"ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋꜱ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛʏ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴏꜰ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴄʟɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴀʀʀʏ ꜱᴋɪᴇꜱ;
ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀɪɢʜᴛ
ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ."
― ʟᴏʀᴅ ʙʏʀᴏɴ
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Soul Murder
-November, 1942-
In the night, Tom was merciless.
The basilisk would be beside him, slithering through the pipes. His heart thumping to the steady rhythm of the hunt.
A single hissed word ― "Look!" ― and his chosen prey, gazing into a mirror or a puddle of water, their eyes commanded to stay focused on the basilisk's reflection by Tom's Legilimency, would stiffen and fall.
He had never felt so in control.
And it showed.
Others had remarked that he seemed to glow, that his eyes seemed brighter and that he looked the picture of health, even as the school plunged into division and fear.
Of course, Tom hadn't been able to resist a bit of melodrama, daubing the walls with red paint to make certain that everyone knew this was the handiwork of the Heir of Slytherin and that the Chamber of Secrets had indeed been opened.
In front of professors, no one offered opinions; but behind closed doors, his fellow Slytherins, especially the likes of Nott and Rosier, cheered him on, even going so far as to express their desire that just one filthy Mudblood would die.
Of course, they didn't know the filthy prefect sitting opposite them, dutifully consumed in his Charms homework, had any part to play in this.
This great and noble work that none of them was capable of but him.
If only fear didn't still cling to him like a second skin, not the fear of being caught, they would never, ever discover him.
The Boggart was on the list for the Defence O.W.L.
His stumbling block. Death.
It reminded Tom that he wasn't safe.
At times, it made him physically unable to breathe.
His throat would clam up tight, and he would wheeze, and his eyes would tear.
Whatever it was, it was getting worse. He saw demons and black curtains and pestilence in every corner, jumped at every sound.
It felt like he was caught in a whirlpool. The only foothold was increasing amounts of Calming Draught and the basilisk and his prefect duties and the monotony of routine.
But the monster was coming for him yet, no matter how many times he spun the hourglass. He couldn't swim fast enough against the current.
There was nothing here for him but hopelessness and the cold embrace of existential fear.
"Tom!"
The familiarity of the voice snapped Tom out of his musings.
"Professor Dumbledore," he said.
For a moment, cold terror coursed through him; he was thinking of the just-Petrified girl on the fourth floor, and wondering fearfully if Dumbledore had discovered her, discovered him.
Dumbledore, who was standing at the top of the stairs, descended towards him.
"It is late to be wandering around, Tom," he said, as if he were holding up the weight of the world. Dumbledore wasn't looking himself these days. He drifted through lecture; Tom, who had always begrudgingly found Dumbledore's lessons to be riveting, found his eyelids start to droop in the past few morning lectures. His once-lively eyes were dull and colourless, and his long hair was scraggly and tangled. His face was filled with shadows, and Tom thought he looked older than ever.
This wasn't the same Dumbledore who had walked into his grey orphanage, dressed garishly in plum-coloured velvet and carrying a magic wand. This was the ghost of Albus Dumbledore, some strange man wearing greys and blacks, who Tom didn't know.
It was as if all the Gryffindor fire that once burned in him had been snuffed out. Maybe his magic had dried up, too.
But by what? It was deeply unsettling to think something or someone could make Dumbledore so defeated and exhausted.
"I'm not Muggle-born, sir," said Tom, feeling a little reckless, now that he was sure even the great Albus Dumbledore had absolutely no idea that he controlled the monster that had brought the school to its knees, the prefect, orphan, so-called Mudblood Riddle.
Dumbledore did not respond, instead giving him what would have been a trademark Dumbledore Piercing Stare last year, but was now reduced to a feeble glance.
"You don't look like yourself, Professor," he said, unable to help it.
Dumbledore did not bother with feigning a smile tonight.
"I am afraid this problem is beyond either of our abilities. Do not concern yourself with this, Tom."
