Chapter 11

The Price of Immortality

Binny Cole wiped her brow and eased herself into an old wicker rocking chair, resting her weary bones. She loved that rocking chair, one of the few things from her childhood that she still owned. The chair sat in a cramped room that served as both her work office and sleeping quarters, but it was all hers, and she was proud of what she had earned. The room was shabby, but spotlessly clean with old, mismatched furniture scattered around it.

Ms. Cole was a petite woman, with a perpetually harassed look plastered across her face. Her sharp-features tended to appear more anxious than unkind, and were accentuated by light green eyes and wavy sandy-brown hair. She was stern, but fair – the type of woman who would have been completely at ease living in a convent or teaching at a Catholic preparatory school. As it was, she was the head administrator of one of the oldest orphanages in England.

At this particular moment she wore a bemused look on her face, as if she couldn't believe the conversation she just had been privy to. Her eyes drifted to their favorite spot, a shelf on the wall that held a half-full bottle of gin and a worn crystal drinking glass. She held her breath and tilted her head to the side, listening intently. When she was satisfied no one was coming down the hall, she quickly poured herself a healthy measure of the clear alcohol and took a long pull. Everybody had their little vices to help get themselves through the day and this orphanage administrator was no exception.

A man had come calling to enquire about the Riddle boy, a very curious looking man indeed. He had been tall and skinny with long auburn hair and a clipped beard to match. He had worn a flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that would've only have been suitable for, well, she wasn't sure what type of event that would require such sartorial lavishness. He said he was a teacher at some famous boarding school up North and the boy had been awarded a scholarship at his institution for the coming year. Young Riddle had been on record with school since the day he'd been born, the man had explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Ms. Cole would never have admitted it out loud, but she was glad to hear the Riddle boy would be spending time away from the orphanage during the upcoming years. Trouble and drama always followed that young boy, like flies to honey.

As the gin soaked into her skin, gently numbing her worries, Ms. Cole's thoughts wandered to the strange boy's mother. An ugly little girl with tattered clothes, looked like she'd never had a happy day in her miserable life. She had shown up on the orphanage's steps during a blustery New Year's Eve night, alarmingly pregnant and with nowhere else to go. She'd had the baby within an hour of knocking on the front door and passed on to the hereafter soon after. The only act she'd performed before her last breath was to name the young lad, after his loving father she had said. In addition to the surname, the young child must have also inherited his father looks, for as ugly as his wretched mother was, he was the handsome opposite.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a strange boy indeed, there was just something…off about him. She knew it was ridiculous, but Ms. Cole found she was a little afraid of the child. The orphanage had very little means and was only able to function due to the generosity of a few philanthropic donors, the bloody government hardly helped out at all. But whenever she had been able to scrap together excess coin, she'd spent it on specialists to come by and tend to the children, especially the Riddle boy. None of them ever had a cross word to say about young Tom, but she kept having him examined none the less.

He was…creepy. No, no, no, the little boy wasn't creepy. What am I thinking? He was just…different, doing what he could to cope with the tough hand life had dealt him. All alone, no family or friends, no one to truly care for him. The orphanage gave rise to countless bullies and there were many situations ripe for abuse – but even the older children gave Tom a wide berth.

Ms. Cole poured herself the last of the gin, the rich alcohol now making the transition from soothing frayed nerves to drowning them out completely. She could drink with the best of them, but half a bottle?! And on a Wednesday afternoon?! My God, this is not proper behavior, I must begin to drink less. Oh, where does the time go? Is this the kind of life I imagined for myself when I left the convent?

Ms. Cole began to get lost in sloshed musings of forgotten dreams and the missed opportunities of her youth. It was a familiar conclusion to her increasingly frequent drinking sessions. She soon became wrapped up in her own fantasies and forgot all about the strange, outrageously dressed teacher she had just met…

…"You dislike the name 'Tom'?"

"There are a lot of Toms," muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. "It must've been him. So — when I've got all my stuff — when do I come to this Hogwarts?"

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of."

His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

"Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."…

…Dumbledore gently closed the door to the young child's room behind him; as he walked through the halls of the orphanage, the wizard admitted to himself how surprised he was at how well developed the boy's magical prowess at such a young age. The things the petite administrator had told him, the details the young boy had let slip – these were not simple bursts of uncontrolled magic, his actions were targeted and deliberate. The lad spoke of controlling, punishing, even frightening the other children – and he was aware enough to not commit the magic in the presence of adults.

But I mustn't be so quick to cast judgment, Dumbledore thought to himself – those living in glass houses shouldn't throw rocks. Dumbledore the man was quite different from Dumbledore the boy, the wizard reminded himself. He had made tragic mistakes in his youth that still caused him mental anguish to this day. Tom had simply grown up all alone in a tough environment and the lad was protecting himself the only way he knew how – he'd no one to show him right from wrong, how to wield his power responsibly.

