2. Radish icons on my f-list make the baby Voldiebunny cry. *defriends everybody with radish icons*
2.5. Made you look.
3. Warner Brothers? Fuck you too. But I've been saying that since March 2000.
4. eye_knead_name and prncssleia, you are cordially invited for afternoon tea in the Slytherin common room, tomorrow.
Title: The First Horcrux
Character: Tom Riddle
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 1K words
Summary: The Basilisk does not think, it does not have intent. It is a weapon. The Basilisk had not killed today; Lord Voldemort had. A story about a boy and his abnormally large pet snake. Or maybe things altogether final.
Note: Originally written for a challenge at hogwarts_elite.
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
Tom cast a quick glance around, making sure that he hadn't been followed. The hallway was deserted; all the students were either in lessons or out on the grounds, enjoying the spring sunshine. Tom smiled to himself and opened the door to the bathroom. It was pure luck that he'd noticed the Mudblood -- Myrtle; that was her name -- rushing past him, wailing something about an Olive Horney? Hornby? No matter.
He walked inside, trying to make as little noise as possible. If the Mudblood heard him before he was ready, his plan would fall through and he'd not only have to wait until he got back to the orphanage before attempting again, he would also have to make do with a different weapon. He felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach as he thought about his weapon.
There were sniffing noises coming from one of the stalls. Tom shuddered with revulsion. The Mudbloods were worse than animals, sitting in lessons with their great cow eyes trained on the professors, as though they had a right to the sacred knowledge of magic. They were a stain on the honour of Hogwarts, all of them.
He bid the Chamber to open, as quietly as he could, but he needn't have bothered, really -- the Mudblood was blubbering so loudly that he could have shouted at the door and she wouldn't have heard him.
The Chamber opened, and Tom called the Basilisk. The fluttering sensation in his belly was building to a crescendo of excitement as he listened for movement down below; his heart did a leap when he heard his weapon coming. Tom took the empty diary out of his robe's pocket and placed it on a flat surface near the edge of the sink. He stepped aside and turned away, waiting.
"Master," said the Basilisk. "What is your command?"
The Mudblood's whimpers in the cubicle stopped.
"There is a girl in that stall," said Tom, his heart hammering against his chest like a caged bird. "Kill her."
The stall's door opened, and Tom felt as though the air around him filled with static electricity; he thought he could hear its faint buzz in his ears. Then there was a dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor.
"Close your eyes," commanded Tom and turned around, drawing his wand.
The Basilisk does not think, it does not have intent. It is a weapon. The Basilisk had not killed today; Lord Voldemort had.
"Animadverto," said Tom clearly, his voice echoing against the walls and ceiling. There were several moments during which his breathing stopped. The spell hadn't worked; he couldn't see anything except for the dead Mudblood, the Basilisk's still form towering above him, and--
There it was. Faintly silhouetted against the open stall, Tom could see -- himself, as a little boy, the eleven-year-old boy who had just learned that he was a wizard. The image shimmered and shifted in front of his eyes, and he saw that there were two boys -- one sharper, one fainter. The fainter shape was slowly separating from the sharper one, but it wasn't fully separated. Tom nodded in satisfaction. Yes, he'd been expecting this. Slughorn had let it drop that the first splitting of a soul would not go easily. He was ready.
"Scindo," he said, pointing his wand at the fainter boy. The sharper boy-shape's face contorted in agony as the fainter shape drifted away from it. Tom felt a vague sense of loss: a vast emptiness filled his chest for a moment and then it was gone.
"Constringo," he whispered, pointing his wand at the fainter boy-shape: the first part of his soul to fall away from him. His inner world was in turmoil: on the one hand, he was elated from having succeeded; on the other hand, there was a terrible foreboding in the deeper recesses of his mind. The split-off part of his soul flickered briefly, then began to spin -- slowly at first, then faster, faster -- until it was a whirlwind of pale grey and blue. Tom waved his wand in a circular motion and pointed it at the blank diary. The book opened, its pages turning as though by an unseen wind. The whirlwind headed straight for the book, briefly engulfing it, and then it disappeared. The book was closed again and Tom expelled the breath he'd been holding this whole time.
He took a few tentative steps towards the diary, pocketing his wand. When he picked the book up, he felt strange warmth radiate through his fingertips.
"Yes," said Tom. He had succeeded. He knew he was holding the first Horcrux made in over three hundred years. He could feel the magic encased by the diary in his blood. He had taken his first step towards immortality, towards absolute power over death itself. He threw his head back and gave a short laugh -- he hadn't felt this elated since he'd figured out how to open Salazar's Chamber.
Tom sent the Basilisk back to its lair, closed the Chamber door and paused over the dead Mudblood, prodding the body with his foot. He briefly considered Vanishing the corpse, but then he got a better idea. He pocketed the diary, assumed a shocked expression on his face and rushed out of the bathroom. "Help, help!" he cried. "Someone's been killed! Help!"
As the boy's cries grew fainter and fainter, Myrtle poked her head out from the toilet and looked around.
"Why am I in the toilet?" she thought. "Who is that girl over there? Is she asleep?"
"I was just passing by and I heard a noise," Tom was saying to Headmaster Dippet as they hurried down the hallway. "I opened the door and -- and--" He stopped and buried his face in his hands. "I can't bear to repeat it, sir. She was-- she's--"
A loud wail rent the air, coming from the direction of the girls' bathroom.
"Dead Myrtle! Dead Myrtle! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, OLIVE HORNBY!"