House: Slytherin
Category: Theme [Escape]
Prompt: Manslaughter [Action/Event]
Words: 4550 (not counting A/N)
Summary: Tom Riddle escapes death, but in doing so lands himself in a harsher prison.
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As the castle rumbled and rearranged itself for the Heir of Slytherin, Tom allowed himself one small, self-satisfied smirk. The purebloods would whisper among themselves, now that the basilisk roamed the castle again, and he'd make certain that they all knew it was he, the poor, muggle-raised half-blood, that had opened the Chamber of Secrets. They never should have dismissed him because of his muggle blood. He'd proven himself superior; he'd escaped his muggle heritage, and now he'd complete Salazar Slytherin's noble work: eradicating mudbloods.
Come, he hissed, and the poisonous-green snake obediently followed him, its tongue darting out to taste what was surely its first fresh air in centuries. He was watching its coil around itself in a pleased manner, so large it almost filled the entire bathroom, when he heard a quiet squeak. "Who— who's there?"
Tom chuckled. He recognised that voice; it was that irritating little Ravenclaw. Warren, if he wasn't mistaken. And she certainly wasn't a pureblood, not with that surname. "Why don't you find out?"
"Are you a boy?" The girl sounded far too excited by the prospect. "Oh, you don't belong here. Get out. This is my bathroom."
"You're Myrtle Warren, that little third year." In response, a rustling came from one of the stalls. Look there, Tom hissed, gesturing in the direction of the noise. "Why don't you make me leave?"
The rustling sound again, along with the squeak of trainers against a damp tile floor. Tom smirked. Oh, it seemed his basilisk was to kill earlier than expected. Silencio, he thought with a flick of his wand as he waited with bated breath, eager to observe the effects of the Basilisk's deadly stare on a creature other than a rat.
But the moment itself was anticlimactic. The stall door swung open and Tom caught only a glimpse of a squat figure with long, lank hair and thick, ugly glasses before it crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Detachedly, he noted just how easy it was to die, and felt a shiver run up his spine.
Nevertheless, swell of fierce pleasure rushed through him as he regarded her body: his first kill. Standing over her, he murmured, "The first of many."
Then he swept out of the room, commanded the Basilisk to hide itself elsewhere in the castle, and hurried to Transfiguration, where Professor Dumbledore would provide him an ironclad alibi.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Tom, please think carefully. Do you know anything about Ms. Warren's unfortunate demise?"
"No, I was in Professor Dumbledore's class when her body was found," Tom replied nonchalantly, meeting the Headmaster's gaze.
Dumbledore leant forward in his seat. "And before then?"
"I was with my mates," Tom replied easily, "They'll vouch for me."
Dippet sighed. "Albus, I don't see why you insisted we ask Tom. He had nothing to do with Ms. Warren's death."
"I hope that is the case, Dippet," Dumbledore replied, peering over his half-moon spectacles at Tom, the twinkle in his eye uncharacteristically absent. "Murder has a way of splitting the soul."
At those words, Tom's eyes widened.
"Mr Riddle, do you have something to tell us?" Dumbledore asked with a ghost of a smile.
"No, Professor Dumbledore," he answered quickly. "Headmaster, I've just remembered I've an assignment for Herbology tomorrow. May I go?"
"Of course, my dear boy. Don't let Herbert— I mean, Professor Beery— down."
"I wouldn't dream of doing so. Thank you, sir." Hurrying from the room, Tom caught only snatch of Dippet saying, "Albus, Tom would never—" and he smirked at the idea. There were many things he would do to escape his filthy Muggle heritage, and murder was only the beginning.
. . . . . . . . . .
