Chapter 5: The Cost of Power
Hepzibah Smith's Residence, 1956
With each step he took towards Hepzibah Smith's luxurious home, Tom Riddle—now largely known by his chosen name, Lord Voldemort—felt a sense of purpose that was both invigorating and chilling. He had meticulously crafted the plan: charm the old witch, gain access to her treasures, and most crucially, acquire Salazar Slytherin's locket.
The locket was not just a trinket; it was an emblem of his heritage, a symbol of pure-blood supremacy. It was the perfect vessel for a fragment of his soul. But the other object he carried with him was equally significant—Helga Hufflepuff's Cup, a keepsake of his complicated relationship with Nagini. As much as the locket symbolized his ideology, the cup had started to symbolize something else—his enigmatic entanglement with a woman who defied easy understanding.
On this ominous night, concealed beneath his meticulously crafted facade of charm and charisma, Tom Riddle harbored a dark intent—to forge another Horcrux, a vile step toward his path of immortality and power. The grandeur of Hepzibah Smith's lavish residence offered a stark contrast to the sinister purpose that had brought him here, hidden beneath the veneer of social niceties.
The moment Tom stepped into the opulent sitting room, an overpowering wave of perfume enveloped him, a potent concoction that seemed to linger in the air long after it had left its mark. Hepzibah Smith, the ostentatious mistress of this domain, greeted him with an eagerness that barely concealed her underlying motives. Her eyes, like glittering jewels, twinkled with anticipation at the sight of her esteemed guest.
"Ah, Tom! You've come!" she trilled, her voice dripping with feigned delight as she gestured for him to take a seat on the ornate, gilded furniture that adorned the room.
In contrast to the lavish tea set and meticulously arranged biscuits that lay on a table nearby, Tom chose to forgo the pleasantries of hospitality, opting instead to cut through the superficiality and delve into the core of their interaction. "You mentioned something of great importance in your letter?" he inquired, his voice laced with the cold efficiency of a predator poised to strike.
Hepzibah's grin widened, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes as she reveled in having captured his full attention. With an air of theatricality, she retrieved a small, unassuming box from an inconspicuous spot, her delicate fingers handling it with care. As she opened the box, the locket was unveiled—a substantial, golden artifact adorned with the unmistakable, serpent-shaped 'S' of Salazar Slytherin, a symbol of both power and infamy.
"Slytherin's own locket," she whispered, her voice hushed and reverent.
Voldemort's crimson eyes remained fixated on the locket, an object of his unquenchable desire. This was the prize for which he had embarked on this treacherous journey, and it was now tantalizingly within reach.
"But that's not all," Hepzibah began, reaching for yet another concealed box, her excitement barely contained.
However, Voldemort had already made his fateful decision, a choice from which there was no retreat. Hidden behind the veneer of polite curiosity, he raised his wand with a sinister intent, its ebony surface gleaming ominously in the dim light of the room. As Hepzibah's anticipation continued to swell, unaware of the darkness that loomed over her, Voldemort spoke the incantation with a chilling detachment.
"Avada Kedavra.
The green light shot out of his wand, hitting Hepzibah squarely in the chest. She was dead before she even had the chance to realize what had happened.
Quickly, he grabbed the locket, leaving the other treasures untouched. He knew he had to act fast. It wouldn't be long before someone discovered her body.
Returning to his flat, Voldemort carefully placed the locket on the table next to Hufflepuff's Cup. There they were two incredibly valuable artifacts, representing two facets of his life—his past and an uncertain element of his future.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself for the spell that would rip another piece from his soul and lodge it in an object. But as his eyes moved from the locket to the cup, he hesitated. Nagini's face flashed before his eyes—their conversations, the duel in Albania, the trade, the vow, and that inexplicable moment their lips had met.
Was he sentimental? No, he couldn't afford that luxury. But Nagini had given him the cup, and it had become part of an unspoken agreement, a binding vow between two individuals who didn't quite understand what they were to each other.
And so, in a decision that would have repercussions for years to come, he chose the cup over the locket for his next Horcrux. He performed the incantation, feeling the searing pain as a piece of his soul broke away to settle into the cup.
As he looked at the cup, now a vessel for his immortality, he realized that it had become a doubly-enshrined object. It was a Horcrux, yes, but it was also a token of his convoluted involvement with Nagini. Its importance had doubled, its significance magnified.
As he sealed the Horcrux away, securing it in a location known only to him, Lord Voldemort couldn't help but think about the woman who had given it to him. Nagini remained a riddle he had yet to solve, an equation with variables that kept changing.
The cup was now part of his grand plan, a piece in a puzzle aimed at conquering death. But as he closed the secret compartment, his thoughts lingered on the other puzzle that he had yet to solve, a puzzle not of immortality, but of something far more elusive.
For the first time, he found himself considering the idea that there could be more than one path to power, more than one way to conquer the fears and uncertainties that make one human.
He glanced at the spot where he had hidden the cup, and for a brief moment, Voldemort allowed himself to ponder the possibility that his journey to immortality might involve not just artifacts and spells, but also the incomprehensible intricacies of human connection.