The Lunar Forest | Tom Riddle

[TW →  graphic gore, psychological trauma] I do not usually provide warnings but this chapter is quite heavy, please read carefully if you are sensitive to the things listed above •• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ •• There was nothing distinctive about that day. A turbulent storm was emerging in the East, with winds from fiery holes in heaven wielding their blades and decimating the Northern trees. The 16th of October held no philosophical significance for him, and maybe he should have waited for a more auspicious date. Tom Riddle was wallowing in the pitfalls of an insatiable hunger, which plagued his senses in every waking moment. Angels whispered in his ears, promising an aversion from his damned path, but only the wretched could give him his deepest desires. Mortality was a brittle thing, carried by waxen wings which mounted above his reach and condemned him to the space between sun and sea— for if they were to melt, he would plummet to an infelicitous demise. Yet, the path to glory lay far beyond atmospheric confines. To achieve the power by which he was so enticed, he would need to sever the bonds which constrained him, and sink further into the anathematized art which could grant him the means to an end of this ravenous yearning. The entrance to the Room of Requirement appeared, and Riddle entered as the door swung open on its own accord. It supposedly came and went as it pleased, determining the need of those who passed it, but Tom had found a way to manipulate the ancient magic by his third year. The others were already seated around a large, excessively grand marble table, which mimicked that of Malfoy Manor. It was 6 p.m.; the day was over for everyone, but for them, it had just begun. "Riddle," Abraxas greeting, bowing his head slightly. Tom utterly loathed the way his filthy muggle name slipped out of a mouth of such posterity. "The final stage of the plan is today," Tom said straightforwardly. "I called this meeting only to ensure everything is in place." A silence fell, as he dared anyone to say that they had failed in their assigned endeavours. Nott handed him a small glass vial, the contents of which were a repulsive brownish-red, a metallic shade of dried blood. "Here is the p-potion required," he said hesitantly. "It-t was difficult, but I managed. All you need t-t-to add is...well..." He faltered. "Yes, I know," Riddle interrupted, putting the boy out of his misery. Triton still had difficulty coming to terms with the more gruesome aspects of Tom's plan. "I do not understand one thing," Malfoy spoke up— he was the only one who ever dared to, and the only one whom Riddle allowed to interject. "Why today? Surely, it would be more beneficial to wait." "Wait? For what?" Tom asked icily. "For the chance to slip from our grasp?" Abraxas lowered his head, and Tom raised his own with minor triumph. "No. We shall seize the opportunity while it is present." The blond boy nodded. "Of course," he murmured. "My question was foolish." Riddle's eyes travelled, and rested upon Lestrange. The black-haired boy was fiddling nervously with his hands, playing with the slender black ring on his finger. Tom understood these reactions like a second instinct; Orpheus was nervous. And little pleased a fiendish soul more than watching others squirm in their plight. "Lestrange," Tom called, and the boy's head jolted up immediately. "What of the task I issued you? Have you found a suitable victim?" "I— yes, I have," Lestrange said, his usually obnoxious tone falling to a hushed whisper. Riddle watched as the boy before him grappled to preserve the last shreds of a tattered and decaying conscience. "Our initial target was Belladonna Avery. But..." Irritation crossed Tom's features. "But you realised it would be foolish to kill someone of such high status merely for a personal grudge," he finished, rolling his eyes. No, Riddle had much darker plans for Belladonna Avery, and he had plenty of patience to wait for the right time to strike. "The fuss over her death could make us too conspicuous," Abraxas concluded. "So our focus has shifted to Inkeri Koskinen." Tom leaned forward slightly, inclining his head as an indication to continue. "She is an outsider," Lestrange said carefully, his face gradually turning impossibly paler. "Her death could be easily explained away, and there would be little interference from the Ministry." "Why is that?" Tom asked interestedly, black eyes glistening with new revelations. "There is simply no record of her," Niklaus Rosier spoke, for the first time that day. "I've traced heritage trees, searched ministry archives, even probed around the most obscure circles, but