of course, as oblivious and idiotic as ever, shovelling eggs into his mouth at such a rapid pace that he, fortunately, doesn’t have enough time in between to speak.
“Tom?” Avery says hesitantly. When Tom inclines his head, he continues. “My father wishes to know what sort of potions I’ve been brewing with the cauldrons he sent me.”
Tom considers what to answer for a moment before speaking. “You brewed the Grand Wiggenwald Potion these past few weeks, starting when you returned from Yule and finishing only yesterday. Now that you’ve finished the potions you needed the silver cauldron for, you can send it back with your letter of gratitude. I’ll have it to you this afternoon,” he replies. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he adds, “I would recommend learning how to brew the Grand Wiggenwald Potion in case your father wants to test your knowledge this summer.”
Avery nods his understanding, and Tom gives him a smile that causes him to puff out his chest in pride once more. Yes, Avery is far too easy. They continue breakfast as Tom does his best to ignore Professor Dumbledore’s suspicious stares.
That afternoon, Tom has Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier accompany him to the Chamber’s entrance, telling them to wait in the classroom just across from the bathroom. When he returns, he hands Avery the silver cauldron, as clean as the day he received it, and orders the others to follow Avery to the Owlery to deliver the letter and package. Then Tom returns to the Chamber to stir the Potion.
Exactly one moon cycle after adding the Thestral’s hair, the Basilisk’s scales must be added… Immediately afterwards, the Potion must be transferred to one of the pewter cauldrons… Stir clockwise 113 times daily…
Tom scowls to himself as he turns to another empty corridor. One would think there would be people actually walking around Hogwarts, especially considering it being a Saturday afternoon. But the past two groups of people he came across were all high halfbloods or better, and he can’t very well petrify them. Not yet, anyways.
“Little Master, why is it taking so long?” Nathaira complains. “I want to get this over with so I can go back and admire my reflection in the Chamber.”
Tom considers himself very lucky that Nathaira cannot see his murderous expression from inside the pipes. He checks his pocketwatch and frowns even deeper at the time. He has only fifteen minutes before he needs to be back in the Chamber to add his blood to the Potion, and he really wants to get the petrification out of the way while he has the free time. At this rate, he will have to wait another week until next Saturday to do anything, and he already skipped petrifying for all of February…
“It is taking longer than usual because you have been doing such a lovely job, my dear,” Tom replies, forcing himself to sound cheerful despite his rapidly falling mood. Another empty corridor. “With your help, we’ll have the imposters out of commission in no time, and your name will be remembered by all as Nathaira, the Queen Snake who saved the school from infiltration.”
“They’d better,” she says. “You promised they would praise me. I get bored of only your compliments, you know…”
Tom doesn’t reply and instead turns another corridor. Finally! He sees a trio of students making their way towards him. With Tom being Disillusioned, the trio don’t notice him, which gives him the time to determine who they are and what their blood status is. Mary Ryder, Peter Thatcham, and Jean Lewis. All of whom have either muggles or mudbloods as parents. It took a while for Rosier to get the student documents once Tom requested them, but the long wait is paying off now.
“There they are, my dear,” Tom says. “Petrify them.” And she does, rushing out of the pipes and staring at them with inner eyelids closed while Tom checks his pocketwatch again. Now he has ten minutes, but it won’t take him longer than five to get to the Potion if he doesn’t ask for stairs. He’ll have to slide down the slimy pipe and ruin his robes, but it will be worth it, in the end.
“I’m finished, Little Master!” Nathaira calls out gleefully. Tom surveys the scene with a smile. All three on the floor, looks of utter terror on their faces. One of them even holds a mirror in their hand, as if that would make a difference. Still, Tom confiscates the mirror and lines them up in a row against the corridor wall. He conjures more red paint and sets to work, using his wand to trace the words onto the wall.
When he finishes, Tom casts a muffling charm on himself and, still Disillusioned, runs to the Chamber. Nathaira follows him in the pipes, but Tom doesn’t bother giving her instructions. He orders the sink open and slides through the pipe, even casting a quickening charm to hasten his descent. With a cushioning charm to soften his landing, Tom runs down the right tunnel until he makes it to the main chamber and just barely stops himself from slipping on water while turning towards the Potion.
Tom checks his pocketwatch again. Twenty seconds. He grabs the vial of blood and uncaps it, winces at the stench, and uses his wand to levitate it out. As soon as the time comes, he dumps his blood into the cauldron and watches as the Potion begins to bubble rapidly. He then transfers the Potion into the copper cauldron and lets out a sigh of relief when it turns the correct shade of killing-curse green.