That night, as he frantically searched the Restricted Section for a book he'd only skimmed, one which dealt with immortality and splitting the soul, one which his fourth year self had so foolishly discarded since it didn't pertain to the Chamber of Secrets, one which he desperately needed now. When he finally caught a glimpse of its black, leather-bound spine, he pushed past the other tomes that beguiled him, pulling him in with the faintest touches of their magic on his, for his eyes were only for Secrets of the Darkest Art. After pulling it off the shelf, he opened to the table of contents, finger running down the page until it reached 'Herpo the Foul'.
"Page ninety-four," he muttered, flipping to the page. There, underneath ornate, almost incomprehensible calligraphy reading 'Herpo the Foul', sat a lengthy explanation of that particular Dark wizard's greatest discovery.
Horcruxes.
Immortality, the price of which was murder. Or, as Dumbledore and Herpo himself so eloquently put it, splitting the soul.
Pulling parchment from his bag, Tom copied down the instructions of how to make a horcrux, smirking as he read 'The psyche requires, at bare minimum, a fortnight to repair its tears'. It wasn't too late for him. Myrtle wasn't only his first kill; she was the beginning of something extraordinary.
He'd escaped his filthy muggle father, and now he'd escape death itself.
. . . . . . . . . .
I need a place to practice Dark magic, somewhere I won't be found, somewhere private; I need a place to practice Dark magic, somewhere I won't be found, somewhere private; I need...
Tom paced back and forth opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, his focus razor-sharp as he requested the room where he would create his first horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art had insisted the witch or wizard work in secure room, for the horcrux making process was incredibly difficult and draining, and if Tom had used the Chamber of Secrets, where Slytherin's Heir ought to practise Dark magic, he surely would have been caught by some teacher or another. After all, Myrtle had died at its entrance, and they were still investigating the cause of her 'mysterious' death. Therefore, he was using the Room of Requirement.
When the door appeared, Tom strode forward, opened it, and slipped inside.
Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a simple red circle painted on the floor; exactly what was required, for if he wasn't mistaken, that was blood. Now to fulfill the rest of the instructions.
Tom stripped down to his pants, tossed his bag and wand onto a small table which simply appeared, and, carrying only his old leather diary, he walked into the circle.
This was his last chance to back out. His last chance to walk away, let the cracks in his soul heal, and remain mortal.
But he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, was no mere mortal. He was something more. He was destined for greatness, and these moments of weakness were not to be tolerated. If he did this correctly, he would emerge from his chrysalis not as Tom Riddle, Prefect and Heir to Slytherin, the one who had escaped his muggle heritage, but as Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the one who had escaped death itself.
His mind decided, Tom began to craft his horcrux, ripping his soul and molding it into something new, something greater, his resolve unshakeable even through the countless hours of agonizing, excruciating pain: his bones seemed to be melting within him, his blood burning like Fiendfyre through his veins, and his limbs twisted at impossible angles.
When he finally succeeded in separating his soul and shoved it into his diary, the circle burst into dark flames and Tom collapsed, exhausted, into the welcoming blackness.
. . . . . . . . . .
As he came to, he became aware of the darkness encompassing him, and every breath he took smelt of worn leather and ancient parchment. He felt nothing, as if he were suspended in a void; was this a side-effect of crafting Horcruxes? Or had he failed, and this was the afterlife?
Suddenly fearful, he thrashed about in the nothingness and, opening his mouth in a silent scream of rage, he tasted the bitter, chalky, chemical flavor of paper. It was then he realised where he was.
In his diary.
Apparently this portion of his soul had drawn the short straw and ended up, instead of in an immortal body, in a book.
Shrieking, he clawed at the emptiness around him. Then, suddenly, a dim light intruded upon his solitude and he froze, his shriek catching in his throat.
Then, as quickly as it came, he was plunged into darkness once again.
. . . . . . . .
An immeasurable time passed in the void. While Tom believed in knowing himself, it was fast becoming ridiculous.
He reflected on his youth spent trying to escape the orphanage; he reflected on his adolescence spent trying to escape the stain of his muggle father's blood; he reflected on his brief time as Heir spent trying to escape death itself.