I have still not found any record of her." Tom raised an eyebrow, leaning back to ponder all the information he'd received. It was rare that he was conflicted, but he simply did not know what to do with the girl who was shrouded by enigma. He feared it would be ignorant to remove someone with such an unknown power. But he was almost certain that he could have no way of harnessing that magic— she had been willing to die before allowing him even a glimpse of it. So, he concluded that if she could be of no use to him in that way, then he had no qualms with utilizing her life to make his very first Horcrux. "Very well," he said, "I believe that is all." He stood up, indirectly dismissing them all. "Dolohov, stay." Vladimir looked up for the first time in the meeting. His face remained impassive as the others filed out of the room; he was only one in whom Tom Riddle did not inspire a visible degree of fear. The boy was a complete mystery even to Riddle, veiled by an intense darkness. Dolohov had joined Hogwarts in their fifth year, and Tom speculated that this was because of the Nazi invasion of Russia. He also believed, due to Vladimir's adequate magical abilities, that the boy had attended Koldovstoretz*, but this was also a conclusion drawn from guesswork. "I require a final ingredient to establish the ritual," Tom said, "One that I think only you can acquire." "What is it," Dolohov asked flatly. "The unbeating heart of a Thestral," Tom told him. "Is it achievable?" He was almost certain that Vladimir had seen death in his lifetime; he had the cold, dead look of a man shaped from the jagged stones of hardship. There was a pause. "I will do it," Dolohov said, nodding his head once. "May I leave?" Riddle smiled coyly. "Please," he said, and the curly-haired boy left without another glance back. He had no doubt in Dolohov's loyalty; it was unwavering, a sliver of virtue ingrained into the Slavic wizard's blackened soul. As soon as Tom was alone in the room, his smile dropped, and he ran a hand listlessly through his hair, pulling out his old diary from the folds of his cloak. Flicking through the pages, he almost wanted to incinerated it, inwardly embarrassed by his stupid childish musings. February 21st, 1937 To what extent might human relationships be presented in a logical or arithmetical formula? And if so, what signs must be placed between the integers? Plus and minus, self-evidently; sometimes multiplication, and yes, division. But these signs are limited. Thus an entirely failed relationship might be expressed in terms of both loss/minus and division/reduction, showing a total of zero; whereas an entirely successful one can be represented by both addition and multiplication, and the total would be subjective. But what of most relationships? Do they not require to be expressed in notations which are logically improbable and mathematically insolvable? Mathematics is not the language of the Universe. Rosier is an idiot and I cannot wait to tell him so. He lacks the most basic of emotional intelligence and nobody likes him— but people here do anything for me if I smile brightly enough. It's almost like I'm a Lord of some sort. This was last of the entries. The resounding giggles of students walking unknowingly past the room pulled him from his reminiscent thoughts, and he straightened his collar, smoothing down his robes as he emerged from the room. He didn't have to wander far in his search before he found the person he'd been looking for— Inkeri Koskinen never seemed to stray very far from his reach, as she was perched at a table in the corner of the Library, studying alone in the dim light of a candle. Her pale hair constantly emanated an eerie glow, as though she were the moon, reflecting solar rays of light from the sun. Unnaturally light blue eyes, like they had been dipped in the iciest depths of a glacial river, framed by darker eyelashes and slender eyebrows. She may have been considered conventionally attractive, but Tom thought that the sheer unearthliness of it was far too unnerving for her beauty to be truly appreciated. It was a shame that he was not phased by the mortal desire of lust, for Lestrange seemed to enjoy admiring her from afar. He sat down nonchalantly opposite her, and she looked up to stare at him with those piercing eyes. "Riddle," she greeted, surprisingly calmly. He took it that Nott had Obliviated her successfully. "Whatever can I do for you today?" He raised an eyebrow. "Nothing," he said, feigning disinterest as he pulled out his Arithmancy textbook. "Can I not sit here, Koskinen? Or do you not converse with other people without your bodyguard?" Riddle was referring to Adrielle Selwyn. Ever