The prospective Horsíxsius’ blood must be added exactly two moon cycles after the scales, down to the very second… the Potion must be transferred to the copper cauldron and allowed to sit for half a moon cycle…
TAINTED BLOOD WHICH LASTS FOR EONS SHALL ALWAYS FALL UNTIL TAINTED ARE GONE.
Tom’s manufactured smile immediately slips off his face as soon as he turns away from the class of third-year Hufflepuffs that he was forced to escort to Charms. He waves off Professor Timbley with a casual expression and then makes his way down the corridors to the Chamber entrance alone. One good part of being a prefect and having to escort students between classes now is that it allows him to wander the corridors by himself, even though nobody else is allowed anymore. Especially with his friends covering for him, it makes his tasks much easier to complete.
Tom is almost to the correct bathroom when he sees another student passing the opposite hallway. He would say the student is sneaking around if it weren’t for the fact that said student is a nine-foot-tall half-giant with a penchant for getting into trouble. Tom narrows his eyes and glances between the bathroom and Hagrid’s retreating form. He does have to transfer the Potion into the second pewter cauldron sometime today, but he also has his reputation to upkeep, having been the prefect to catch Hagrid wrestling trolls in the Forbidden Forest at the beginning of the year.
Suppressing a sigh, Tom walks past the bathroom entrance and Disillusions himself to follow Hagrid. He doesn’t bother muffling his footsteps because every step that Hagrid takes is already louder than even Tom’s stomping would be. He follows Hagrid to the first floor and then, to his surprise, down the stairs to the dungeons. They pass the Potions classroom and continue deeper into the dungeons, and Tom wonders what Hagrid is up to that would allow the Gryffindor to be so familiar in Slytherin territory.
Eventually, Hagrid comes to a pause outside an empty classroom, and Tom watches impatiently as the half-giant looks around with such unsubtly that Godric Gryffindor himself would be proud. Tom follows Hagrid inside the classroom with his wand in hand, knowing there will be some sort of Cerberus or baby dragon waiting inside. Tom is mildly impressed when he doesn’t immediately see any dangerous creature—Hagrid must have learned something from when he was raising werewolf cubs underneath his bed.
Hagrid walks over to a large, wooden chest in the corner of the room and says, “Alohomora.” The chest pops open, and from inside crawls out a creature so hairy that it’s no wonder Hagrid found his company with it. The thing crawls up Hagrid’s arms and onto his hair, and only then does Tom recognize it for what it is: a baby Acromantula, about the size of Tom’s face.
Tom walks to the door and undoes his Disillusionment. Then he opens and closes the door again, and, as if he just arrived, says, “Hagrid, what are you doing, breaking the rules again?”
Hagrid turns around in shock and grabs the Acromantula off his head, hiding it behind his back as if it wasn’t obvious what he was doing the second he opened the chest. “Tom!” he says, and Tom clenches his fist behind his back at Hagrid’s use of his first name. “What yer doin’ down here?”
“As Prefect, it is my job to ensure students follow the rules. You know this, Hagrid,” Tom replies measuredly. “If you’re breeding Acromantulas, then I have to report it.”
“No!” Hagrid cries, holding the creature close to his chest. “Not Aragog! They’ll take ‘im away!”
Tom barely stops himself from scowling. Trying to get Hagrid’s creatures away from him is akin to convincing a toddler that the toy they’re holding isn’t indeed theirs. “Acromantulas grow very fast, Hagrid. You won’t be able to keep him in this classroom for very much longer, and I’m sure… Aragog will be much happier with others of his kind in Southeast Asia.” Hagrid responds by holding the creature tighter in his arms and whimpering. It takes Tom a few seconds to realize that Hagrid is crying.
“Don’… take away… Aragog,” Hagrid sobs.
Tom slowly considers his options. If he turns in Hagrid and the creature now, the creature would be sent away and Hagrid expelled, if Dippet follows through with his promise from last time. Tom would be congratulated by the Slytherins for getting rid of a half-breed and possibly get Malfoy or Alphard Black on his side. The Gryffindors would hate him even more than they already do, but Tom has never really cared for their opinions.
On the other hand, if Tom keeps quiet about the creature, Hagrid would be indebted to him. Tom doesn’t know what use he might ever have for Hagrid, but it’s never a bad thing to have possible blackmail material or to have people owe him favors. If any professors found out about Hagrid having an Acromantula, Tom could feign innocence. But if Hagrid is still in possession of the creature once it’s old enough to excrete venom, Tom could convince him to give some to his old school-friend…
Tom puts a gentle smile on his face. “It’s alright, Hagrid. I won’t tell anybody,” he says kindly. “You really care for Aragog, don’t you?”
