Blue-Eyed Boy

I do not deny that I wanted it to be special, that first Horcrux. An auspicious beginning could be the only fitting accompaniment to the greater things that were to come. Nevertheless, precisely how I could demonstrate my originality, my brilliance -and in doing so prove to my satisfaction that my talent was not of the common order, was beyond any order the magical world had yet seen - this eluded me for some time. So I thought and thought, the new challenge preoccupying me even as I haunted the dark places of the school, searching for the lair of my ancestor.

The affair of the Chamber was a distraction. I see that now. It could not be used for anything, nor could I risk revealing the fruit of my labours, lest they betray me. Ultimately, it nearly cost me all - once he began poking that crooked nose of his into my business, it was only a matter of time until he moved against me openly. I would have done better to expend my time increasing my powers, ingratiating myself with the parents and relations of my little circle, rather than chasing after the goals of my failed, weak, pureblood ancestor.

Yet, alone, the imminent closure of the school was not enough to quash my desire to pursue that particular lost cause: an interlude of a few minutes in a corridor was all that stood between success and the consignment of my younger self to a delusory life, prevented him from wandering entranced into that labyrinth of past glories, in which the old families reside perpetually. But I saved myself from that fate, for the solution to the problem of the Horcrux drew me back to the realities of the present and I once more became focused on my future, on my ambition, on my emerging powers.

And the solution, when it came, took an unexpected form. It was a boy, a fourth year, whom I encountered one morning on my way to Charms. A fringe of fair hair kept falling across his eyes. Perhaps this is why he failed to notice me as he jogged along late to classes. We collided. He dropped his books. I watched him as he knelt to pick them up. Stammering apologies and blushing, hands fumbling and spilling ink over a textbook - in frustration, he rubs spots of the ink into his blonde hair - yes, yes - that is just how it was. And all the while he did this, it was to me his eyes again and again returned, staring up from beneath lowered lids, mouth a little agape.

One scroll had rolled off into a corner, out of his reach. I walked over. It was an essay for Transfiguration. What topic, I do not recall. I picked it up and handed it to him. He stood up and nodded - though now he was deliberately avoiding my eyes. Then he walked away. But, before he could disappear into the entrance hall, he turned round to try and sneak one last glance in my direction.

He was a beautiful boy.

I knew instantly that I wanted him. And though I despised this weakness, a feebler variant of which had driven my mother into her coffin, it became clear that the situation could be turned to my advantage. They said, those ancient books of magic, as did my Head of House, that the act of murder is essential to the creation of a Horcrux; that a life must end for another life, my life, to continue. This is a narrow view, the product of narrow minds. My own researches on the topic suggested that to detach a part of my soul, all that was required was a destruction - of what, it mattered not. Of life, of so-called innocence or else, perhaps, of love, the old fraudster.

Seducing the boy was an easy task. He did not have the wit to resist me - at least, not until those last few moments. At mealtimes, strolling down the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables I often caught his eye, smiled, saw him colour. Naturally, I was careful to make sure no one else noticed. In the role of the kind, caring prefect - poor orphaned Tom Riddle, but so nice, so attentive, as Dippet was wont to say - I was able to sit next to him in the library, making sure that now and again my leg would brush against his. Once I rested my hand on his thigh. I don't suppose that was what the Headmaster had in mind when I volunteered to help the younger students with their schoolwork.

For the rest of that month, I flattered and charmed and wheedled my way further into his trust. I made sure he desired me, not suspecting that his secret trysts were with the very person responsible for the opening of the Chamber a few weeks earlier, with the Heir of Slytherin himself. Not realising that the mouth pressing a kiss on his forehead was the same as held a basilisk at its bidding. That the eyes that met his had looked upon secrets beyond his comprehension.

There was only one mishap, an insignificant enough little thing. Meeting him late at night in an empty classroom, he came to me and drew his index finger down my cheek - my smooth cheek, white and soft as it was then. And I nearly struck him. The impudence, the familiarity, the disgust...I despised the boy. Despise him now, merely thinking of it, though I am sixty-five not sixteen and my looks are -

Fortunately, I regained my self-control before my plans could be set back. Yet I think he may have seen something in my face. He was never so forward again, in any case.

Success came soon, on the first trip to Hogsmeade that had been permitted to students for many months. I found him waiting at the school-gates, waiting for me as I had instructed, and together we went, first to the town, and then climbed the hill behind the town where, as I had previously ascertained, there was a cave. As soon as he passed through the cave-mouth, I seized him and gagged him with a scarf. It would have been more interesting to let him cry out, but that was a risk I was unwilling to take. Still, I was able to see the terror written in his expression, and in his eyes most of all. That sufficed. He struggled beneath me, until I gripped his throat and squeezed. Then he stopped struggling.

The incantation, the spell to create a Horcrux, did not take long. Nor did my muttered charms of forgetfulness and confusion. I left him lying on the cave-floor, half-choking on the scarf as he mewled out pathetic sobs, broken and degraded. As he was. As it was. That paid the creature back for his insolent familiarity.

In the last two years I spent at Hogwarts, I watched him cringe as I passed him by in the corridors - how he would cower away from me, head down and blond hair falling into his eyes, every inch the whipped dog! Memories can be suppressed, distorted, disguised and mutilated, yet they are never entirely erasable. The German bombs left my orphanage in ruins, but the ruins remained as a testament to the strength of their destroyer. In his simple mind I had left my fingerprints. I had written my name. Lord Voldemort.

It was out of that small, adolescent triumph that I formed the diary. A victory of mind over snivelling emotion, of power uncompromised, absolute. So it was to me then, and is still to me now. Of course. Of course it is.

And the boy? I never bothered to find out his name. He lives yet, that much I know. Wormtail brought me the Daily Prophet yesterday - a tedious, inane publication, well-matched to the equally tedious evenings passed in my father's decaying house. But there was a photo of him. Middle-aged and balding, but nonetheless him - he was grinning at the centre of a group of hangers-on. One particularly cretinous-looking individual had an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Apparently, he had won some prize or other - had made some discovery for the petty little mediwizards to enthuse over. No matter. Odd that, of that long-finished business, it is the beginning rather than the triumphant conclusion I recall most clearly. How the ink-flecks darkened his fair hair. The blue of his eyes.

What? What is that? Chimes. The clock above the fireplace is striking. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Twelve. It is midnight. Something should be happening. Where has Wormtail gone? He is late. The rat grows too presumptive. My patience is pushed to its limit everyday. I do not need him. I have grown enough in strength to keep this physical form without him.

...He is five minutes late. I do not like to be kept waiting. It is not fitting for Lord Voldemort to be kept waiting. When he comes back, he will pay for his tardiness. I will make sure he does. When he comes.

If he comes. He must milk Nagini, or I-

But there are his footsteps on the stairs. So he creeps back to me, for now - the traitor - the rat - he will betray me to the old fool one day, I know it, I know it - curse him! - curse him -