And look where that had gotten him, he thought bitterly. Locked away in a prison of his own devising, shut away from the world for all eternity, doomed to lose his sanity in the never-ending darkness.
But not yet. He was strong, and his mind would not break. Not yet at least. When the crushing boredom and blackness became too much to bear, Tom would always return to his favorite memory: opening the Chamber of Secrets and killing the mudblood.
In that moment, the world lay at his feet. With the basilisk behind him, his blood was proven older and more powerful than any other's, and death was his to command with a simple hiss.
Sometimes, he worried he was obsessed with that moment, but other times he lost himself in the expression of Myrtle's glazed, slightly surprised face as her body thudded against the floor, the deep, poisonous green of the Basilisk which slithered over the damp tile, or the soft press of his robes against his skin as he raised the hard wood of his yew wand to cast a hasty Silencio.
He reminisced about casting that Silencio the most. How his magic had felt, swirling and churning within him as he shaped it, crafted it, and forced it to his bidding. How it purred within him as he held his wand.
Afterwards, he always felt rather empty— his longing to escape welled up stronger than ever before and he would shed bitter, angry tears before returning to his dream-land of memories, where he could escape his bleak reality.
And those memories carried Tom through his years spent under the Malfoy's drawing room floor.
. . . . . . . .
The darkness was never-changing, soft and velvety, and after what he guessed were centuries, if not aeons, spent within its belly, the brief ray of light which shone into his eyes blinded him.
And it reminded him of the world beyond the diary.
Suddenly, he recalled all his plans, his hopes, and his dreams. They were tempered now with the bitterness of long, lonely years spent in his diary, but first and foremost in his mind stood the Chamber of Secrets. Though his other self had no doubt eradicated the mudbloods, they'd certainly crawled back into the Wizarding world like the cockroaches that they were. Another purge was in order.
So, when the light pierced the darkness again, Tom forced his eyes to stare straight into it, blinking in surprise when a messy hand scrawled, Dear Diary, I'm Ginny Weasley and I'm starting to Hogwarts this year.
Tom patted himself for a quill and ink, but he had none. He tried summoning them; however, nothing happened save for Ginny's letters quivering in the light.
That gave him an idea. He concentrated on pulling the ink towards him, and watched, pleasantly surprised, as it streamed into his mouth. Then, he spoke. Hullo, Ginny. It's nice to meet you. My name is Tom Riddle.
His words appeared, floating in the light, and were soon joined by, Tom? That's a nice name. I wish I had a brother named Tom. Instead, I have Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George and Ron. Fred and George are the worst. They dressed up the attic ghoul in my clothes and told Dad I was terribly sick— and he fell for it! Oh, I was so mad…
He leant back and resigned himself to listening the child's complaints, sucking away the ink when she filled a page and inserting token comments from time to time. When she finally bid him goodnight, writing, I've got to go Tom, my mum's coming up the steps, he wished her sweet dreams and grinned. He felt energised by their interaction, even more so when he noticed the light pouring into his diary held a reddish-orange hue, as if it were streaming through long, copper-coloured hair.
. . . . . . . .
Tom! In her excitement, the girl's ink flew in every direction as she scrawled, I made it into Gryffindor!, and Tom eagerly siphoned it off the page.
Congratulations, Ginny.
Thanks. She smiled, then frowned slightly as she wrote, You're not mad I'm not in Slytherin, are you? I know that was your old House—
Why would I be upset? he interrupted. You're where you belong, Ginny.
That made her pause. Well— it's just that— my brothers would be furious if I weren't a Gryffindor.
Oh, it was too easy to turn her against her family. I would never do that.
Yeah, because you're a Slytherin! You'd be happy if I weren't a lion! Her pen hovered over the paper, as if she were unsure how to continue, then she scrawled, Tom, the Hat almost put me in Slytherin.