“I got ‘im as an egg,” Hagrid replies, although he continues to sniffle. “I’m raisin’ him for me dad. He died las’ year, an’ he always loved my creatures.”
“I see.” Tom watches impassively as Hagrid rubs the creature’s back. “But you do realize that what you’re doing is against the school rules, including the new restrictions?” Hagrid nods his head miserably, and Tom adds, “It isn’t safe for you to be wandering about and raising an Acromantula with the Heir petrifying people. Being a half-giant, I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever it is might want to target you.”
“I can take care o’ meself,” Hagrid replies. Tom wants to simultaneously laugh at him and curse him for his stupidity. “An’ if I’m not here, who’ll take care o’ Aragog?” Tom opens his mouth to reply when Hagrid gets an oddly contemplative look on his face. Tom hopes the half-giant isn’t thinking about getting a baby dragon to keep the creature company. “Tom, would yeh take care o’ him, if I ever can’t?”
“Of course,” Tom says. He would probably toss the creature in the Forbidden Forest to annoy the centaurs. “Now, let’s get you back to Gryffindor Tower. It’s dangerous to be wandering alone.”
A half-moon cycle after adding the prospective Horsíxsius’ blood, the Potion must be transferred to a pewter cauldron… Leave alone… If brewed correctly, the Potion will finish in a half-moon cycle and turn silver…
“Tom, do you find the dangers of Human Transfiguration humorous?” Professor Dumbledore asks, breaking from his anecdote about a man who accidentally Transfigured his legs into tree trunks and roots and couldn’t undo it. Tom guesses that the story will end with the man either having to be stuck there for the rest of his life or having his legs severed. Dumbledore always does give the most dire warnings.
Tom glances up from his Transfiguration notes to give Dumbledore a level stare, although he cannot rid himself of the small smile that has been practically plastered on his face all day. “No, sir.”
Dumbledore gives Tom his own smile in return, although it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are instead watching Tom carefully. “I suppose, then, you’re simply distracted,” he says. Despite the mild tone, Tom knows that Dumbledore means to express his disapproval and warning. This is nothing new, of course. The man has never trusted Tom, except for perhaps that small period of time in between seeing Tom’s name on his Hogwarts acceptance letter and speaking to Ms. Cole at the orphanage.
“I think most of the school has been distracted this past year, sir,” Tom replies evenly.
Dumbledore’s mouth twitches. “The reasons why are not something to be happy about, I would think, Tom.” At this, Lestrange opens his mouth to come to Tom’s defence, but Tom stops him with a glance. He turns back to Dumbledore, who is still studying him with his annoyingly blue eyes. “Most people who are distracted are that way out of fear.”
“Well, sir, I suppose it’s good that you found a student distracted by something to smile about, instead,” Tom says. Dumbledore gives Tom one more scrutinizing stare before turning back to the rest of class and continuing his lecture about the dangers of Human Transfiguration. The man has to have his legs severed.
As soon as class is over, Tom tells Rosier to cover for him and escort the fourth-year Slytherins to Herbology. Then he Disillusions himself and muffles his footsteps. He passes by the first-year Gryffindors on the way to the Chamber entrance and laughs silently at just how terrified of their shadows they all are. Everything is funny today. Tom will probably regret his lack of self-control later, but for right now, there are more important things.
When Tom finally enters the main chamber, he stops himself from immediately going to look at the Potion. Normally, people would make themselves wait for this type of thing to build excitement. The Potion will keep forever once it’s made, so Tom can make himself wait in anticipation for as long as he wants. But really, who cares about being a normal person when one can be immortal? With a decisive nod, Tom enters the side chamber and immediately looks towards the Potion in the last remaining cauldron.
The Potion is silver.
Tom fills thirteen separate vials with the Potion. He decides to keep one on himself, layered with unbreakable charms and notice-me-nots so that nobody will see him carrying it. He doubts anyone would be able to recognise what it is by sight alone, but Dumbledore would still confiscate it and possibly have Professor Slughorn break it down. Once the vial is safely in one of his robe pockets, Tom casts cleaning charms on the pewter cauldron and the rest of the room until the only evidence of his nearly six months of work are the twelve vials standing neatly beside each other on the shelf.
Tom will return the cauldron to Avery tomorrow. For now, of course, he decides to celebrate. “Speak to me Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!”
One batch of the Potion will allow for the creation of over six horcruxes… The prospective Horsíxsius must not let the blood of any other person touch it before use… Drink at the appropriate time during the ritual…
THOSE MUDDIED WHO DO NOT FALL IN LINE SHALL MEET THEIR FATED END IN TIME.