Dumbledore promised himself that he would keep an eye on Tom at Hogwarts. As much for boy's wellbeing, as for the sake of the other students. With the right guidance, the boy had potential to be and do anything he wanted. But as Dumbledore exited the orphanage he couldn't shrug off a strange feeling, as if there was an idea percolating in his mind but it just wouldn't come into focus. And the fact that the boy was a parselmouth…in all his exotic travels and exploits around the world Dumbledore had never personally met one before.

Tom Riddle soundlessly exited a darkened classroom and headed down a deserted hallway – the seventh floor of Hogwarts was rarely busy at this time of night. As the teenager padded down the hall, he looked out the passing windows and smiled knowingly to himself. Hogwarts never ceased to amaze him – its rich connection to wizarding history, the wealth of information contained in every room, the amazing magical secrets scattered throughout the castle. One could spend several lifetimes living in the castle and not unlock every hidden treasure.

Tom wondered how many students through the years had also been able to discover the hidden and exceptional room …probably only a handful, if any, if they were anything like his current cohort of classmates – most of them were inept buffoons. Tom called this amazing place the wishing room – a place capable of transforming into whatever he wanted or needed at any particular moment. He was headed there tonight, a motley collection of old papers clutched under his arm and excited glow in his eyes.

One of Tom's most common requests was for the room to turn into a hiding place for him. Over the years Tom had built up quite a collection of dark books and objects, along with other "treasures" that he had taken from other students. He didn't have a home of his own, so he needed somewhere safe to store his belongings, after all possession was 9/10ths of the law. Teachers could be nosy, especially that insufferable Dumbledore. He was far too inquisitive, too meddlesome for his own good, that old fool.

Tonight, Tom had wanted to hide some things he had pilfered from the restricted section in the Hogwarts' library. The texts focused on the unforgivable curses – a subject strictly forbidden at the school. How shortsighted of the teachers to not instruct students of such powerful spells and keep this information off limits!

In the lining of one of the books in the library Tom had uncovered the old papers now clutched under his arms. They appeared to have been written personally by the revered Salazar Slytherin! They looked to be early notes on the brilliant wizard's musings about the future of the wizarding world and the importance of magical blood purity, they even contained sketches of some type of chamber Salazar had intended to construct. Tom knew he would eventually need time and privacy to closely study these musings, but for now he needed a safe place to store them. Tom stopped at the end of the hallway, right in front of a large expanse of blank wall. The handsome teenager closed his eyes and began muttering to himself…

…Tom's heart was pounding as he entered the girl's bathroom on the second floor – it was near twilight and not even the ghosts were floating about. His Slytherin dorm mates had assumed their charismatic friend had snuck off to spend the night with a pretty girl, but Tom had never been much interested in pursuing any type of meaningful relationship, sexual or otherwise. What had gotten his blood pumping this evening was that he believed he had finally discovered the hidden entrance to the fabled Chamber of Secrets.

Tom looked about and decided to first inspect every stall – slowly and carefully, searching every nook and cranny, running his hands across every surface. Nothing. He then quietly muttered something under his breath while flourishing his wand – a breeze gusted about him and he slowly floated up high. He raked his eyes over the entire ceiling, speaking all kinds of phrases in parseltongue. Nothing. Damnit – I'm sure it's here!

Tom floated back to the ground and walked over to a sink – he splashed himself with cold water, trying to soothe his bubbling anger and frustration. Maybe he wasn't the heir to Slytherin. Maybe he wasn't the chosen one. Doomed to a life of mediocrity he thought miserably. Was it because he wasn't pure blood? Damn his pathetic muggle mother, she must have tainted him! He punched the ceramic sink in frustration, cutting his knuckle as a piece chipped off. He watched the crimson blood drip from the cut, the dark red liquid mixing with the clear tap water, a swirling wet candy-cane. He then noticed something scratched on the side of one of the sink's copper taps – a tiny snake.

"Open up," said Tom in a strange hissing voice, as if he just knew exactly what to say.

At once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. The next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

Not much in life ever made Tom Riddle happy. He was born angry, grew up angry and lived angry. Angry at his ignominious birth, angry with his absentee parents, angry that others grew up fat and content, while he went wanting. But Tom was human and every once in a while he allowed himself to experience the euphoric side of the emotion spectrum. As he stared hungrily at the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, Tom was filled with a deep sense of elation – he couldn't remember being more overcome with pure joy in his entire life.

"Where does he go all the time? I never see him anymore," remarked Rosier.

"Must've found himself a cute cherry," replied Nott.

