Tom sits in a corner
but not alone
first-years discussing him
in a quiet tone
He doesn't look up
or say a word
staring down at a book
he hasn't stirred
The lights are low
and the pages blank
future Death Eaters gather
without organized rank
Abraxus bends down
to wave his hands
before bloodshot eyes,
then he silently stands
"Tom, what's going on?"
they all want to know
"it's Christmas Eve,
even we like the snow"
Then a bright Lestrange
knowing Tom's chosen name,
says "Hello, Voldemort!
your skills at distraction
have put drugs to shame"
Suddenly startled, the young Dark Lord
twitches, then smiles,
his lips curling upward
expression as cold as the tiles
"I'll come down later,"
he promptly replies
voice silky-smooth
and experienced with lies
When Tom is alone
he takes thoughts for a ride
even he, the school psycho
never felt so empty inside
Three days have passed
since that fateful night;
with a rip and a tear
and an agonized scream,
Tom's goal came into sight.
The funeral was yesterday
Myrtle laid to rest
he didn't shed a tear
instead of guilt, a dull fear
(That his deed would be found,
that he'd go into ground
or just be consumed
by the grayness all around...)
Everything is cold now
he hopes it will pass
how did dark lords of old
deal with something so crass?
Tom fingers the diary
from which all text has fled
He must tough it out,
it's this or be dead...
He does feel stronger
his curses strike true
not hampered by the doubt
that can plague me or you
For no special reason,
Tom raises his pen
the text disappears,
then ink comes again
He had said something stupid,
not profound or sage
"What have I done"
made its mark on the page
At the diary's reply
Tom was stuck dumb,
didn't know what to say...
The damn book had written:
"This is the price you pay."