Tom is very much beginning to regret ever letting Hagrid get away with raising an Acromantula. “… an’ the fangs are only tiny righ’ now, see? Not dangerous at all. He don’t get the venom until he’s five.” Hagrid pokes at the creature’s fangs while he touches them, and Tom suppresses the urge to curse him. When Hagrid looks back up to see if Tom was watching, Tom gives him a manufactured smile. He doesn’t know if he is able to keep the murderous intent out of his eyes, but in the dark of the abandoned classroom, Hagrid doesn’t notice. “C’mon, don’ be shy. He’s real friendly.”
Very reluctantly, Tom takes a few steps towards the creature, which is now about the size of a large pumpkin, and gingerly pats one of its legs. He keeps his hands far from the pincers, not trusting Hagrid to know if a creature is dangerous or not after being caught with a baby Yeti the year previous. Then, taking a step back, Tom says, “Right, Hagrid. That’s wonderful. You—”
“Rubeus.”
Tom blinks at the interruption. “Pardon?”
“Call me Rubeus,” Hagrid repeats. “It’s only fair, with us bein’ friends an’ all.”
Tom would very much rather kill Hagrid and leave his body to rot in the Forbidden Forest for interrupting him for the seventeenth time in the past month. This, he supposes, is his punishment for not taking care of things in the first place. “Well then, Rubeus. You said this was an emergency?”
“Yeah, yeh have to see this,” Hagrid says, and he turns towards the chest again, leaving the creature on the table. It stares at Tom, and he fingers his wand tighter in his hand. When Hagrid turns back, Tom expects to see him holding a dead body or some part of the creature that has fallen off. Instead, Hagrid holds an odd wooden object with a wide ring on one side and a bunch of wooden disks held together by strings on the other. He takes the object over to the creature, and Tom watches somewhat curiously as Hagrid violently shakes the object. The wooden disks clatter against each other.
“Is that a rattle, Rubeus?” Tom asks. The creature hooks one of its legs through the ring and grabs the rattle right out of Hagrid’s hands. To Tom’s disgust, the creature then bites the rattle and shakes it around, tiny droplets of spider slobber flying across the room. Tom vanishes a glob as soon as it lands on his arm—he doesn’t know if it will eat through his skin or not. Hagrid watches the creature play with the rattle without saying anything, and Tom feels more frustration flare up inside of him. He doesn’t appreciate his questions going unanswered. “Hagrid, the emergency?” he repeats, somewhat colder than before.
“Righ’!” Hagrid exclaims. “Aragog said his firs’ word!”
Tom is not impressed. “You dragged me down here in the middle of the night to tell me that Aragog said his first word?” he says dully.
“Yeah! I was jus’ takin’ care o’ him the other nigh’, and…” Hagrid is clearly unaware of Tom’s annoyance, if his jabbering is any indication. Tom thinks to his vial of Potion in his robes pocket. They are all alone. It’s unlikely anybody will come across them while Tom performs the ritual, especially if he puts notice-me-not and silencing charms on the door. The creature can easily be taken care of once Hagrid’s dead. The only matter would be figuring out what to use as the receptacle and how to cover it up afterwards. Yes, he wants his first horcrux to be symbolic, but he also wants Hagrid gone. The second can be symbolic instead. “… an’ then he jus’ said it. ‘Agrih,’ he said. An’ I thought, tha’s me!”
“That sounds exciting,” Tom says automatically. He’ll wait to get rid of Hagrid later, preferably sometime after the creature is old enough to get him Acromantula venom. “Now, Rubeus, do you know what an emergency means?”
“Well, it’s sommat you need to be quick abou’,” Hagrid replies.
“Yes,” Tom says. “Can you tell me anything else about emergencies?” Hagrid stays silent, looking down at his feet. Tom hopes it is because Hagrid realized what an idiot he is, but he knows this is unlikely. He suppresses a sigh and adds, “When something is an emergency, it means it is serious, unexpected, and dangerous. This is why it requires an immediate response. Are you with me so far?”
“Yeah,” Hagrid mumbles. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, Tom. I jus’ got excited…”
“It’s alright, Rubeus,” Tom replies, suppressing a sigh. He wishes he never chose to follow Hagrid to the dungeons in the first place. The Acromantula venom better be worth it.
Horcruxes are formed with the splitting of the soul, which is done through murder without remorse… The murder can be carried out by either the prospective Horsíxsius or by something directly under their control…
THE UNWORTHY WILL NOT OUTLIVE THOSE TO WHICH MAGIC BELONGS AS A GIFT.