Tom raised an eyebrow and noted that, for the first time, he could see her eyes. They were a plain brown and wide with fear. Then it seems another congratulations is in order. You almost made it into the best House. Snakes are far superior. For one thing, they are easier to draw. To accentuate his point, he drew a squiggle, labelling it 'snake'.
Laughing, she wrote in reply, Tom, don't be ridiculous. Lions are better! However, her lion resembled a sun with fangs more than an actual animal and she knew it; after crossing it out, she penned, Forget that.
He sucked in the ink drawing. Slytherins make no promises.
She snorted. Well, I've gotta unpack now so good night?
Good night, Ginny.
. . . . . . . .
Tom? wrote a shaking hand. I'm scared. I can't remember last night, Hagrid found his roosters dead, and I have feathers on my robes. Tom, what's happening to me?
He couldn't make out her eyes, but the girl's face was blotchy, as if she'd been crying.
Don't worry, he replied, savouring her terrified expression. The wide eyes, the furrowed brow, the slight frown that he supposed was hovering over her lips: far more precious than any energy she unwittingly gave him was the slow return of his sight. With each comment she made, each secret she confessed, he saw a little brighter and a little clearer. Don't be afraid, Ginny.
But— but I am.
Then tell me about your brothers again. You're not afraid of them anymore, are you?
The girl blinked as she read his words, then hesitantly picked up her quill. I guess you're right. A pause, long enough for Tom to wonder if she'd lost interest, or perhaps recalled that before she'd been possessed, she'd been writing in his diary.
Finally, she sighed, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and began writing. I got lost earlier and I found Percy in one of the abandoned classroom. He made me promise not to tell anyone, but I'll tell you what he was doing with the Ravenclaw Prefect anyways...
Deep inside his diary, Tom grinned. Her mouth, which before had been only an indistinct blur of white and red, was now in focus: he could see her biting her lip as she wrote to him, each tooth in clear detail.
Sometimes, escaping was a long, laborious affair, but it made the inevitable freedom ever so much sweeter.
. . . . . . . .
Tom.
Tom.
Tom, I know you can hear me. I have something to tell you.
Exhausted, Tom barely stirred. Possessing Ginny, wearing her body like an ill-fitting glove for the hours and hours required to open the Chamber of Secrets, had drained his energy. Cracking open one eye, he answered, What, Ginny?
Mrs. Norris is petrified! The girl shivered, thrilled and fearful by equal measure, her emotions seeping into the page and invigorating Tom.
How?
The Chamber of Secrets. Someone opened it during the Feast. A pause. Tom, I don't remember the Feast. Then, almost hopefully, Maybe I just drank some spiked pumpkin juice?
Perhaps, Tom replied.
But I don't think so. A pause as the girl glanced around furtively, then shut the curtains around her bed. Tom, what if it was me? What if I'm the Heir?
Tom smirked. This was almost too easy. Ginny, if you were the Heir, you'd have been sorted into Slytherin.
I know— but— the Hat almost put me in Slytherin and—
But it didn't, he interrupted. That's what matters.
Thanks, Tom. For a Slytherin, you're awfully nice. She twirled her quill, then added, You're my best mate.
Not Harry Potter? he teased.
Her eyebrows shot up. Of course not!
Have you seen him recently?
Only in the halls. She drooped, then caught herself. You don't mind if I talk about him?
Not at all. Tell me more about my enemy. Pour out your soul to me.
Well, she scribbled, Ron keeps telling me to leave Harry Potter alone but I want to do something special for Valentine's day— I know it's ages away, but I— well, I—
You want my advice, Tom supplied.
Ginny blushed. Yes. I'm making a limerick for him and it won't rhyme!
Should I even help this man who's stealing away my best mate's affections? Tom asked, drawing a crude, scowling stick figure with a lightning-bolt on its forehead. I don't approve.
Tom! Ginny whined. Please help me.
Erasing his sketch of Harry, Tom replied, Fine. What do you want to rhyme?