"But―"
Dumbledore turned, and he was staring at Tom as if he were someone else altogether. Someone Dumbledore knew well and had very conflicted, messy feelings about.
He shook his head as if trying to get the thought out of his mind.
"Go to bed," ordered Dumbledore. "It is eleven o'clock. Patrols have long been over. We will talk tomorrow, at our usual time."
"Yes, sir."
Tom went to bed, but he did not sleep. Instead, he opened Magick Moste Evile, and as was his new habit, read the single bookmarked passage, then frantically cross-referenced it in the stack of library books he'd been hoarding under his bed.
"Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction."
He didn't know what it meant, but he somehow knew it was part of the foothold. Something that would stop him from drowning.
Dumbledore was as listless the next morning in Transfiguration as he had been last night. The class obediently copied down his lecture, but something was not right.
"Professor Dumbledore seems a little off, don't you think?" whispered Minerva from her seat behind him.
"He does," Tom agreed, but he was already thinking about his timetable for the evening. Dumbledore at five, patrols started at seven... the basilisk would have to wait until Saturday, but perhaps he'd slip down to the Chamber on his way back to the dungeons...
"Be careful with your intent, especially when you do not completely understand a spell; magic always takes the path of least resistance," Dumbledore was saying.
"Oh, please," said Nott, too loudly. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Dumbledore, to his credit, did not look the slightest bit angry.
"Tom," he said. "Will you come to the front of the class? Bring your wand, please."
He obeyed, setting his quill down so it didn't leak ink over his notes and walking the short distance from the first row to the front. His bored classmates stared back at him dispassionately, although it looked like there was a commotion of giggling and whispering amongst some of the girls in the back of the room.
"Take out your wand," said Dumbledore. "I would like you to say the words Inanimatus Conjurus. Firm and decisive wand movement."
"What does it do, sir?"
Although Tom was no stranger to copying spells out of books, one, it wasn't advised to students, and two, what if Dumbledore was onto him? What if it was some kind of truth-telling spell―
"Precisely," said Dumbledore. "That is the right sort of question to ask. I am trying to demonstrate something of great importance to Thaddeus. Go ahead, Tom."
"Right," he said, feeling incredibly ridiculous. Tom took a deep breath and moved his wand as he usually would. "Inanimatus Conjurus."
There was a quick flash of light, like an electric spark ― some people screamed ― then a metal clang. Something small and shiny was rolling on the floor.
Dumbledore leaned down to pick it up; a perfectly-formed silver bullet was balanced between his forefinger and thumb.
"How odd," he said, faux-surprised. "When I first tried this spell―" He reached for something in the desk and picked up another metal object "―I managed to conjure a golden hammer. The purpose of this spell is, in theory, to conjure any inanimate object; if you do not calculate or focus appropriately, the results can be unpredictable."
Dumbledore smiled mechanically and passed the silver bullet to Tom; not sure what to do with it, he pocketed it and sat down once more beside Lestrange.
Nott still had a stupid, cross expression on his face.
Tom glanced over his shoulder. The girls in the back of the room were still tittering and pointing at him.
"Why are they giggling?" he hissed in Lestrange's general direction.
"Because you've got a pretty face?" Lestrange whispered back, his smile sharp and mocking. "Don't play coy, Riddle; you must have looked in a mirror sometime in the past month or so to brush your teeth."
Both aggravated and embarrassed, Tom resolved to stare fixedly at the blackboard for the next ten minutes.
"What does that prove?" asked Nott. "You waved your wands differently and got different effects? Professor," he tacked on quickly.
Tom wondered why Nott didn't ever shut his mouth and give his arse a chance.
Dumbledore sighed and opened his mouth to answer. But Minerva was faster.
"Don't waste your time on him, Professor Dumbledore. No one's been able to get any sense through his thick skull in the past sixteen years; there's no point."
The classroom went cold and silent; Tom faked a sneeze to hide his laugh, and Dumbledore winced.
