A/N: I'm not too sure about this one. I wrote the ending one time while I was bored and on the computer, and then sort of forgot about it. Then I wrote the beginning, was halfway through, when I suddenly realized that the two pieces matched, so I put them together. I was in two different moods when I wrote each part, so I'm not sure if it flows properly or not. I couldn't think of how to change it. Anyways! On with the story.
The Writing on the Wall
Finally, he was alone.
His breath came from deep within him, drawing air from the bottom of his lungs in wrenching gasps. The kind of breathing that comes from overexerting oneself by physical activity. Running too far, too fast, with too heavy a burden. His heart raced, and he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the thud of it against his palm; but rather than a reassuring return to normal, the thumping quickened as emotional levels heightened.
It wasn't dark in the dormitories, as he preferred. Surrounded by silvers and greens the dark-haired boy slammed the door and moved to the trunk at the end of his bed, glaring up at the light given the by green orbs hanging from the ceiling. Unlocking the lid, he tossed clothes, books, parchment and extra quills aside with shaking hands until he found what he was looking for. Triumphantly the youth held up the ornately decorated dagger, the silver of the blade matching that of the trim on the hangings surrounding the five beds in the room.
The knife was a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. Delicately carved into the handle of the sacred possession were snakes, twining in and out with each other, making designs with their thin bodies. They fairly came to life in front of his eyes and the boy wished for their presence, for the company of someone or something that would not judge him.
He parted the curtains and sat down in the center of the large canopy bed, pulling the hangings closed around him again, all the while never taking his eyes of the blade, reflection giving it a green glow. The blade shook as his body still trembled in a panic. If he stared at it hard enough, tried to clear his thoughts and focus on only one thing, then the shaking would cease, the memories would not come back and assault him – his personal demons.
The only way to eliminate the demons – right now they were in the form of his classmates, taunting him as he ran through the halls down to the dungeons – was to watch intently, his face inches away as he lowered the dagger horizontally to his arm. The thudding against his chest was harder, faster, depriving him of air; slamming against the inside of his rib cage, begging to break free and be sliced open physically rather than emotionally as it has endured.
Metal bit deep into flesh, drawing a faint gasp from the dark-haired boy holding the weapon of his destruction, as he viciously sliced with the edge, not releasing the pressure.
As the pressure of his palm against the handle increased when he moved to make another incision, pushing deeper into the pale flesh – blood rose to the surface, creating a river – the pressure that seemed to be on all sides of his decreased. The memories began to fade; the mocking voices became fainter – "Half-blood, orphan, muggle offspring" - and the thumping in his chest lessened. The pain began to ebb away, leaving only the flowing crimson fountain of pain and blood.
And he was still so alone.
Half-blood.
It was better that way.
Better to be alone without comment, than to face the hungry wolf pack – the public.
"Hey, Riddle."
The boy didn't look up; kept his dark head bowed over the bared wrist as the blood flowed freely from it, shoulders hunched protectively, shielding himself from the intruder.
Need the isolation.
"Riddle!"
Need the quiet.
The curtains were torn open, a faint ripping sound as stitching came loose. Another youth, his long blonde hair falling into his eyes, sneered down at him. "Come on, half-blood; Potions next." Pale eyes flickered from his face to his arm carelessly. No change of expression. His casual air enraged the smaller, dark-haired boy, and he felt anger bubbling up inside him, about to spill over. The blonde left.
"Let's go!"
Do not disturb.
He stood up. Lifted his bleeding arm, and carefully pressed it against the wall beside his bed, and pulled across slowly. A crimson smear marked the trail, tiny rivulets of blood still dripping. With precise, deliberate strokes of the finger of his opposite hand, he wrote in the drying liquid. Rows upon rows of old pink scars ran parallel to each other and no more than half an inch set apart, glinted on the pale flesh in the dim light of the torch that reflected on them. He let the sleeve of his black school robe drape again over his arm, then the boy left the room, an angry smirk on his face.
Soon, everyone would care about every mark of history on his body. No longer would they not care, no longer would they mock Tom Riddle, son of a filthy muggle coward. Instead they would all bow down and fall to the power of the name written in the wall: Lord Voldemort.