“I am pleased to announce that the Mandrakes are only two and a half weeks from maturation,” Professor Beery says to the class in his usual overdramatic tone. “With the help of you fifth years, we’ll be able to make the Mandrake Restorative Draught in no time to return those petrified to rights again.” The Ravenclaws all clap politely, but most of the Slytherins stay silent. Looking somewhat disappointed at the lack of reaction, Professor Beery continues explaining what task he has set for the class: popping pimples.
Tom glances down at the teenaged Mandrake in front of him with faintly-concealed disgust as Professor Beery walks around the room and helps people cast silencing charms on their plants. Mandrake pus certainly has useful properties in potions, of course, but it is also so corrosive that everyone has to wear their dragon-hide gloves instead of the normal charmed-leather. Tom will have to get Avery to clean his gloves afterwards to make sure they don’t interrupt with brewing.
While he works, Tom can hear the Ravenclaws chatting to each other, mostly about the latest attack and the Heir. “Poor Alice,” Millicent Bagnold says to her partner. Her voice carries across the entire greenhouse. “I still think it’s Nott or one of the Blacks. After all, whoever it is can’t really be the Heir of Slytherin with the Gaunts all but died off.” Tom pauses for a moment before having to dodge the insides of a particular nasty pimple.
“The Gaunts?” asks Bagnold’s partner.
“Yes,” Bagnold replies in a softer voice. Tom starts working mechanically, focusing on her every word. “My mum works in genealogy at the Ministry. She told me the last descendants of Slytherin are a family called the Gaunts, but they’re all but gone now. The last two left are Morfin and his father, Marvolo.” Tom’s knife slips. His Mandrake starts writhing, and he glances down to see that he accidentally sliced off a chunk of its cheek. Cursing his lack of attention, Tom quickly casts a healing charm on the plant, but the sudden movement catches everyone’s attention.
“Are you alright, Mr Riddle?” Professor Beery asks.
“Yes, sir,” Tom replies with a smile. “I’m fine.”
Everyone in the class goes back to work, and Tom waits for Bagnold to keep talking to her partner. She doesn’t. Tom feels a spike of annoyance at first, but it is quickly overtaken by curiosity and excitement. This Marvolo Gaunt must be his grandfather, if he’s a descendent of Slytherin. If that’s true, then not only does Tom have a new area to research in the month and a half before term ends, but he also has an uncle. He could meet his family this summer and, if all goes well, get away from the orphanage for good.
Tom’s Mandrake gives him an affronted look, one of its leaves brushing over the new scar on its cheek. Tom ignores it and slices his knife through another pimple.
The ritual must take place within a day of the murder, before the soul heals itself… Draw the runic circle in the same location of the murder… Place the victim face-up inside the circle, with their limbs spread apart…
Tom paces in the classroom across from the Chamber entrance, considering his options. Tomorrow, the Mandrake Restoration Draught will be administered to all the mudbloods he petrified, which will superficially restore order to the school. Tom doubts anybody will ever really feel safe again, especially those petrified, but the appearance of order will be retained. For the most part, his attacks have done what they were supposed to—Tom is now certain that he’s caught the attention of Malfoy and Black and that they’re scared of him. However, he also knows that if he just allows the mudbloods to be put right without some sort of final stand, all of his hard work will be for nothing.
“You could always destroy the draught before they get to administering it,” Avery suggests. “Then they’ll have to wait another year.” Tom pauses his pacing long enough to glance towards Avery sitting on top of the desk before continuing. The thought has merit, but it just isn’t permanent enough.
“No,” he says. “They’ll most likely order Mandrakes or the Restoration Draught from elsewhere, which will make my destruction seem pathetic and poorly-thought-out.”
“But is it really necessary to get Malfoy or the Blacks on your side?” Avery asks.
“Yes,” Tom replies, turning to glare at Avery. “Of all of my friends, your family is by far the richest, but do you think you can afford to sustain my plans?” Avery mutely shakes his head, and Tom forces himself to stop pacing and place a manufactured smile on his face. “Wars are expensive, Avery,” he says softly. “I need support from the filthy rich before I start an uprising.” Along with further research into obscure Dark Magic and the creation of his horcruxes… “Actually, Avery, you have just given me the perfect idea.”
“Really?” Avery asks, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “What is it?”
“The less who know, the better, Avery,” Tom says. “For now, return to the Common Room and tell the others that they are to stay in the dorm and cover for me. Disillusion yourself, of course, but try to avoid professors anyways.” Then Tom plucks a single piece of hair off his head and hands it to Avery. “For the Polyjuice, only if you need it,” he instructs. “And remember, you’re the only one allowed to assume my form. I trust your judgement for if you feel it is necessary.” Being the most timid of his friends, Tom knows Avery will wait until the last possible second before using it for fear of annoying him.