Nott looked murderous. Minerva did not look in the least contrite.
"Five points from Gryffindor, Minerva," he said begrudgingly. "As I was about to say, Thaddeus, a golden hammer and a silver bullet are relatively harmless but imagine such variation in results when attempting, for example, a human Transfiguration. The results may be fatal; so, it is always important to understand exactly what you are doing in order to avoid injury to yourself or others."
The class continued in relative peace. Divination, History of Magic, and Care of Magical Creatures were all boring as usual; nothing else out of the ordinary happened (if you didn't count Delphi, the Divination Professor's darling, going into a trance and telling Poppy Pomfrey that her pet toad was going to die on Friday) until Dippet accosted him on the stairs and asked him to carry a message to Professor Merrythought.
Tom supposed it was his job as a prefect to take on more responsibilities around Hogwarts. Like being an errand boy.
"Professor Merrythought?" he called, knocking on the doorframe to get her attention. "Professor Dippet sent me to give you a message; he says it's urgent."
Tom stepped inside the classroom; the desks and chairs were shoved against the wall, and the students were practising the Freezing Charm on salamanders, so it must have been the third-year class.
Galatea Merrythought, as usual, was sitting at her mahogany desk and watching the students, occasionally calling out errors. She took off her small, gold-rimmed glasses and looked Tom up and down.
"Well, come and tell me, Riddle," she said, in her usual matter-of-fact way. "Don't stand there dawdling in the doorway."
If anything, thought Tom, Merrythought was getting very tired of working with children.
"Yes, Professor," said Tom, walking towards her and nodding at some of the students, who had ceased their spell-casting to gawk at him ― but why?
He leaned down to whisper Dippet's message in her ear: two more Muggle parents had called, announcing that they were pulling their children out of school, so she should not be surprised if Rosemary Martin and Miriam Foster (both Hufflepuffs) did not show up to class today.
Just then, a girl shouted, "Flipendo!"
Both Tom and Merrythought turned around to see the victim, but they need not have worried.
He laughed good-naturedly as the spell bounced off of him ― the boy had to be pushing eight feet tall. But he wasn't tall in the weedy, gawky way either (although, being thirteen, he was obviously awkward-looking). He was solid and broad and his hands were enormous.
"Miss Nott!" snapped Merrythought. "I told you categorically that no duelling spells were to be used! Twenty points from Slytherin!"
The girl who had cast the spell ― Nott's sister ― simply pouted and then gave Tom a long, sideways look from under her eyelashes. He ignored her and went over to the strangely unperturbed victim of the Knockback Jinx.
"I'm Tom Riddle," he said, offering his hand to the boy. "Slytherin House, fifth-year."
He grinned and shook Tom's hand heartily. "Rubeus Hagrid," he offered. "Nice ter meet yeh, Tom."
He would see about that.
"Take Hagrid to the Hospital Wing, Riddle," ordered Merrythought.
Tom didn't see anything wrong with Rubeus, but he obeyed. It was on his way to Dumbledore's office, anyway.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go."
As soon as they were out in the corridor, Tom, not one to mince words when the opportunity arose or deny his curiosity, asked: "Are you a half-giant, Rubeus? The way that spell bounced off you..."
Rubeus shrugged and made a funny sort of nod; half-proud, half-embarrassed.
"Why did that girl jinx you?" asked Tom, wondering if it was anything he could use against Nott.
Rubeus shrugged once more.
"Yeh know," he said. "Most of th' students don' like my kind. 'Specially in Slytherin."
"Half-bloods?"
"Half-breeds. 'Course, not everybody figures it out as quick as yeh. Professor Dumbledore did, o' course. "
"Oh." Tom had heard that word being thrown around the common room, but he generally didn't pay much attention to name-calling unless it applied to him. So that was why Merrythought had been so desperate to get Hagrid out of her class; she probably wanted him out of Hogwarts, too.