since the night at the Three Broomsticks, the inscrutable girl had not left Koskinen's side, constantly ensuring her or Asha Lohiya's presence was always there, lingering around the blonde witch. Koskinen shrugged. "I avoid people with malicious intent," she said, circling a random word of her essay which was so awfully written that Tom could not understand it. He focused on her hand long enough to see that it was trembling. "I realise that I may have come across as... threatening," he concluded, watching her roll her eyes. It made him want to stab them out with his quill. "I am just sensitive to some topics. I'm sure that you can understand." She continued to watch him. He had just shown her a glimpse of false vulnerability; it always worked when Tom wanted to gain someone's trust. People seemed to be lulled into a false sense of security, believing that he was emotionally troubled. "Sure," she said wearily, watching as wax from the candle melted and dripped onto the table, instantly solidifying on the cold, ebony surface. "I understand, I mean." There was a sharp edge to her words though, undermining the meaning behind them. Tom flashed her a dazzling smile. "Good, I'm relieved," he said good-naturedly. He peered at her piece of parchment. "I learned from Professor Slughorn that you didn't do very well on your last assignment in class." She laughed humourlessly. "Ah, I've found the rumour mill at Hogwarts," she said, "the Slug Club, that's what your little group is called, right?" A bone in his jaw jutted out as he tensed his muscles. "I am genuinely concerned for you, Koskinen," he said, furrowing his brows like other people did when they were sincere. "He might have to remove you from the class." "So? I have other subjects," she argued dully. "Academic validation means nothing to me, Riddle. It doesn't matter if I get Os in everything or Ts— my fate is predetermined." "And why is that?" Tom urged. She was about to say something, but quickly fell silent, dipping her head back down and letting her hair fall like a curtain around her face. "Nothing," she muttered. "You really don't stop trying, do you?" A false smirk played on his lips. "I do not know what you mean," he said blithely, and she cast at him a brooding look. "But we are getting side-tracked. Professor Slughorn holds extra lessons for those who need help, every Wednesday. You should go there, tonight." Koskinen tilted her head. "Did I not just tell you that I don't care about Potions?" "Whether or not you care, I do care," he said harshly, switching up tactics. "As Slytherin's prefect, it reflects badly upon our entire House if one person fails. So either go to the class tonight, or go to detention. With me." Her eyes widened with alarm, then narrowed with utter contempt. "Fine," she growled, throwing down her quill and finally looking directly at him. "Where is this stupid tuition held?" Tom smiled at her, unphased by the attitude. "On the second floor," he said thoughtfully, "the classroom nearest to the girls' lavatory." That should be close enough, he imagined. She stuffed her papers roughly into her bag, and Tom almost winced at the thought of the disfigured parchment. Without casting another glance at him, Koskinen left the Library, most likely to find Lohiya. He had purged the Ravenclaw from his group a long time ago, and yet annoyingly, she still seemed to linger in the background of his endeavours. He pulled out a random Arithmancy assignment and began to work on it, scarcely having to glaze over the textbook to complete the simple equations. The candle had nearly burned out by the time Lestrange found him. "Vladimir told me to give you this," he said, handing Tom a black, satin pouch. The heart of the Thestral was a surprisingly small thing, no bigger than that of a common mutt. He was almost impressed that Dolohov had succeeded in slaying the magical beast. "Good," he said, not bothering to thank him. "Lestrange," he called out, as the boy made to take his leave. "Yes?" Lestrange asked, shifting uncomfortably. He was the most disorderly of the Knights, and as a consequence, had faced Tom's wrath more voraciously than any of the others. Now, he dreaded even looking at Riddle. "Make sure Koskinen ends up in the right place this evening," he said lowly. "Charm, stun, or drag her, I don't care. If she is not there, you will take her place. Understood?" Lestrange swallowed harshly, and nodded. Tom went back to his work, silently dismissing the boy. The clock ticked on, an incessant, agonizing noise which grated against the membranes of his brain, rubbing them raw and making them bleed. The Slytherin Common Room had a silent clock which chimed only once an hour; Salazar