The Secrets of Slytherin

Prologue: December 1943

The Dark Forest at night was a terrible place, to most. Gnarled, ancient trees twisted tightly together, branches colliding and forming a thick, heavy canopy overhead that worked to block out any moonlight, and a heavy tangle of fallen trees, broken branches, and roots that threatened to trip the unwary, thorns to slice into their calves and leave a trail of blood for the vicious, creeping, hungry monsters to follow to prey. The wind whispered between the trees, like the voices of a thousand dead things, a murmured warning of doom.

It was only natural for Tom's companion to be terrified behind the veil of happy, perky contentment that the Imperius Curse created. He had been afraid, too, once, when the other Slytherin boys had dragged him out here, tied him to a tree, and left him to die in first year, but in the months after he'd forced himself to come out here, until he'd reached the point he could navigate the deadly forest with ease and that, somewhere, he had lost that shriveling, weak fear.

Finally, before a massive oak tree, aged a thousand years, branches thicker than his body, he stopped. He traced a curling, slithering symbol across the thick trunk with his wand, and it glowed bright for a moment before, with a deep groan, the ground before the tree opened up to reveal worn, earthen stairs.

A soft prod at his companion's mind, and the aged woman jolted forwards, stumbling down the stairs with far more agility than the sixty-something matron could normally manage, especially without her cane.

The staircase was short, compressed with magic like the earthen corridor beyond, and they reached the end of the tunnel in only five minutes, rather than the thirty it should have taken. A thick door stood there, three silver serpents tangled across it, and he hissed out the password.

With an odd, whirring clicking sound, the serpents unwound from each other and formed three neat circles around the doorway. Then, the door swung inwards and he stepped inside.

It was a grand cavern, the lake hanging above, held at bay only by a thin, ever shifting lair of magic, and Tom strode across one of the many bridges to the chamber itself, with the same sort of door as the tunnel exit and locked with a completely different password. Slowly, so slowly, the door unlocked and he tapped his wand against his leg, his magic rolling under his skin, and finally the door opened and hurried through, rushing past the grand statues and to the ritual room, where everything was waiting for them.

It had taken months to prepare for this, to gather the pieces, to ready his soul, to find all the necessary information, but finally, he had that final, precious ingredient, and it was time. Tonight was the night Tom Marvolo Riddle would conquer death.

He directed Mrs. Cole to the altar, the shackles closing around her wrists and ankles with a wave of his hand, and rushed over to the counter holding all his tools. There, a small bowl sat, alongside a knife and the brush he'd used earlier to paint the runes, and within it was a clear, thick liquid and a silver locket. He picked it up, twisting it in the light, but there were no signs of the painstakingly carved runes.

It's time.

Positively jittery, Tom made his way over to the altar and intricate, interlocking circles of runes, placed the locket in the appropriate spot, and turned to his sacrifice. With a flick of his wand, the Imperius lifted.

Mrs. Cole blinked, then looked around, brows furrowed. Where am I? she wondered, blinking at the stone walls... and then she saw him. "YOU!" She jerked, the chains rattling and holding her still.

"Yes, me." He gave her a bright smile that chilled her to the bones.

"What have you done to me? Where am I?"

"Oh, matron..." He tsked, giving her a sympathetic look. "You poor thing, asking all the wrong questions..."

It was sinking in, now, exactly what her situation was: chained in an unknown location, the boy she had deemed "demon child" at five hovering over her. She realized then, this awful, heavy feeling settled over her, that she was going to die.

"Monster!" she spat at him, but he could feel her terror, and it was wonderful . "You will burn in hell!"

"Never."

Tom had thought a great deal about how he would kill her, however, the ritual had a very precise time frame in which to perform it. Instead, he slid into her mind and planted memories... tied to a stake, struggling against the ropes and chaffing her skin, smoke filled her lungs and she choked, the fire raced across her skin, burning her, so much pain... the executioner swung the club, and her arm broke, agony, and then he moved on, one by one, breaking her body, and voices cheered... drowning, lost alone in the dark, sinking, water filling her lungs... Tom filled her mind with a thousand, agonizing deaths, and it was only when she was convinced that she was in complete agony, that this was hell, that she had surpassed fear and something in her broke , that he finally slit her throat.

It took another few moments for her to finally die; he probably hadn't cut deep enough. Finally, though, dead brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, her body limp, and he stared down at her. It wasn't... there wasn't as much satisfaction as he'd expected. Not that vicious, violent pleasure of after he had broken Amy and Dennis, or the dark satisfaction of seeing Billy Stubbs cry over that rabbit. No, if anything... it was as if a weight had lifted off his shoulders. Like he'd finally killed the monster under his bed.

He locked all those thoughts away to examine later, taking a deep breath to collect himself, and then he began to chant. An unseen breeze rustled his clothes, a chill creeping over his skin, and this odd whisper to the air, and then a silvery mist began to seep out of his mouth... his soul.

It gathered in the air before him, glowing bright and pure, beautiful... but there was a fracture, a thin jagged line running across it, still attached by whisper thin tendrils of silver... for a moment he simply stared... and then he cut. One quick slice, severing a piece of himself forever.

There were no words to describe the agony that filled him. It was worse than the whip, worse than the Cruciatus Curse, a burning, searing pain... then, it faded, and left an odd emptiness behind, the sense that something was missing, like he had somehow lost a hand and his mind couldn't quite understand it...

He had to continue, though, and so he moved to the next spell. The bright silver of another soul appeared, hovering above Mrs. Cole, and he grabbed at it... and it slipped through his fingers like water... another attempt, and a third, before he caught hold of her soul, and he clutched it tightly as it thrashed and struggled in his grip, like catching clouds... but he forced it forwards, wrapped it around the fractured piece of his own soul that hadn't moved, that wished to reunite with the whole, and pushed the mass into the silver locket.

The runes flared, bright silver, and the souls snapped away from his fingers... an unearthly, agonized wail... and the locket went dim and still.

The spell was finished. His first horcrux had been made.

And then his legs were giving out and the ground was rushing up, and Tom collapsed into darkness.