"Are yeh Muggle-born?" Rubeus went on, in that same good-natured way that reminded Tom of Algie Longbottom, his now fellow prefect and the apple of Merrythought's eye.
He'll probably get the job after she retires, thought Tom.
It was Tom's turn to shrug. He could have explained, but he didn't feel like going into all that David Copperfield nonsense.
So this is Dumbledore's other charity case, is it?
They both fell silent for a while.
"Well, here's the Hospital Wing," said Tom, gesturing at the door. "Take care."
Rubeus flashed him a toothy grin and hurried inside.
"What an imbecile," Tom muttered under his breath, then with a dramatic swish of his robes, turned away and went towards the next corridor.
In his not-at-all-humble opinion, he was the much superior of Dumbledore's charity cases.
"Afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
"Come in, Tom. Please close the door behind you," came the tired-sounding response.
Tom was, to his sorrow, well-accustomed to Professor Dumbledore's office by now. Fawkes, the radiant, immortal phoenix resting proudly on his perch; the warm fire sputtering in the fireplace, a desk overflowing with strange magical objects from distant lands and an assortment of oversized, comfortable chairs.
However, someone was sitting in his chair. At his meeting with Professor Dumbledore.
"Who are you?" he demanded of the intruder, then looked sharply up at Dumbledore, who was sitting behind his desk as usual. The inhabitant of Tom's chair let out a frightened squeak.
Tom turned his ire towards Dumbledore.
"I thought our meetings were private, sir," he said.
"Of course, Tom," said Dumbledore, sounding weary. "Emma will only be with us a moment."
Emma, Emma, Emma. Tom racked his brain for a reference but could only think of Muggle Emmas.
Still very off-put, he sat down in another chair and attempted to temper his fury.
"How do you do, Emma?" asked Tom, hastily plastering a smile on his face.
"Good, thanks. And yourself?"
"Fine," said Tom, slouching in his chair.
"This is Tom, Emma," said Dumbledore. He gave Tom a long, steady, probing look. There was something uncharacteristically feeble about it. "You will be tutoring her for her O.W.L.s, beginning in December."
He must be taking the Michael. He can't be serious.
"Sorry, Professor," said Tom, sitting up. "I don't think I heard you right. See, I thought you said, I'll be tutoring this, uh," Gryffindor bint sitting in my chair, "Emma."
"Oh, no," said Dumbledore, his tone warmer and friendlier than even Grindelwald's. They just had to have known each other. "You understood me exactly, Tom."
"Sir," said Tom. "I have prefect duties, and I'm already tutoring Mulciber, and there's the-the attacks―" His voice was rising higher and higher with disbelief "― and I'm taking twelve O.W.L.s myself!"
"I am certain you can manage, Tom," said Dumbledore, in the strained tone of someone attempting to keep a frustrating child calm. "I would not ask if I did not think you were capable. Would you be able to slot Emma in during the evenings?"
Dumbledore was right. Tom could definitely manage two students. Two students and a basilisk, however...
But to admit defeat would be to admit guilt, and Tom couldn't have that.
"Fine. Whenever. I don't mind."
"Excellent, Tom. Emma, would you..."
"Yes, Professor!" the intruder squeaked, and this time, Tom did not bother to mask his contempt.
As soon as 'that bint' had left, Tom sat in his preferred chair and crossed his arms.
"You are not too angry with me, Tom? The school is facing incredible pressure, and unfortunately, we must cave to parents' wishes when we can."
"Of course, sir. I understand."
Dumbledore made another attempt at a piercing stare, but it fell flat.
"How are you, Tom?"
"Fine, sir. How are you?"
"How are you, Tom?" he repeated, looking a little cross. Over the years, Tom had realised that Dumbledore wasn't fond of repeating himself.
"Fine, sir," said Tom. He'd say 'Fine' until he was blue in the face if need be.
"You are not worried about the attacks? Personally?"
"I'm not Muggle-born, sir. I'm half-blood. Witch mother, Muggle father."