at least, understood the peeves of an intellect. A sudden ruckus resounded through the library, as a group of Third or Fourth year Gryffindor girls walked by in a swarm, harassing a random younger Ravenclaw. "Stop it!" The pudgy Ravenclaw girl cried, pushing her round glasses up her nose as she tried to contain her tears. "Oh Olive Hornby, you are vile!" "I am vile?" The pretty Gryffindor laughed, poking at the pitiful girl's rounded stomach teasingly, resulting in a fresh wave of sobs. "You hideous, fat little creature Myrtle! How dare you even say my name? I think it might catch a disease now." A ginger girl pulled at the back of Myrtle's ponytail, eliciting an ugly squawk, and plucked the Ravenclaw's glasses right off her face, handing them to Olive Hornby. As a Prefect, Tom ought to have stopped them, but he simply couldn't be bothered. He had a long night ahead of him, after all. "An unsightly girl like you wouldn't even make it in a whorehouse," Olive sneered, peering through the round lenses. "Isn't that what your muggle mother did? Spent her days lifting her skirt and bending over for rich men—" "Leave me alone!" Myrtle shouted, lunging for her glasses but missing entirely and tripping over her own feet, resulting in another round of tittering. The racket was finally enough to draw the attention of someone with authority. "What's going on here?" Aryan Lohiya questioned as he approached. He was as harmless as his sister, but the shiny Prefect badge pinned to his jumper was enough to send the group into panic. Olive dropped Myrtle's glasses as she fled, causing them to break into two pieces. Aryan knelt down beside the shattered girl of his own House. "Reparo," he murmured, handing her back her mended glasses. "Are you alright? Who were they?" His concern almost made Tom laugh. Myrtle was either too embarrassed or upset to speak, because she turned on her heel and ran away. Aryan sighed, and went back to finding his books. Tom gave him a brief nod as he passed, and he returned the gesture. It was almost midnight when Tom stood to take his leave. His heart hammering heavily in his chest, he exited the library. His palms had grown sweaty and his stomach twisted painfully— Tom Riddle was not used to this foreign feeling of fear. Paranoid, he searched the corridors at least twice before entering the girls' lavatory, where all the taps dripped incessantly, except for one. Tom silently made his way over to the block of sinks and turned on one of the faucets, his fingertips brushing against the cold metal of a familiar, small serpent which had been engraved on the side of the handle. A slithering, smooth hissing noise escaped his throat and the stone began to creak and groan. The block of sinks started to move, revealing a dark tunnel. The Basilisk emerged slowly from the tunnel. A stunning creature, composed of glistening scales and malignant amber eyes, the king of serpents. And it obeyed Tom. This immortal beast, the incarnation of sin and corruption, bowed its head before him, the True Heir of Slytherin. One day, they all would. "Blood," the Basilisk hissed, "I smell foul, dirty blood." "The castle is contaminated with it," Tom agreed with disgust. "One day, we will purge the school of all Muggleborns, and restore it to the former glory which Salazar Slytherin intended." Lestrange was taking too long to bring Koskinen there. The Basilisk slowly started growing impatient, as it slithered restlessly to one of the stall doors. "What are you doing," Tom demanded sharply. "Stay here." "Kill," the Basilisk hissed. "Rip... tear... kill..." A clicking sound echoed as a cubicle door unlocked. Tom's blood froze in its veins. Myrtle Warren emerged from the bathroom, still rubbing tears from her cheeks. Tom didn't even have time to react before she had raised her watery eyes to look directly into the face of her untimely demise. She was dead before she hit the ground. A moment of stunned silence ensued. "Fuck," Tom breathed. He didn't care about the pathetic Ravenclaw's death; she had no significance to the World, nor would she ever have. But now, he dreaded to think of how he would explain away this. "Horcrux," The Basilisk reminded raucously, "Now, while the blood is warm!" It was right, he could fret over her death later, once immortality had taken a tangible form in his grasp. He escaped down the dark tunnel which lead to the Chamber of Secrets, interrupting the misty air which had settled so perfectly in his absence. His shoes hit the wet stone, as the faithful Basilisk followed, dragging Myrtle with it. Holding his hand out flatly, Tom made a clenching motion slowly, forming it into a fist. As he did so, every bone in the corpse's