If You Could Change One Thing

Chapter 3 - Flashback

    It was difficult for Tom not to feel foolish, for he was sitting at his desk, alone, with a pen gripped in his right hand and a notebook laid next to his left. He'd purchased at an expensive stationary shop. Tom recalled the words he’d read so long ago. He had an excellent memory, but those words stood out despite it. 


    Now, if you wish to split your soul into a horcrux, take note that it must be a notebook. for a notebook is where you entrust your most personal trusts into, and where you find others’ deepest secrets. Take a journal. Purchase one that is not thin and economical. For if you are about to conceal a part of yourself into the book it cannot be substandard. Then, embellish and enhance it. Do what you want to make it yours, which will successfully empower the strength of your soul within it.


    Tom inspected the notebook, which he had been working on on and off for more than a year. The art program at his school was stellar, and the art teacher extremely capable. Tom had learnt how to paint, draw, sketch, and engrave more quickly than any pupil he’d had, the teacher would always say. He had covered the notebook with a thin later of gel, then painted it black, copper, amd gold and engraved into with a needle. Then the carvings had been filled in with chalk powder. Celtic knots and de masque patterns dominated the cover. Secretly, Tom had put a texturizing spell on it to make it feel velvety to the touch. 


    Pour your heart and soul into the making of the notebook. For you are not simply making a small, menial project for somebody else, you are making a part of yourself. When you have finished, place the book on your left and hold a calligraphy pen in your right, for with a pen anybody can divulge the deepest, darkest parts of their soul. Speak these words.

Tom looked at the calligraphy pen he was holding in his right hand. It was a beautiful pen, just like his notebook. It was gold at the tip and handle and red everywhere else, and it was covered with patterns similar to the ones on his notebook. Tom closed his eyes to remember the words more clearly.


    “Sing unto me of great powers and give me inspiration. I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, hereby give my life, my being, and a part of my soul. I give my loyalty and trust, life and wellbeing, morals and thoughts. I protect this dwelling with my soul and my life,  and in turn it will repay me with immortality. I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, sign this with my blood."

    Commit a murder.

    Tom wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t nervous at all. And as he looked down into the bright green eyes of Anna Kadow, glimmering with tears of desperation he felt absolutely nothing.

    “Please, no, please!” she pleaded.

    “I have to,” he whispered into her ear. Anna shivered, for the sound of his voice and the way he spoke felt almost alluring.

“Please, there has to be a way, Tom, I don’t know what you want...” Anna’s words were beginning to slur together because of how hard she was sobbing.

    “This can’t be the only way, Tom, it can’t be...”

    “Tom, why? Why? There is nothing in your life that is wrong! I love-”

    And what Anna loved, Tom never knew. For he did the act that he had so long anticipated, so long planned for. And he felt it... deep within him... as if he was reaching for something... almost... there... but not quite... just skimming it... barely touching... going further away now... fading from view... and suddenly... back... back at his desk...


    Draw blood from your wrist, for this is where your lifeblood flows into your hands, which can do every deed imaginable. Take the blood and put it across the top and bottom of your notebook and leave it to seep. 
   

Tom gritted his teeth and dug the point of the calligraphy pen into his wrist, drawing a few drops of blood. Using his finger, he smeared the blood across the top and bottom of the notebook cover. The pain was almost unbearable. Tom had no idea what a cut on the wrist might hurt like, but this hurt more than anything he’d ever felt. It hurt more than when he’d been slashed by a knife in the chest, and it hurt more than when he’d broken his leg. It was as if his mind, his heart, his soul was being ripped apart small bit by bit. His soul...