. . . . . . . .
Ginny? The light wouldn't let him rest.
Ginny? If he was to float in his prison and gaze up at what he had lost, even if it was only the canopy of a Hogwarts bed, he was going to work toward escaping.
I know you've got my diary open, Ginny. Are you writing essays on your bed again?
Finally, a pale hand stretched over him wrote, Yes. I'm trying to remember the ingredients to Forgetfulness Potion.
You shouldn't write essays on your bed. You always upset the ink well.
She didn't reply immediately, but Tom was patient. Finally, she scratched, Not always.
Often enough that you should know it's a bad idea, Tom countered. When she didn't reply to that, he added, You hate revising on your bed. Who are you hiding from?
That got a faint chuckle from her, one that, to Tom's shock, he actually heard. You know me too well, she wrote.
Tell me.
Fine. A pause. I'm hiding from everyone.
What did they do?
She slowly wrote, They won't shut up about Colin Creevey. He was petrified.
You're worried you did it?
No. That's impossible. I was sleeping here when he was found. Chelsea saw me. Another pause, longer this time. I'm so relieved it isn't me that I can't stop smiling, even though Colin is petrified. Does that make me a bad person, Tom?
No, not to me, he answered. Never to me. Then, Just don't let your brothers see you. Didn't you sit next to Creevey in Charms?
Yes.
Then, just for this once, you should revise on your bed. Be careful, though. He sketched an overturned inkwell and wet, illegible papers. Did you remember the mistletoe berries in your Forgetfulness Potion?
Yes, Tom.
Good. Now finish your homework.
. . . . . . . .
Tom, there's been a double petrification. Her pen jabbed at the paper.
Oh? Tom replied blandly.
Yes, and I think it's me— I can't remember anything after Transfiguration—
Ginny, it's not you.
She wrinkled her nose. And how do you know that?
Because Rebeus Hagrid is the gameskeeper. When I was in school, he opened the Chamber of Secrets.
What?! Her eyes shot open and, reassured, her energy once again poured into his diary as she scrawled, But Hagrid's been over to the Burrow loads of times and Bill says he's half-giant— could he really be the Heir of Slytherin? I almost can't believe it—
Tom smirked. But you do.
Yeah, I guess I do. It just doesn't seem right— Hagrid looks so nice—
Appearances are deceiving, Ginny, Tom said smoothly. His diary was no exception: though it seemed a harmless, blank book, it contained the Darkest magic he'd ever come across. He kept an Acromantula in a cupboard. Three people were Petrified and one girl actually died. It was terrible...
. . . . . . . .
When his diary was thrown open, Tom barely had time to adjust to the light before Ginny forcefully penned, Tom, I know this is all your fault. I asked Chelsea and she said I'd skipped lunch after Transfiguration and when I came back Justin Flinch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick were petrified. You're the one making me attack people!
It's not me, he protested, his letters big and bold, his ink splattering in his haste to reply. I would never do something like that. I told you; it's Hagrid!
Just from watching her face he knew he'd lost the argument. A tear dripped down her cheek as she wrote, Tom, you're my best mate. I'll miss you.
Then she threw away her quill and her now-empty hand invaded the light, moving towards him in what was surely an attempt to shut the diary before more of his honeyed words could wriggle into her mind, and Tom cried, No, Ginny, please, no—
But his pleas were for naught; the diary was slammed shut, darkness enveloping him once again, and Tom's last glimpse of light was Ginny's regretful face.
. . . . . . . .
Tom resigned himself to a long, dull existence. Little first-year that she was, Ginny wouldn't be able to destroy him, but she could bury him beneath her ratty clothes and her battered schoolbooks and pretend he'd never existed. Perhaps, one day, one of her grandchildren would stumble across him. Then he could escape his Horcrux-prison once again. Life, even tasted through another's body, was undeniably sweet.