"We would know if 'Lord Voldemort' was dating someone," said Mulciber.

"Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't have to be a fellow Slytherin…or maybe it isn't a girl," chimed in Dolohov.

The four Slytherins chuckled, suspiciously watching one of their own sneak out in the middle of the night.

Tom slinked out of the Slytherin common room and hurried out of the castle through one of his secret shortcuts. He walked briskly along the school grounds and found his favorite secluded spot by the Great Lake. A cold, crisp drift always wafted over the lake at this time of night, the eerie silence sometimes broken by an occasional howl emanating from the Forbidden Forest. The moon shone brightly this night, giving the lake a silvery haunted glow.

Tom enjoyed the wide-open space out by the lake – it helped calm his mind and afforded him the peace he required to organize his thoughts. A few days' time would mark the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts. He had come so far and accomplished so much in his time at the famous wizarding school, but if he was honest with himself, he'd made several mistakes as well.

Tom spread his traveling cloak on the cold ground, cast a warming charm and laid down upon it, staring up at the starry night sky. He thought back to his astounding discovery of the Chamber of Secrets, the dark slimy walls that protected the school's greatest prize. The real treasure was not the mighty Basilisk, but that too had been something amazing to behold. It was a fearsome creature – a giant serpent almost fifty feet in length; thick armor plated scales covered its body, it had teeth like jagged spears and could kill with a single glance. Only Slytherin's true heir could control the monster and he had fearlessly dominated the creature within a few hours.

Any other teenager – no! any other man – on the planet would have been terrified at the mere mention of the beast's name. But not I, Lord Voldemort; I was able to control it, demanded and gained its respect, and released it upon the school to finish noble Salazar's work. That being said…I should've been smarter, more controlled and precise. I should've considered the ramifications of releasing the great serpent upon the student body. Should have realized the havoc that was sure to descend on Hogwarts when it began to kill. Once I found out the school could potentially close forever, my surrogate home, I had to backtrack and reseal the chamber. I had to confine the magnificent creature to its deep prison once more. Such an immature mistake, mustn't get caught up in the moment like that again.

I must admit, even I was surprised at how easy it was to dupe everyone – how simple it was to frame that ugly, filthy giant and his idiotic pet. But I must be more controlled, more measured in the future. Although there was a silver lining – the mighty creature's attack had allowed me to perform a human sacrifice of sorts, allowed me to create something amazing, something to ensure my…survival. And I now have a precious instrument with my memories preserved within. One day it will emerge as a powerful weapon, an instrument another noble wizard can use to finish the work Salazar and I started.

No, the school's greatest hidden treasure was not the Great Snake of Slytherin or the powerful new notebook that had been created, but rather the personal library of the noble Salazar that was built into the Chamber's walls. It contained priceless information about the dark arts not recorded within any other text on Earth. How to create disease and famine, how to control others totally and completely, how to read minds and destroy thoughts, how to fly amongst the stars! It had also shown Tom the most precious secret of all, how to cheat Father Time himself!

Once Tom had discovered the knowledge of possible immortality, he had become a man possessed. He was not yet 18 years old, barely started living his life, yet he'd already become obsessed with the one thought that haunts all old men – how to achieve life eternal. Nothing else mattered. A diabolical plan had begun to form in his mind, vague at first, but every night his dreams made it clearer and clearer – the golden path to immortality was becoming more illuminated by the day.

He would graduate from Hogwarts, study in secret, and grow powerful, only to disappear and become reborn as the world's greatest dark wizard – a dark phoenix rising from shadow ashes. His very name would invoke equal parts fear and reverence. His ignominious upbringing would be a distant memory, and his future would be quite the opposite – filled only with mighty triumphs and resounding victories.

He would shape the world in his image, a God who walked amongst men. He would become infamous within the wizarding world and the muggle world alike. He would start a magical cleansing war, restore purebloods to their rightful place at the head of the table – high above muggles and mudbloods. Half-bloods would have the opportunity to show their mettle, their true worth…his hands balled tightly into fists and blood rushed to his face, for he'd recently confirmed his worst nightmare. Discovered his own embarrassing heritage. How could the true heir of Slytherin be a filthy half-blood? He had always hoped that were not true, that he indeed did come from pure stock. He would scrub away the ugly truth soon – ruthlessly wipe out any trace of his muggle origins in one fell swoop.

I will lead a brave magical world into a new dawn, bring about a golden age of wizarding. My reign shall last forever, for I now possess the knowledge of a god! Tom knew he would have to make terrible sacrifices, but nothing great in life ever came easy. The precious books in Salazar's library had detailed how painful the process could be, the severe consequences that resulted from maiming one's soul…but when had pain ever stopped him? Any price was worth paying in order to live forever.