“Alright,” Avery says, and with a small bow, he Disillusions himself and exits the classroom. Tom smiles—he never told them they have to bow in private. Perhaps he should.
Tom waits a few moments after Avery leaves to enter the bathroom, just in case. Even Disillusioned, he knows it is possible to be noticed if one isn’t careful enough, and it is vital that nobody notices him today, especially Professor Dumbledore. Tom walks straight towards the correct faucet and touches the carved snake, pouring his magic into it to call Nathaira. “Come up, my dear, so that we may rid ourselves of the last imposters,” he says to the carved snake. He knows Nathaira can hear him. “But do not close your inner eyelids. Leave them open so that the next imposter who sees your beauty will perish.”
“Yes, Little Master,” hisses the carved snake, relaying Nathaira’s words from somewhere inside the Chamber.
“Tell me when you have completely exited,” Tom orders. Then, looking directly at the sink, he says, “Open up.” At his command, the sink glows white and descends into the floor, and Tom walks away to look out the window, careful to avoid Nathaira’s deadly gaze. He listens as the sound of Nathaira’s scales sliding across stone grow louder from inside the pipe and stops himself from looking back to see how far along she is. Patience is not one of his strongest traits. Still, Tom waits somewhat patiently for Nathaira to announce her presence.
Before this can happen, he hears the click of a stall door unlocking and the thump of a body on the floor, too heavy to be only a cat or other familiar. Tom resists the impulse to immediately turn around and see what happened. Instead, he says, “Close your eyelids, my dear. Both of them.” Nathaira does not reply, but the heavy sound of her outer eyelids closing confirms that she did as he asked.
When Tom turns around, he expects some sort of dead creature, preferably a human and preferably a mudblood. Somehow, as if Fate for once favours him, this is exactly what he sees. Lying face up with broken glasses is Myrtle Warren, the Ravenclaw mudblood famous for crying at every tiny bad thing that happens to her. Tom can tell from the way her legs are crossed over each other, as if she twisted when she fell, that she is indeed dead and not petrified. A petrified person would just fall over like a wooden board.
Tom casts one glance towards Nathaira, waiting still with her eyes closed, before turning towards the bathroom entrance and casting the strongest notice-me-not and silencing charms on it that he can. He briefly wonders if the ritual will work, since he did not directly order for Warren’s death. Then he shakes his head at his doubts. Nathaira is directly under his control, and Tom was the one who told her to open her eyelids for the direct purpose of killing the next person who saw them. It just so happened that the next person came along sooner than intended. Sooner, yes, but not unwanted.
After ordering Nathaira to return to the Chamber, Tom levitates Warren to the side and pulls out the parchment on which he had written down the instructions for the ritual at the very beginning of the school year. It is worn from being constantly folded and unfolded, and Tom knows he can recite everything he wrote word-for-word and draw the runic circle from memory if he wishes to. However, he decides to use it as a guide, just to be sure. He enlarges the parchment and places it against the wall with a sticking charm.
Tom conjures a thin piece of chalk and gets to work, carefully tracing out each tiny rune in the circle exactly as shown in the book. Kenaz, for the vital fire of life. Eihwaz, for the tree of death. Laguz, for success. Many others join them, from all types of runic systems, even ones that seem like they should never intermix. Jupiter, for spirit. Pluto, for power. Uranus, for transformation. They spiral inwards in seven curved lines from the edge of the circle to the middle. He leaves five empty spaces along the edge of the circle—one for each of Myrtle’s hands and feet and one for her head.
Connected to the head of the circle, Tom draws another, simpler circle with only one rune in the centre: his rune, which he created and connected to his magic in his third year.
Tom levitates Warren’s body into the circle with her chest in the very center and her limbs spread to touch the empty spaces. Her eyes stare unblinkingly at the ceiling. While sitting in the simple circle, Tom reaches into his robes and pulls out the vial containing the Potion of Souls and his diary. He places the vial to the side but keeps the diary in his lap. Tom glances towards the parchment on the wall to make sure he has everything correct. Then he takes in a deep breath before letting it out. It is time to begin.
Tom reaches over to touch Warren’s chest, keeping most of his body in his circle. Then he begins to chant. “Kaleíno í psýchí afchmirós, í díchorragís, í aimorragís adelfós óde eapokteíneina. Diaireíne, méneine ek í dexamení te zínso aióniós.” I call forth the tarnished soul, broken and bleeding like the one I killed. Split, stay in this container, and I will live eternally.
