"It is much safer to be feared than loved when one of the two must be lacking." - Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince
1943
Abraxas Malfoy smiled nastily, flipping the neatly wrapped present in his hands up into the air and letting it fall heavily on the common room couch.
"I know that smile," said a quiet voice from the other side of the room. "You're plotting something dreadful, Malfoy, aren't you? I haven't seen you this happy since you set Aurelius Potter's invisibility cloak on fire."
Malfoy feigned shock. "Me? Plot something? And you make it sound sinister . . ."
Eileen looked up sharply from her book (a huge, leather bound tome with an ominous air about it) and rolled her eyes. "You're always plotting something. What's your problem with Weasley, anyway?"
Abraxas sniffed. "He's aspiring above his station."
"As if that's the real reason," she said, pursing her lips. She unceremoniously threw her book down on the floor and stood, striding over and grabbing the present off the couch. She shook it and frowned at the sound of multiple little objects clanging dully against the sides.
". . . Chocolates?" she ventured, slowly sniffing the wrapping to detect a sweet smell.
"I'm sure that gigantic nose of yours will tell you," he said nastily. She glared at him, flinging her hair over her shoulder.
Shaking it one last time, she abruptly heaved it over at the blond, who stumbled backwards from the sheer force of the impact.
"Didn't know you were so sensitive about your looks, Prince!" he snapped, catching his footing and grabbing the present out of reflex.
"I'm not," she insisted, only to change the subject hastily. "So, what's with the present? Decided to finally get yourself a girlfriend?"
He laughed shortly. "As if I would have any trouble with that!"
"Oh yeah?!" she snapped. "Then why don't you?"
"Because . . . because . . . all the girls in this school are money grubbing whores! Present company included!"
She almost bared her teeth in a snarl but settled for tightening her hands into fists at her sides. "Oh, yeah? I think you're still single because you've got a crush on Riddle! I bet you'd just love to take him to the Room of Require—"
She almost continued, but both of them seemed to realize at the same time that the aforementioned Riddle was actually in the same room as them and their eyes widened.
"—ment," she rasped, spinning around to look to a shadowy spot near the fireplace, where Tom Marvolo Riddle sat. However, he didn't seem to even be aware of their presence; his legs were pulled up tightly to his chest and he stared almost glassily down at something in his lap.
Eileen and Abraxas blinked at him, then turned and blinked at each other.
"You don't suppose he's drugged?" she finally whispered, glancing back over at him. "You know Avery's been peddling something to the seventh years . . . I heard John Lupin accidently drank some and ended up in the hospital wing for two weeks."
Abraxas snorted ungracefully. "Serves all of them right for buying something like that from someone as stupid as Avery."
Eileen nodded. "His potions grade is abysmal."
"So it can't be that, Riddle's too smart. And he's a sixth year, anyway."
They turned back to Tom and stared for a long moment, both trying to make out what he was holding on his lap.
"Maybe he's studying."
"Maybe . . ."
"We've got that essay to write for divinations, you know. The one where you're supposed to predict your own future. It's due tomorrow. I said I was going to become a world famous quidditch player, date the Prince of Wales, and then tragically overdose on Felix Felicis in a train station bathroom."
He looked at her in annoyance. "There is no current Prince of Wales. Even I know that much."
She sniffed. "Then maybe I'll date Princess Elizabeth. What did you write?"
"I said I'd become the Minister of Magic, cause an inordinate amount of scandal, father many illegitimate children, and finally die of alcoholism."
"Oh, so you want to follow in your father's footsteps? How touching."
"Shut up, Prince," he growled, finally gathering the determination to walk over to Riddle and clear his throat at him.
The other boy didn't look up, but Abraxas finally was able to see that he seemed to be enthralled with a small book that sat closed on the tops of his slanted thighs. The cover was plain and brown, with no writing he could see, yet Riddle was staring at it as if it was the key to immortality.
"Tom," he tried, this time with an accompanying snap of fingers from Eileen, who had followed him over and stuck her hand over his shoulder.
It was as if they didn't even exist, judging from Riddle's nonexistent reaction to them.
"Voldemort!" he finally shouted, waving his hand directly in front of Tom's eyes.
Finally, Riddle blinked.
Looking up from the book, he angrily managed a simple "What?!"
Abraxas cleared his throat, glanced at Eileen, and shrugged. "Nothing. Just wondering what you wanted for your birthday. New Year's is coming up, after all. Will it be a sweet sixteen or a big, legally adult seventeen? I'm afraid I don't recall."
Riddle looked even more annoyed than he had before. "Sweet sixteens are for girls only, and I'm going to be seventeen, anyway."
"Good! Congratulations, now you can actually apparate legally! Do you want me to buy you a license?" He paused thoughtfully. "You know, with the amount of times you've illegally done it, I think you're eligible to be put in Azkaban for a few years."
"You have to pay for your license?" asked Eileen, looking a bit disheartened at the thought of it.
Abraxas shrugged. "My father said you never used to—apparently it's for the war effort. Bloody Grindelwald."
Eileen still looked disappointed, and Malfoy smirked.
"Oh, don't worry, Prince. I'll buy you one, too, since we all know your father's so incredibly destitute he has to bathe in a creek and hunt his own food. It must be difficult living in a shack down the by river."
Hurt flashed across her features briefly before it turned to anger.
"At least my mother isn't always so incredibly smashed she can't walk in a straight line without falling over herself!"
Malfoy looked as if he'd been struck but quickly lashed back. "At least my father doesn't knock my mother around!"
"How dare you mention that," she hissed, the hurt look returning. "But—but at least my father doesn't chase every single skirt he lays eyes on."
