Reflection

Tom walked deeper into the chamber. It would be the last time that he would be entering here on account of the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore. It was a Saturday night and he knew it would take him most of the night to get his work done. He sat down in front of the statue of Salazar Slytherin and began to pull the items he needed out of his satchel. The first item was a diary that he had picked up in a small muggle shop. He also pulled out a pensive, a small dagger and several spell books.

With all the items displayed he began to flip threw the first spell book. If he was successful he would be able to preserve himself into the rather simple looking diary. Such precautions became necessary while his power grew. Failure was not an option. He had come so far and still had so much farther to go; all the trails he had yet to conquer.

The first spell book told him everything he needed to know about the pensive. First he would have to extract the thoughts and memories he wanted to put into the diary. In deep concentration, he put the wand to his temple and then placed it back into the pensive. A slivery mist was forming in the bowl. It twisted like a raging storm.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he filled the bowl. Anger surged through his veins and out his fingertips. Tom's mind began to wander to thoughts that he had long since put away, down to the core of his being.

Deep inside he hated the world, all of it's soulless people and worthless things they did. Deeper still he found that he even hated himself. But why beat yourself up about that pain when you can hurt others. To watch another beg and plead. To watch a filthy soul scream out in pain. Just when you think the pleasure could be no greater you find your release in their demise. The feeling is addictive, so, naturally, you do it again and again. Anything to drown out the cries in your own head.

But it's the voice inside that gets you every time. The one that you can never escape from. The voice that keeps you company in the darkest times yet makes you feel so alone. The voice of reason, some people call it. Reason, hah, I've never heard it give me anything that could be useful. I would destroy it if I could. Maybe one day I will find a way to do so.

Just when he thought that he might drown in those feelings that had bubbled back up to the surface, he was done. Tom wiped the sweat off his forehead and picked up a different spell book. This one was a lot older and looked as though the only thing that could be holding it together was magic. With a few words, the mist in the pensive swirled and began to change colors. It started out sliver but became purple and eventually a midnight blue. The mist shimmered and became a liquid. Tom slowly poured the dark blue liquid onto the pages of the book. So far everything the spell promised it would do was working. The pages absorbed the liquid quickly as to not let any fall onto the cold floor.

He finished the incantation and now there was only one final step left. Tom picked up the knife and placed it to his left forearm. Without hesitating, he cut at his arm. The blood came quickly and hit the same pages the pensive liquid did only moments ago. It to was quickly absorbed, leaving no trace. He felt the pain in his arm but it did not bother him. A few drops of blood remained and Tom licked them into his mouth.

Time had slipped threw his fingers and he knew that he must be getting back to the common room. Tom gathered everything and placed them back in his satchel. He stood up; smoothing down his rumpled robe. With one last bow, he left the chamber knowing that one day he would be back. For now though, all he had was his memories.

The End