Tom keeps one hand on Warren’s chest and touches the other to his diary. “Kaleíno í psýchí afchmirós, í díchorragís, í aimorragís adelfós óde eapokteíneina. Diaireíne, méneine ek í dexamení te zínso aióniós,” he repeats. The words start sounding faint, as if they are coming from far away. Still, he continues, taking his hand off Warren’s chest and placing them both on the diary. “Kaleíno í psýchí afchmirós, í díchorragís, í aimorragís adelfós óde eapokteíneina. Diaireíne, méneine ek í dexamení te zínso aióniós!”
The pain starts, burning from his chest and behind his eyes. Tom places the diary on Warren’s chest with shaking hands. Then his vision goes dark. He gropes blindly for the vial, and as soon as he feels its cool glass beneath his fingers, he uncaps it and drinks the Potion before his hands are unable to hold anything. His hearing goes out next, followed by all physical sensation except for a burning underneath his skin, as if his veins were on fire and his blood turned into acid. At this point, Tom doesn’t know if he is screaming or not—he can’t focus on anything other than the screaming in his head. He feels like he’s dying.
The pain stops without warning, but Tom knows the process isn’t over. He opens his eyes to a brilliant grey light hovering over nothingness, although he supposes it is really floating above his diary. Closing his eyes again, Tom focuses on his fear of death. He blocks out all other sensations, allowing the fear to consume him as the pain had consumed him previously. He can feel his heart racing, his breathing quicken, and his skin tingle madly as he focuses on what nothingness will await him if he dies. He uses his fear as a tunnel, allowing his magic to escape from inside him only through that tunnel and gather towards the light.
The grey light cracks, and a piece breaks off, and Tom’s world explodes into pain once more.
The prospective Horsíxsius must focus on their fear of Death beyond anything else… Repeat the chant three times while transferring touch from the victim to the receptacle… This stimulates the sacrifice of the soul…
“Speak to me Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!” Tom commands. It is only two days after the creation of his first horcrux and the framing of Hagrid and Aragog for everything, and Tom stands in front of the slowly-opening statue of his ancestor, ignoring his slight twinge of melancholy. After reviewing his notes yesterday, Tom found that feeling empty is a possible side effect of horcrux-creation, due to having a thirteenth less of his soul inside of him. Tom knows he’ll get used to it soon, or it’ll go away. Until then, the feeling is very annoying.
“Little master, are we going to kill more imposters?” Nathaira asks. “The one with glasses was very annoying. I am glad she died through witnessing my beauty. It was too much for her to handle.”
Tom slowly fingers his wand behind his back, watching her aquamarine scales out of the corner of his eye as they encircle him. “No, my dear,” he replies. “All of the imposters are gone. You did your job well, and many will praise you once my plans are complete.”
“Then are we going out just to go out?” she says, sounding confused. Tom slowly shakes his head. “Then what are you here for? You are not brewing anything. You are not reading anything. The imposters are gone, so you are not here to take them out.”
“Who says I am not here simply to admire your beauty?” Tom counters. He waits until her diamond-shaped head passes in front of him again before holding his wand out from behind his back, pointing directly at her scales. “I have done that before, my dear.”
“Not for such a long time, I thought you did not truly love me as Master did,” she says morosely. “I thought you just wanted to use me and not really spend time with me and admire me like you used to.”
“Of course I love you,” Tom replies. “How could I not when your aquamarine scales glisten so wonderfully in the light of the torches? And your intelligence cannot hope to be matched by any other man or beast.” While Nathaira basks in his praise, Tom takes his chance and whispers, “Somnum Mortis,” in Parseltongue, making sure it can only be reversed by casting the counter-spell in Parseltongue.
“Little master, I forgive you,” Nathaira says. “But I am very tired now, so I shall return to my nest, and you will have to suffer the loss of my beauty until you next visit.” She slithers up the statue before starting to disappear down the tunnel. “You will… visit me soon?”
Tom doesn’t reply. He knows she won’t hear him even if he did. He enters the side chamber where the Potion is stored and places the empty vial from the ritual next to the twelve full ones. He grabs a full vial and casts all the necessary charms to ensure its safety before placing it back in his robes-pocket. As he exits the Chamber for what will be the last time until he graduates and takes all the books inside with him, Tom knows at least that nobody except for a Parselmouth will be able to get to Nathaira or the rest of the Potion. They will be safe until he has use for them again.
Tom makes his way to the library. Despite Warren’s death, all the restrictions were lifted after Tom framed Hagrid, and the school will stay open in the fall. Tom knows that Aurors tried to check the crime scenes after Warren died, under Professor Dumbledore’s advice, but they found nothing suggesting Warren’s death was connected to the petrifications or that Hagrid might not be responsible. Hagrid will most certainly be expelled with the creature having escaped into the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps now, the Forbidden Forest has an actual reason to be forbidden.