Dumbledore winced; he seemed frustrated.
"I am afraid that is not the common perception."
How was he supposed to answer that? They've stopped calling me Mudblood to my face now?
"No one's been killed," said Tom, choosing to point out the frightfully obvious. "Soon as the Mandrakes mature, everyone will be alright."
"Tom," said Dumbledore. "Come; do not insult my intelligence and yours. You know, as well as I, the legend of the Chamber of Secrets, and furthermore, that it is simply implausible to think that the most the self-proclaimed 'Heir of Slytherin' wishes to do is Petrify. Did they not leave a threatening message on the wall, next to the first victim: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened; enemies of Slytherin, beware!"
"It hasn't Petrified any Slytherins, and I don't think it will. I'm not an enemy of Slytherin; I'm in his house!" said Tom. "I'm not afraid for myself. I just want to make sure nobody else gets hurt."
It was Dumbledore's turn to look contemptuous.
"It hasn't Petrified any Parselmouths, either," said Dumbledore.
"You don't think I would do this?" asked Tom, trying his best to appear the picture of calm-yet-horrified righteousness, though his heartbeat was already in his mouth.
"Not at all. I only wondered if you had by chance spoken to anyone with the same ability."
He relaxed, but only slightly.
"It's rare, Professor, that's what you told me. I think the 'Heir' would keep it a secret if they were, wouldn't they? And for Parseltongue to matter, the monster would have to be some kind of serpent."
"Perhaps their victims might know something," mused Dumbledore. "Yet there hasn't been a single clue; the Heir is very clever not to leave traces. If only we could talk to them; you know, Tom, three may keep a secret if two of them are dead."
Determined to unsettle him, Tom pressed the point. "And what do you think my secret is, sir? The two of my parents are dead."
"Mmm," he said, unperturbed. "So is Billy Stubb's rabbit, Tom."
He felt all the blood drain from his face and run cold. He was a corpse in his chair. The frozenness of death had set in his limbs.
"Who told you?"
"Mrs. Cole," said Dumbledore. "Before I came in to visit you, as well as the... incident at the cave. Relax, Tom, there is no need to explain. She could not explain how it exactly had happened, but of course, I could. I must confess I was quite disturbed, Tom, though I hoped and believed that it was possible that you felt sorry for what you had done, for you to grow up to be a decent young man. I felt I ought to keep an eye on you."
"In case?" Tom pressed. But Dumbledore did not respond.
Clearly, the point was that he was watching Tom, and he wanted him to know.
The basilisk should lie low for a while, he decided.
"May I go, Professor?" he asked. "I'd like to get something to eat before patrols start..."
"Yes, yes, go on," said Dumbledore, waving a hand. His expression was unreadable, but Tom did not think he suspected him any more than the next Muggle-hating Slytherin. "Take care, Tom. Oh, and do come see me Friday evening. I require some aid with the first-year Transfiguration essays."
My first detention, thought Tom. He certainly wants to reduce the chances of me having any spare time this year.
It didn't matter. He would have to sleep less and do more.
"Good-bye, Professor Dumbledore. I'll be there."
Do I regret it? he wondered as he shut the door and went out. It was childish. Stupid, maybe. Pointless posturing and hysterics. But I was eleven. That's what children do. They're cruel.
No, though sweaty and trembling from his encounter with Dumbledore, Tom couldn't say he was eaten up by guilt in the least.
The world is a fundamentally immoral place. God forbid I take part in it, he thought with a touch of sarcasm.
Thankfully, neither the other Slytherins, nor the supercilious Ravenclaw prefect he found himself doing rounds with was particularly interested in small talk, and Tom decided to return to the Chamber of Secrets to consult Salazar.
It was already November, and he had already gone through the last book in the Restricted Section even vaguely related to death and the Horcrux. His most recent attempt at the Philosopher's Stone had ended in sheer disaster. No one was going to sacrifice themselves from him out of love, and furthermore, one, it was a hypothetical result, and two, Tom wasn't afraid of a specific murderer.