body began to crunch and break, finally disintegrating entirely. A cauldron sat in the corner of the Chamber, bubbling veraciously from previously attained ingredients, as he wandlessly ignited a fire under it. Tipping the contents of Nott's potion into it, the concoction steamed and turned a murky black of an impossibly dark shade. Tom reached into the satin bag, and pulled out the heart of the Thestral. He lowered it into the scalding cauldron and allowed the scorching liquid to run over the heart before withdrawing his hand, recoiling from the rising potion. Beside the cauldron stood a chalice and a dagger. Picking up the second of the two objects, Tom thoughtlessly rolled up his sleeve and sliced a deep gash into his own arm, ignoring the pain. He allowed drops of crimson to splatter against a pristine white page of his open diary, and trickled a substantial amount into the chalice. Bending over the cadaver which lay at his feet, he did the exact same with her own filthy blood, only this time striking the blade across her face. It was easier if she was unrecognisable, and the dead felt no pain. As soon as their blood mixed on the page, it began to bubble. Tom lifted the chalice to his lips, drinking his and Myrtle's liquid mortality which had fused together, just as their fates had when they'd been entwined by cruel coincidence. Streams of crimson ran down his chin, and marked his teeth red. Dropping the goblet and not even comprehending the loud clang which rang out through the Chamber, he staggered to the cauldron and pulled out the heart with his bare hand, letting his hand burn without a care. He brought the fleshy organ, now stained black, closer. Then, it began to beat. His entire body trembling, he raised it to his mouth, and swallowed it whole, resisting the urge to throw up as its ventricles and veins which were filled with blood burst in his mouth. He spat out a mouthful of it, breaths coming in ragged, dry heaves now, as the Dark Magic tore at his own heart. Tom Riddle crawled towards his diary, and placing a hand on it, uttered the final words in Greek, following Herpo the Foul to be the second man to solidify his deal with The Devil. "Κάνε με αθάνατο, με ένα φιλί από θάνατο." As soon was it left his lips, he knew he had made a mistake. Nothing could have prepared him for the intensity of what followed, as his soul ripped itself into two, the outcasted fragment seeking anchorage in the diary, which absorbed it like a welcoming friend. What was left behind mourned its loss, and in its sorrow, turned violent with fury and twisted with acrimony, ravaging Tom Riddle in its rage like a double-edged sword. A scream tore itself from his throat, a haunting melody which reverberating around the chamber, though it was eclipsed from his own ears. Black liquid poured like tears from his eyes, ears and nose, as the Dark Magic which coursed through his veins was so thick it threatened to suffocate him from the inside. He contorted his own body, agony from the depths of hell dousing his bones with fire and setting his nerves alight, a pain that was not possible for a mortal to comprehend. Lucifer is testing me, he thought, as another grotesque cry was wrenched from his chest. In a second, Riddle was able to think a thousand thoughts, live a thousand lives. Realise a thousand regrets and unspoken prayers, understand the secrets and mistakes of which the Universe consisted. His past, present, and future. Man's weaknesses, their desires and downfall. A final, excruciating scream, and this knowledge, the power which was just in his hand, was withdrawn. He physically reached forward, trying to grasp at it, but it had already faded from memory, as dark shadows began to cloud his vision, veins turning black and visible through his pale skin. You have chosen to live forever as a mortal, he could almost make out someone saying. He even saw them, through hazy eyes— the Devil was beautiful. She had the gentlest of voices, glassy eyes filled with blue hellfire, blonde hair like infinite streams of white gold. She could have been an angel; only her wings were black and decaying. You may be immortal, Tom Riddle, but you are doomed to forever be none the wiser. Touch. He wanted her to touch him, to corrupt him, to take him with her and condemn him to ruination in the depths of Abaddon, if only it could soothe his burning torment. As though she could read his thought, she placed a freezing hand on his head. Instantly, the pain ceased, and he felt himself falling out of consciousness. The woman faded from view as he allowed himself to fall back, into the cold, quiet realm of insentience. •• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••