Toujours Pur
i am lord voldemort
The splitting of a soul is, undoubtedly, the most unusual sensation that one ever experiences.
For Tom Riddle, it was adrenaline, first: The rush of pride at his apparent success, the thrill of accomplishing, at only sixteen, what so few had ever even dared to attempt. He’d lifted his eyes to the ceiling, to the heavens, the chorus of a thousand splendid notes escaping through his lungs. It seemed to last forever, yet ceased all at once, and he hadn’t uttered a sound.
Then came the pain — so great and so foul it brought him to his knees, wanting to scream for it to stop. He saw figures in his mangled mind: Grotesque and half-formed, those he had harmed and had yet to harm. Even through the torture, he was unctuous; he would yet avenge all those years of being shunned and lost.
Then it was gone, like a candle flame, blown into nonexistence with just a gust of wind, wisps of smoke the only sign it had ever been there. They still sounded within his ears — the echo of a cacophony of coarse shrieks that, in spite of everything, made him pleased.
He collapsed back onto the cold floor, no longer supported by the pull of the dark magic he had just performed. A small smile played across his pale and handsome face — though it was a face that in the dim lighting of the prefects’ bathroom, appeared gaunt and haggard.
The small, worn diary was clasped in his left hand, long fingers wrapped around the leather-bound spine. It seemed to be beating, fluttering faintly, as if it had a heart of its own.
Tom stared greedily at the object which had served as his most faithful confidant during that year. The pages were blank, though mere moments before they had been filled with the dark secrets beheld by the hubristic teenage boy.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he opened the cover and ink began to dance almost teasingly before his eyes, revealing the piece of himself that was cognisant of its master, greeting him as an old friend.
My lord.
The message was short, yet it was more than he could have hoped for.
Tom Riddle was dying and soon to be forgotten, but he served as the catalyst for an event that even Albus Dumbledore, surely, would not be able to prevent.
For he, Lord Voldemort, had finally wrought the long, sought-after path to immortality. And he had done it alone.
For Tom Riddle, it was adrenaline, first: The rush of pride at his apparent success, the thrill of accomplishing, at only sixteen, what so few had ever even dared to attempt. He’d lifted his eyes to the ceiling, to the heavens, the chorus of a thousand splendid notes escaping through his lungs. It seemed to last forever, yet ceased all at once, and he hadn’t uttered a sound.
Then came the pain — so great and so foul it brought him to his knees, wanting to scream for it to stop. He saw figures in his mangled mind: Grotesque and half-formed, those he had harmed and had yet to harm. Even through the torture, he was unctuous; he would yet avenge all those years of being shunned and lost.
Then it was gone, like a candle flame, blown into nonexistence with just a gust of wind, wisps of smoke the only sign it had ever been there. They still sounded within his ears — the echo of a cacophony of coarse shrieks that, in spite of everything, made him pleased.
He collapsed back onto the cold floor, no longer supported by the pull of the dark magic he had just performed. A small smile played across his pale and handsome face — though it was a face that in the dim lighting of the prefects’ bathroom, appeared gaunt and haggard.
The small, worn diary was clasped in his left hand, long fingers wrapped around the leather-bound spine. It seemed to be beating, fluttering faintly, as if it had a heart of its own.
Tom stared greedily at the object which had served as his most faithful confidant during that year. The pages were blank, though mere moments before they had been filled with the dark secrets beheld by the hubristic teenage boy.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he opened the cover and ink began to dance almost teasingly before his eyes, revealing the piece of himself that was cognisant of its master, greeting him as an old friend.
My lord.
The message was short, yet it was more than he could have hoped for.
Tom Riddle was dying and soon to be forgotten, but he served as the catalyst for an event that even Albus Dumbledore, surely, would not be able to prevent.
For he, Lord Voldemort, had finally wrought the long, sought-after path to immortality. And he had done it alone.
♠ ♠ ♠
Just a short preface for you. ;) That, by the way, was indeed a reference to Marvolo Gaunt as well as Hagrid.I keep getting Tom's timeline jumbled up, so I'm just going along that he'd just killed Myrtle, and this is after he learns of his Muggle father. I wanted this to be more of like a scene in the book/movie that was cut out because it's kind of sadistic. c:
For you Gryffindors such as myself: Glasgow
Also, like I said in the short summary, this is based on "The Warlock's Hairy Heart" from The Tales of Beedle the Bard, since I just find so many similarities in those stories.
Thank you to tom marvolo riddle, tom riddle. (SO THERE ARE MORE OF YOU, TOM!), and waves for commenting, recommending, or both! <3