It was hopeless.
Utterly hopeless.
"What do I do?" he screamed at Salazar, pacing back and forth in the Chamber. Whether or not Slytherin was ashamed of his half-blood heir's unravelling sanity, he didn't say. "What do I do, now?"
But Salazar only closed his stone eyes and sighed.
"You are not looking," he said, his voice full of disappointment, which only served to fuel Tom's frustration. "I have told you before, many times. Do not look at the thing. Look at what it is."
"I AM LOOKING!" he shouted. "I'VE LOOKED EVERYWHERE! AND I'M STILL GOING TO DIE!"
Salazar looked as contemptuous as stone could.
"I am dead. And am I not great? Perhaps what you fear is not death at all but insignificance."
Tom's mouth moved silently as he tried to come up with a rebuttal.
"You don't understand."
"You're a fool," said Salazar, and if he were anyone else, Tom would have gotten angry. "You're too young to understand. What do you even think will happen after you die?"
"Well, probably―" Tom spluttered, realising that he hadn't put too much thought into after "―probably burn in Hell for all eternity, so there."
It was hard to articulate what that specific fear felt like. Tom didn't think Salazar would understand; he'd probably never had cause to be afraid in his life. He had tried to explain how he felt before, but Salazar had laughed it off as nonsense.
Salazar snorted.
"I was afraid when the Muggles burned down my father's house, so when I left Hogwarts, I returned to the land of my birth and slaughtered the filth. Do what you must to stop it, but it is inadvisable to stage a fight against Death." He waved a stone hand. "I see Mudbloods are leaving the school already."
"Yes," said Tom, desperate to impress him. "I've Petrified three so far, and five have been pulled out by their parents."
"It is not enough. I want them all gone. All dead. After the Muggle filth drove my forebears out of Vasconia, killed our brethren... You wish me to commend you, boy? Petrified, unenrolled? Bah! The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood!"
"No," said Tom, chastised. "I'm trying, but I can't draw suspicion. Do you really want me to sacrifice myself?"
He wouldn't. Salazar knew that.
Salazar did not respond, and Tom realised that it was his cue to leave.
Trembling, he returned to the library. It was after hours, but he moved silently through the shadows until he reached the Restricted Section, unhooked the rope, and went inside.
He stopped.
The heavy footsteps behind him told Tom he was not alone. Almost on reflex, he slipped behind the nearest shelf and waited with bated breath for the newcomer to walk by, hoping that the shadows would obscure him. Unfortunately, it was the night of a full moon, and the library was brighter than usual at witching hour.
It was Slughorn. With a furtive glance behind him, he replaced the book on its shelf, then left as quickly as he came, and Tom abandoned his hiding place to find it.
Why? Why not wait until tomorrow and give it to the librarian directly?
Tom knew why; he had done it many times himself. Slughorn didn't want anyone to know what he had been reading.
The best place to hide something is in plain sight, or so the saying goes.
Perhaps that might apply to Secrets of the Darkest Art. A medium-sized book with no title on the binding, pages messily sewn together, and encased in what looked like a homemade black leather cover. There was no table of contents, and the book was completely handwritten. A true one-of-a-kind.
Salazar was right. He wasn't looking. Not really.
What secrets do you hold?
The chapter he opened the book to at random began with a short history of a Dark wizard named Herpo the Foul; a Parselmouth, like him, and a pioneer in the field of Dark Arts, becoming the first-known wizard to create a basilisk — like the creature sleeping under the school that obeyed only his command.
Tom's interest was piqued.
Reading further, he discovered that Herpo the Foul was also the first-known wizard to create a Horcrux — a subject which Tom had wondered about for a long time, seeing as even Magick Moste Evile refused to elaborate on the topic, calling it the 'wickedest of magical inventions.' But this book had no such qualms.
