Before the Storm

Prologue/Chapter One

Prologue

The chamber wavered before his eyes. Every deep, shuddering breath bringing the candles flame into sharper relief. Through the pain, the disorientation, the world took slow shape around him once again.

He wouldn't focus on the ringing in his ears.

Or how the candle light had been brighter, warmer, before.

Before.

He thought he would feel stronger afterwards. Powerful. Wasn't that the point of the ritual? To come out the other side with a stronger hold over his own life? He wasn't going to be a puppet for fate, he had long since resolved to not leave anything to chance. He was strong! He had more power within him than any two wizards combined. He was Slytherin's heir, he was above all!

Even death.

On the chamber floor just a foot away from where he crouched, hand on his chest to keep the agony back, lay his journal. To anyone else it was just a useless book, worn leather with his name on the cover, blank pages, unassuming. Boring.

For Tom, it breathed. It thrummed with magic. His magic. It called to him. A mournful melody set to the drip, drip, drip, echoes of falling water on the chamber floor. It had been a tedious affair to get back in when school was out. In the end though he knew it would be worth it. There was no where else such a ritual should be performed. These rooms belonged to Tom and no one else. It had just seemed right.

He had planned it all out ahead of time, always finding comfort in being prepared. He would apparate to Hogsmeade, sneak back into the castle through one of the secret passages, avoid being noticed in the nearly empty halls, and enter the Chamber of Secrets. Simple. For someone like Tom it was almost too easy. It hadn't even been a challenge. Once the chamber had sealed behind him he had laughed in triumph, setting out the area for his ritual with a spring in his step.

Now, though. It was just dark. The damp seeping through his robes, freezing him to the bone. It hadn't been this cold when he'd begun, he was sure of it. The idea of leaving now, of traveling back to London, was daunting. His legs shook beneath him as he tried to stand, once, twice, three times before he had to give in and give up.

The deed was done. He was supposed to feel powerful at having taken the first step to best death. He was not supposed to be reduced to this weak, trembling creature.

A furious sound escaped him then. A roar. A cry. He couldn't tell. It reverberated around him for what felt like hours before fading to nothing, as he lay there, panting. Marginally relieved from the release. He hated this. The whole point was to take control, to never feel weak again!

With a great effort he calmed his breathing, the chamber settled once more around him. This was just a minor setback. He would have to stay in the chamber for a night, but he would be better in the morning. He had to be. He would rest now, finding comfort in the knowledge that no one need ever know about this.

That he hadn't the strength to stand, couldn't even conjure a blanket or charm to keep the chill at bay.

Eventually he lowered himself to the cold floor, stringently ignoring the ever present layer of water as he stretched out. The chamber spun around him, forcing him to close his eyes to the now dancing flames. In the dark he reached over, hand finding the journal instantly. It still sang to him. And though he did not plan to test it, he had the feeling that no matter where the book was, he would always be able to feel it. To find it.

He clutched it to his chest, over the pounding of his heart, where the rip in his chest ached like a tangible wound. Almost he could feel the piece of his now ragged soul trying to return from the book. He refused to let it....but having it so near the rip helped. Slowly his breaths evened out, the pain receded.