Hiya! I wanted to write something a bit different than I normally do (not that I write much), and came up with this.
Alas, if I owned Harry Potter my writing skills would be far more better. Everything belongs to JKR.
Clouds covered Hogwarts like a thick blanket, blocking any light from shining down upon grounds. That and the frigid temperatures made the winter of 1943 the worst season the ancient school had seen in decades. The howling of the wind echoed down the empty corridors at night, and even with warming charms and extra blankets the coldness of the winter couldn't seem to escape the students' and faculty's bones alike. Days seemed to last forever, with nights feeling even longer. Not even magic could deter the dreary weather.
It was past midnight, the world silent and swallowed in a pit of inky darkness. There was no moon, and the Black Lake was indistinguishable from the rest of the environment. Tom Riddle sat huddled over his desk, a ring clutched in his fist. He placed it on the polished wood before him, spinning it once. Spinning it twice. The emerald glimmered in the light of the half-extinguished candle Tom had set to his left, and he was reminded of how he used to adore the gemstone so.
Merlin! As if the emerald could ever be beautiful! The prior months seemed like a different time. A time where he was too caught up in his endeavors to face the consequences they were inflicting upon him. The sixteen year old boy looked sickly and gaunt, his complexion pale and cheeks hollow. Glamours could do wonders, though, and to the rest of the student body Tom looked to be in perfect, healthy condition. Of course he was far from healthy - sleep deprivation and lack of food would do that to someone. The past year had been spent in almost absolute isolation, minus the shallow conversations he had with his followers. Most nights were spent in the Restricted Section, and the ones that weren't were spent in his dorm reading books from said part of the library. Tom could not remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal. He was always too busy to eat, only snatching an apple or half a sandwich before disappearing off to some deserted corner of the castle.
He regretted his actions most deeply, not believing he had actually followed through with his plan. There was no turning back. Dark spells could not be erased, and the damage was done. He had let himself become too caught up in power and the future that he neglected the present. And where did that get him? To be weak, alone, and not even fully human. It was not worth it. His aristocratic, handsome features and his well-toned frame used to be some of his most prized possessions, but now they were gone and there was only he to blame.
Like one, that on a lonely road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turn'd round, walks on
And turns no more his head:
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
- The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge
The ring, which he had once though of as cold and majestic, seemed to burn under his touch. It radiated Dark, unspeakable magic, and with it Tom could also sense his repulsion and fear. As he stared at the emerald under the dim light, he suddenly felt his heart rate pick up. The world seemed to become impossibly darker, the candle fading away... the walls closing in around him...
The abrupt snore of a roommate brought Tom back to reality. He gripped the desk with intense ferocity, the wood squeaking under his nails, and knuckles turned white. He wanted to scream. Wanted to release his fury into the atmosphere and feel the weight lift off his shoulders. But alas, he was Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin and future Dark Lord. He could not be seen as an angsty, teenaged boy. He had a reputation to uphold, one where he showed power and superiority. And so he let his emotions stay inside. After all, emotion was a weakness, and he'd be damned if he was seen as weak.
The candle, which had been flickering between light and dark, came to be fully extinguished. All source of light was gone, enveloping Tom in a pitch blanket. His wand was next to him; he could have done a quick Lumos and returned to his bed, but he stayed put. His once-straight posture was reduced to an inhuman crouch, and Tom silently sighed as he put his head in his hands, his neck being too weak to support him. His raven hair stuck to the back of his neck from his clammy skin.
The ring, as he practically crushed it, beat in his hand. It was a pulse. His pulse. If he had opened his bottom drawer and felt the leather-bound diary in it, he knew that too would have the same pulse. Tom threw the ring on the desk in disgust.
He had let himself tear his soul not once, but twice. He murdered two people in cold blood, and now he was not even fully there. He was distancing himself further away from death, but further away from life as well. Further and further like a muggle balloon floating away once a child accidentally lets it go. Two rather large fragments of his soul were no longer apart of him, instead beating furiously in a ring and a diary. For the first time in his life, Tom let out a tear. Just one, and, had there been light and someone awake, they would have seen a giant drop trickle down the Slytherin's cheek and onto the back of his hand, leaving behind an easily distinguishable trail.
Just two mere years later, Tom's soul would be split into four.