A Comet Appears

I am not JK Rowling and own none of her wonderful characters. I do not own anything by James Mercer, though I appreciate his lyrics and will use them as inspiration as I please.

This is also my first publication so please be kind and constructive with your criticism!

-Shades

Tom slammed his hands down on either side of the sink, trying not to wretch. The fading squish of the basilisk - My Basilisk - coiling down the pipes after her kill wasn't helping the growing nausea or the pain. The blood-like potion was more foul than any description had indicated it might be, and it left a cold and rotten feeling in its wake as it slid down his throat into his gut. He struggled to remember his train of thought as he fought to keep the liquid down. It was the only thing in his stomach, after all.

Bumbling Dumbles had been staring at him again over the rich, heavy meal earlier that evening and Tom had to carve every bit of negative emotion from his face before the old fool decided to make something of it. The headmaster was always watching for some sign of fear or malice and was never, ever satisfied with the pleasant front that everyone else was perfectly happy to accept from Darling Tom Riddle. The nightly opulent supper hadn't been particularly high on the prefect's list of priorities as he sat in the Great Hall this evening. He was flipping rapidly between lofty excitement at the monumental and rare magic he was about to perform and dread at the grim task ahead, all while simultaneously trying to emulate -

Voldemort.

Right. That was where his concentration needed to be. He pulled forth the image from his mind, well-tended and expanded upon in recent months. Tall, handsome, well-mannered and intimidating; the figure in his mind's eye looked a bit like him but somehow more perfect, more...pure. His mouth twisted into a scowl at the taste of iron and shame. He needed to stop thinking of this man as something separate. It was him, now.

Or it would be if you could remove this damnable desperation from your head.

The crumbling scroll had talked of removing the impurities from one's soul, but the whole nebulous thing felt the same to him and it all felt...torn. He focused on separating out the memories of aching need and loneliness from his childhood. Pictured the way the twinkle left those watery old blue eyes as he, in childlike innocence, hissed out his greeting to his only friend - the tiny garden snake he kept in his pocket. He remembered the late night growls his thin stomach used to make after weeks of shared rations between hordes of tiny, dirty, grabbing hands. The friendship that the other orphaned children shared amongst themselves while they avoided and feared him; never extending a hand to the "freak" who could do things they didn't understand. The occasional adult who would quickly scoop up the youngest, prettiest child in sight before fleeing away back to the comfort of their perfect little homes to shower their new son or daughter with sickly sweet-

Affection. He hated that word. It made him feel like he was sinking into a cold, dead pond; weighed down by the stony lump in his throat and his inability to feel the warmth some described as love. He'd never felt that comfort from another human being and didn't see how it could be so important to some people. He hated his own lack of understanding as much as he hated the sliver of soul he was currently trying to separate from the rest - dear god was it supposed to hurt this much? - and pour into the nondescript book he'd propped against the mirror.

He'd always had a talent for sniffing out weaknesses, and it was time to shape and mould his own shortcomings into his greatest strength. He'd been so careful this year, only putting into the delicate pages what he wanted to be repeated. The Heir of Slytherin wouldn't share his disdain for the purebloods of his house; he would target only the "muggle filth" that "tainted" these halls.

So that's what Tom did.

What other option did he have in acquiring all that he deserved? He had no choice but to play into their vile expectations of him as a member of Slytherin's line. How else would he gain power and show them all why he appreciated and wielded his magic more than any of those idiots possibly could? They took it for granted. They took him for granted. No more.

Might as well pour that in, too... he mused.

If the Heir ever needed to make a reappearance, he should do so in a vicious and cunning manner that that struck fear and doubt into the hearts of the poor sods who cared. Those who were worthy of his attention would know it was merely a show of control and power and bow before him once again. Just as they had this year as he acted out the fantasy of what his reincarnation would do far into the future.

Or never at all if I play my cards right.

The horcrux wasn't meant to be used, after all. It was a safeguard. A way to bring him back from death's door and remind his killers that no one was safe from his fury while simultaneously acquiring for itself a body, some minions, and a giant bloody snake. It was a good plan, if he said so himself.

The cold wasn't going away. In fact it felt like it was ebbing ever outward from his stomach as the potion settled. This may have been what the text was talking about when it mentioned changes. He wasn't supposed to feel the same after, but now that he had ripped the fraying shred from his soul and filled it with everything he despised about his own weakness...he couldn't feel it anymore. The desperation that used to overwhelm him felt as distant as his understanding of love. It felt like it belonged to someone else, someone weaker.

The jagged edge remained of course, like a gaping wound roughly hewn by an icepick that he knew would never heal. He tried to channel that pain into something he could use. It would certainly help when keeping a straight face around Bumbles. Would it get colder after the next horcrux? He couldn't imagine it getting any worse, but there was no way it would be getting better. Maybe once more of his soul was safely tucked away from his vulnerable body, he just...wouldn't feel it anymore at all. Numbness was good, right? It was certainly preferable to the aching longing he used to have for acceptance.

Now he knew better. He didn't need acceptance, because he was head and shoulders above everyone else around him. The growing chill could only aid him in the sculpted indifference he sought from his Voldemort persona.

He glanced up at his reflection and noted the sweat-drenched fringe matted to his forehead. Beneath the dampened tendrils, his eyes glinted with a degree of separation he didn't immediately recognize. It slowly dawned on him that it was reminiscent of his imaginary - no, ideal - form.

There was never any hope for Tom to be anything else. He saw the inequalities everywhere, but he'd always known that he would have to prove himself if he wanted anything from this world. Now he knew for certain that he was meant for more than scrabbling for an insignificant piece of the pie. All of their dreams of politics and the ministry were mere crumbs compared to Tom's goals.

He would tower over them all. The thought sent a pleasant chill down his spine.