Before he can reach the first floor, Tom is approached by a first year Hufflepuff, nervously holding a piece of parchment. “Erm… Headmaster Dippet told me to give this to you,” she says before running off. Tom looks down at the parchment. It is an immediate summons.
Holding back a sigh at not being able to meet his friends in the library, Tom turns on his heel and walks along the second-floor corridor to the twin gargoyles guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. “Dzou Yen,” he says to the gargoyles. Headmaster Dippet has a tendency to make his password the names of famous witches or wizards. Tom knows that his name will be the password at some point in the future, if Dippet is still headmaster by then.
The door opens before Tom has a chance to knock on it, and he enters to see Headmaster Dippet sitting behind his desk with the Heads of Houses—Professors Dumbledore, Beery, Timbley, and Slughorn—standing beside him. “Hello again, Riddle,” Dippet says, and Tom clenches his fists behind his back.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Tom replies politely. Putting an innocent expression on his face, he adds, “Is this about…?”
“The incident with Hagrid, yes,” Dippet says. He lets out a small sigh before continuing, but Tom knows the sigh is mostly just for show. “It is unfortunate that such troubled children are willing to go so far for recognition, but the matter is resolved now, thanks to you, Mr Riddle.” He pauses to let Tom say something, but Tom stays silent, allowing the man to go on. “Because of your good deductive reasoning skills and bravery, we, as in the other Heads and I, have decided it prudent to present you with an award for Services to the School.”
“An award, sir?” Tom asks. “But I was only doing my duties as Prefect—”
“Nonsense, my boy!” exclaims Slughorn, walking over to give Tom a pat on the back. “You figured out in one afternoon what the rest of us couldn't in eight months. That deserves some recognition!” Tom notices how some of the other professors bristle at Slughorn’s words, probably unhappy at being reminded of their failures.
“Well, then, sir,” Tom says, turning to the headmaster and making himself sound uncertain, “and I don’t mean to be rude or ungrateful, but why aren’t you presenting it… well…”
“In the Great Hall at dinner?” Dippet finishes, and Tom nods. “Unfortunately, due to the circumstances, we must ask you to keep quiet about everything. It would reflect quite poorly on our ability to keep the students safe if the Ministry found out that the Heir actually killed a student.”
“So you’re going to pretend that Myrtle Warren died in an accident?” Tom asks slowly. He glances towards Dumbledore and Timbley, certain that the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Heads of House must have put up some argument against the deception, but neither speak up. Tom looks away once Dumbledore makes eye contact with him. He turns back to Dippet and continues talking, raising his voice as if he were growing angry, “What about her parents? Don’t they deserve to know that she was murdered and who by? And what about Hagrid?”
“We’ll handle her parents and everything else, Mr Riddle,” Dippet says. “Hagrid will still be expelled for accidentally causing her death via his Acromantula, and we will claim that the person behind the petrifications has been caught and quietly received punishment.” Riddle resists the urge to laugh at the irony of the headmaster’s statements, instead nodding seriously.
“I understand, sir,” he says. Then, after a small pause, he adds softly, “Is there any chance you’ll reconsider allowing me to stay at Hogwarts during the summer, now that the attacks are over?”
Dippet shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Riddle. It just isn’t done.” Tom clenches his fists behind his back but stays silent. He supposes it might be a good thing to have to go back this summer. He doubts the professors would allow him to make an excursion to Little Hangleton if he does stay, and even if they would, he doesn’t want anybody to know where he’s going ahead of time.
With the formalities over, Tom is allowed to look at his award, which will be the first of its kind in the Trophy Room. He admires the shiny silver shield with his name engraved on it, even though they left off his middle name. The professors make polite conversation, asking him questions like what he plans on taking for his NEWT classes next year if his OWL scores are good enough or what career he wishes to go into. Slughorn looks especially proud when Tom says one of the NEWT classes he signed up for is Potions. Then Tom is told to leave and enjoy the rest of the year without having to stress over his OWLS any longer.
As Tom turns to leave, Professor Dumbledore watches him with suspicion. Tom gives him a smile which feels more like a smirk and exits the office. With the schoolyear over, not only has Tom impressed and recruited Malfoy, but he also has a new lead on his relatives and achieved the one thing he wanted above all others. He isn’t worried about Dumbledore any longer. Dumbledore will keep an annoyingly close watch on him, yes, but the man will not be around forever. After all, everyone dies eventually. Everyone, that is, except for Lord Voldemort.
After the ritual, the Horsíxsius may perform the actions they feared to do before… They no longer need worry about being stricken down at their height… With their horcrux created, the Horsíxsius is now immortal…