The text detailed terrible side effects – loss of empathy, inability to love, disfiguration, tremendous amounts of physical agony. And that came from the creation of one horcrux, which he had already done! What pain?! Who gives a damn about love?! I'm going to push the boundaries of magic further than they've ever been pushed before, I will descend farther down the path of darkness then even the noble Salazar ventured. I shall take steps to ensure lasting life and make the hard sacrifices required to achieve greatness incarnate. I will live long and prosper…I shall cheat even death itself!

Tom Riddle – tall, thin, and devilishly handsome – radiated the confidence of an older, more accomplished wizard as he strode along a winding lane lined with large hedgerows. Sounds of mirth and laughter would occasionally float to him, families glad to be finished with a long day toiling in the fields and excited to tuck into a hearty supper.

After some time, the lane curved to the left and sloped downward along a hillside, forcing Tom into a trot to maintain his balance. From the sloped lane he had an unobstructed view of a large green valley stretched out below him. He could see a village nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible in the waning daylight. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn, but Tom's destination was not the town of Little Hangleton. He took leave from the lane and eventually found himself walking along a narrow and crooked dirt track.

After some time, he came to an opening amongst a copse of old oak trees and nestled amongst the large tree trunks was an unkempt wooden shack. It appeared as a natural part of the trees, with no discernable human presence or touch. Tom swallowed his disgust at the slovenly hovel and approached the shack on soft feet.

He knocked loudly on the wooden door and then, without waiting for a consenting reply, roughly pushed it open. The inside of the shack was indescribably filthy. Cobwebs littered the ceiling, grime coated the floor, and rotted food lay scattered along dirty table tops. There was a bearded man slumped in an armchair in a dark corner, a candle weakly flickering at his cracked feet. There was a small fire roasting across from him, giving off a modicum of warmth in the otherwise cold interior. Tom appraised the filthy interior with contempt, his…

…eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

"YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!"

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.

"Stop."

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it.

"You speak it?"

"Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him…His face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.

"Where is Marvolo?" he asked.

"Dead," said the other. "Died years ago, didn't he?"

Riddle frowned.

"Who are you, then?"

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

"Marvolo's son?"

"Course I am, then . . ."

Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle…Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.

"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty like that Muggle."

"What Muggle?" said Riddle sharply.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it. . . ."

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. "He come back, see," he added stupidly.

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, "Riddle came back?"

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit. . . . It's over. . . ."

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward…

…"Stupefy!" screamed Tom. A red jet shot from his wand and hit his uncle square in the chest. Morfin stiffened up and fell to the ground like a rigid board, fury etched across his frozen face. Tom walked across the grimy floor and picked up his uncle's fallen wand.

"Don't worry, I'll be right back," whispered Tom into his uncle's wax filled ear. He then pocketed Morfin's wand, pointed his own down at his uncle's face and muttered "Obliviate."

An hour later Tom trudged his way through the night, headed back to the dirty wooden shack with just the moon as his traveling companion. The only sounds around him were the small twigs crushed underneath his heavy boots. He needed to visit Morfin one last time and finish covering his tracks – it wouldn't be the first time another would be blamed for a murder Tom had committed.

He had just left the splendid manor house of the Riddle family, having met his father and paternal grandparents for the first and last time. He had dreamed many times about what he would say to his father if he ever found him, replayed the scene hundreds of times in his head. He imagined shouting obscenities at his father, screaming for retribution and demanding answers. He imagined impressing his father with his magical abilities, showing him what powers the son he has forsaken now possessed. He imagined beating the rationale for his abandonment out of his father, punch by punch. But this cold night, when he had finally met his pater, he felt…nothing. No anger, no righteous indignation, not even irritation…just a sense of apathy and emptiness.

As his father and grandparents hurled insult after insult at him and demanded he leave their house, Tom Riddle felt…indifferent. In the end, he killed them not due to some childish notion of revenge or justice, rather, he slayed them so no one in the magical world, the true world, might stumble upon and discover his shameful secret – his half-blood origin and the dirty blood that coursed through his veins.

As he neared the wooden shack, Tom began twisting an ugly gold ring set with a large black stone that was now around on his left middle finger. How many teenage boys in this world could do what he had done tonight? How many full-grown wizards or witches?

He had overpowered a wizard and modified his memory, killed three muggles, and brilliantly covered up all evidence of the crime! No one could do what I could, no one was capable of my cunning, my genius…I'll gather the boys tonight and celebrate, for tonight had been a good night. Rectifying errors of long past, reclaiming what was rightfully mine…and paving one more step on the golden path.

Tom Riddle was willing, Lord Voldemort was willing…to pay the price of immortality.