"Your parents just sound charming," Tom cut in impatiently, "but could you take it somewhere else?"
Eileen and Abraxas traded glances again.
"But . . . we're worried about you, Tom," Eileen said quickly. "Uh, you seem . . . a bit . . ."
"Distracted," said Abraxas.
She nodded vigorously. "Distracted!" She carefully looked at the book in his lap, biting her lip.
"What's that?" she finally asked, reaching out to touch it.
Before she could make contact, he reached out and slapped her hand away.
"Doesn't matter," he snapped, abruptly standing up and walking over to the couch, where he sat. "Why don't you two go to dinner? I'm sure it's almost time."
"Well . . ." Abraxas began hesitantly, "okay, but . . . aren't you coming with us? It's Christmas Eve dinner, after all . . ."
"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," he said simply, looking a bit uncomfortable. "Just have one of the House Elves bring me something, will you?"
Abraxas sighed. "Whatever you say, Voldemort."
There was a long, extremely awkward pause, but then Abraxas flipped the present up into the air again and he and Eileen started towards the exit.
"So, who's it for?" she demanded.
"Septimus Weasley."
She looked shocked. "Merlin, Malfoy, I was just kidding yesterday about you wanting to get Weasley alone in the—"
He glared at her as they came to the door and paused. "I charmed the tag to be in dear Cedrella Black's handwriting."
She frowned in confusion. "Oh."
Then smiled as realization hit. "Oh! You did something to them!"
Abraxas smiled back and opened the door. "Me? Do something nefarious? Never!"
The door shut loudly behind them, and Tom Riddle was happy to see them go. Pulling his wand out of his pocket, he carefully warded the room and even then looked around suspiciously, as if he expected someone to be hiding in the shadows.
He supposed he was becoming a bit paranoid, but even that was better than being careless. If anyone found out what he had done, he wouldn't only be immediately expelled, but taken away to Azkaban and given the Dementor's Kiss.
Murder was one thing. He hadn't even really meant for the fool girl to die; he hadn't known she was there. It was negligent homicide at best—if he got a trial, he wouldn't receive life imprisonment.
But what he'd done after . . .
Hesitantly, he put the book down on the low coffee table in front of him and opened it. It had once been something of a diary or journal, something he'd used to vent his most private thoughts. But now, all of the writing had disappeared; the pages were blank.
It had been almost frighteningly simple to make a horcrux. Murder by proxy, a spell, an object to receive the fragment of his soul . . .
He wondered if he was immortal now. He'd read Secrets of the Darkest Art several times, and it claimed that at this point he was. Even if he was mortally wounded, his spirit and mind would live on and be able to take possession of another body, or even recreate his original one.
He supposed that was . . . comforting. In third year, they'd had a unit on Boggarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and when one had finally been brought into the classroom, he'd almost screamed at the sight of his own dead body, which the creature had seen fit to manifest as when it had been his turn to confront it.
Especially after that incident, he couldn't deny that he feared death more than anything. And this almost ensured that he would never have to face it.
But then, why did he feel so empty? So horribly . . . cold inside? The spell hadn't been simple to cast, but he'd been successful on his first try. The pain had been immediately there, agonizing in its intensity; he'd collapsed to the floor and was helpless as his soul ripped itself apart. It was physical but somehow spiritual as well, like something vital was being taken away, part of his identity.
He'd probably screamed, but he couldn't remember. It had only been a few weeks ago, but the memory had already dissolved into a blur of faded sensations he didn't like to dwell on. He'd passed out at some point and woken up sprawled on the floor next to his bed, sweaty and exhausted and shaking from the leftover pain.
And then he'd realized that he was . . . changed. Not physically, but perhaps emotionally, mentally? It was as if he was drained of everything he'd ever felt; the small amount of guilt and regret over Myrtle's death was gone, any warm emotions towards Abraxas and Eileen were faded, almost vanished. They'd been his first actual friends, and for all their fighting they'd been very close for the past six years. He'd cared about them, at least, as friends should care for each other.
But now they were nothing to him. He couldn't care less about them.
He couldn't care less about anyone.
He always knew he'd been different than other people, even different from others with magic. Sometimes, he just didn't . . . worry about others, or their feelings. Sometimes, he enjoyed hurting people. Took more pleasure in it than was, perhaps, appropriate.
But it had never been like this.
He was suddenly hollow. And so, so very cold inside.
And he wasn't sure if he liked it.
Slowly picking a carelessly discarded quill up off of the table, he let it hover above the blank page for a long moment.
Finally, he pressed the tip to the paper.
I feel so cold, he wrote, disregarding any type of 'dear diary'. Why don't I care about my friends anymore?
He paused, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the quill until it snapped under the pressure. He let it fall to the table, his eyes trained on the journal and wide with shock and dread.
It was writing back.
He watched as letters slowly formed, in his own handwriting, and felt lead settle in his chest as he read the reply.
That is the price you pay.
And for the first time, he wondered what, exactly, he'd done to himself.
_
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Author's Note: No, I'm not actually dead. I just go through these long periods where I don't really have the will to post anything new. I call them my little 'unsocial times'. Anyway, as I think I said I would on the epilogue of Harry Riddle, I started this off with a flashback, just to kind of show what Tom was doing during his years at Hogwarts and what happened after the creation of his first horcrux. I have flashback-philia.
I've quite randomly decided to name this sequel 'The Prince', for really no reason at all except there's a lot of totally awesome Voldemort-y quotes that could be found in that particular book. I obviously thought about naming it 'Harry Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets', but then I decided I should put *some* effort into it.
Ahem. Anyway, I'll try to update as frequently as I can.
Anna