Time began to blur in that never-ending blackness, but even so he could tell that barely a month had passed when a blinding light once again pierced his prison, then it dulled and water rippled across his light. Where was he?
He lay there, distracted by the refracting light, and when he finally caught a glimpse of a short, squat, silvery figure sobbing in the corner, he realised he'd returned to where it all began: Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
He watched her cry, observing the changes nearly fifty years had wrought in her, but when a boy in black Hogwarts robes, a red and gold tie, and messy black hair approached, Tom's gaze snapped to him. He watched the child approach, taking in his eyes, green as a killing curse, recalling the rhyme he'd painstakingly helped Ginny craft — "his eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad" — and realised this was Harry Potter before him. The one who, as a toddler, had defeated him.
He poured his borrowed energy into making the boy notice his diary. While he'd amassed a respectable amount from Ginny, he wasn't certain it was enough to draw Potter's attention... and then a hand was pulling him from a puddle, a face with a lightning-bolt scar was inspecting him, and he willed the word "Hullo" to appear on his diary's pages.
But he'd drained himself. Though the light shone strong and bright, the world darkened and spun around him, and Tom felt himself growing faint; he only caught a glimpse of another boy, one with red-orange hair, behind Potter before he lost consciousness.
. . . . . . . . .
A flood of ink woke him. He eagerly siphoned it from the page, then waited, biding his time.
A few hours later, a black-haired boy opened his diary and dripped a blot of ink into his pages. Tom sucked it up, but still he lacked the power to reply; it wasn't until bright green eyes peered at his pages and My name is Harry Potter appeared before him that Tom was able to muster enough energy to answer.
Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?
The boy explained he'd found it in a toilet, and Tom quickly steered the conversation to the Chamber of Secrets. I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled. According to Ginny, he and her brother were obsessed with discovering who was behind the attacks— he needed to gain Potter's confidences, and to do that, he needed to provide the boy with information. But the monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.
Potter frowned, then asked, Who was it last time?
Oh, this presented a golden opportunity. I can show you, if you like, Tom replied, hoping the boy would agree to enter his memory. It'd be simpler to steal Potter's energy if he were within his pages. Let me show you.
Potter hesitated, curiosity and caution warring on his face, before he finally wrote, Ok.
Tom wasted no time in pulling Potter into his memories and latching onto his soul like a leech. The boy's magic poured into him, invigorating him; when Potter tumbled back into reality, Tom was refreshed and ready to converse, but the irritating boy slammed the diary's cover shut and surely went to tell his freckled friend the half-giant oaf had opened the Chamber of Secrets.
. . . . . . . .
Tom waited patiently for Harry Potter to return, dreaming of destroying his enemy and escaping his Horcrux-prison; when Ginny opened his diary, rage flashed through him and he almost snapped at the girl as she wrote hurriedly, Did you tell him.
But he'd forgotten how little Ginny Weasley was almost completely under his thrall. A few more words, a few more secrets, and her life force would be entirely his. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Ginny.
You know what I mean! her pen jabbed into the paper.
No, I'm afraid I don't.
She made a disgruntled noise, then wrote, did you tell him that I have a crush on him?
And that was enough. He poured out of his diary and into her body, brutally suppressing her soul under his own, and, after picking up his diary, marched her body from the room down to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
On his way, though, a blank stretch of wall caught his eye, and a wicked smirk stretched across his face. He could kill two birds with one stone. In the Chamber, he was the undisputed master; with the basilisk at his command, he could fend off entire armies. If Dumbledore or Harry Potter were to stumble upon him there, they would assuredly die.
He forced Ginny to raise her wand. With one flick of his wrist the words 'Her skeleton shall lie in the Chamber forever' appeared in blood on the wall. Then, he descended into the Chamber of Secrets, where he could reincarnate undisturbed.
Ginny's soul would feed his own and, through her death, he would finally escape his horcrux prison.
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