The purpose of a Horcrux — and this made Tom's breath catch — was to make the creator immortal.
Immortal.
The power to stop the current. Freeze the ever pouring sand in the hourglass. Tear the curtain to shreds, and destroy the Reaper for once and for all.
Please don't let this be false hope. But somehow, instinctively, he knew this must be the way. The only way. He was practically led to the book by chance; this was fate. It had to be. He was meant to find it.
Tom put the book down, his heart in his throat and beating wildly out of control. So it had been here all this time… the knowledge he needed.
He glanced further down the page, his hands trembling as he did.
Instructions.
Tom thought of coming back later, but what if when he returned, the book was gone as mysteriously and covertly as it had appeared? With a furtive glance behind him to ensure that no one was watching, he continued to read, hugging the book close to him.
To create a Horcrux, first, the witch or wizard had to deliberately commit the act of murder. This act said to be evil above all else, would result in the murderer damaging their own soul beyond repair.
Murder. Tom traced a reverent finger over the word, feeling a faint shiver. Finally, he mouthed it under his breath. Could he do that? Could he really get away with… killing someone?
The only good Mudblood is a dead Mudblood.
If our soldiers kill for King and country, can't I kill for myself?
The prospective was seductive. Tempting. Yes, framed like that, it seemed all very reasonable and even, perhaps, moral.
He filed that concern away for later. Now was the time to learn.
Having committed the act, he would now have to cast a spell that would sever the damaged portion of his soul and encase it in an object.
That made his stomach churn. Perhaps it would have bothered him even more if Tom thought he had even a slim chance of his immortal soul having eternal life in Heaven, but he sincerely doubted that he did or ever would make the nice list. If anything, he was saving himself eternal torment.
But it didn't mean that the idea of losing a bit of whatever his soul was, whatever it meant to be Tom Marvolo Riddle, whatever it was that Dementors sucked out of you and made you a listless shell without, didn't creep him out immensely.
In some ways, it was the ultimate self-sacrifice; to willingly cause the essence of Tom Riddle irreparable damage.
But it was worth it. He knew it was.
You said you'd sell your soul for freedom from the Reaper, he convinced himself. How is this any different?
So he continued.
If the maker — him — was later killed, he would continue to exist in a non-corporeal form, although there were methods of regaining a physical body.
Tom skimmed the last few paragraphs. Side effects, uncertain. Reconciliation — why would he want to do that?
Destruction required the deadliest methods, such as basilisk venom and Fiendfyre, which were both thankfully rare.
He shut the book, but the confusing mix of emotions remained: excitement, relief, trepidation.
This was a point of no return.
"Tamper with the deepest mysteries — the source of life, the essence of self — only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind."
That was the first of the Fundamental Laws of Magic.
But was he, Tom Riddle, prepared for the extreme and dangerous consequences of such an act?
He shut his eyes and saw the dead body of Boggart Tom, motionless on the floor.
Riddikulus.
It could all be gone. No more fear. No more pain.
With one more glance behind him, he tucked Secrets of the Darkest Act under his arm and left the library without a second thought.
He glanced up at the clock. It was time to return to Slytherin Dungeon, lest he attract the attention of another person wandering the halls. If he didn't get to sleep soon, he'd probably miss his first class in the morning.
Endnotes:
I refuse to believe that Tom wasn't capable of getting people to look the basilisk directly in the eyes when he really wanted to.
Similarly, there is no way that Dumbledore functioning anywhere close to 100% couldn't figure out for certain what Tom was up to for an entire year. I mean, Dumbledore is a master at Legilimency and Other People's Secrets in general, and no sixteen-year-old, Voldemort or not, would be a match for him IMO. For Tom to (literally) get away with murder, Dumbledore's abilities would have to be seriously impaired. The only canon excuse for that? Severe depression.
And because I am the queen of subtlety (sarcasm, of course) the silver bullet and golden hammer are references to Tom and Dumbledore's personality flaws.