The world drowsed in silent darkness, only a hint of light streaking the eastern sky. Tom stood quietly before the cottage, ankle deep in snow, waiting for the day to begin. The old man told him to be there before sunrise, and he was, but he would not enter until the sun rose; he would not enter while darkness closed in around him. A light breeze sprang up rustling the leafless trees; Tom turned his face towards the advancing day. Red gold fingers streaked the sky. He held his breath and waited for the sun to burst over the horizon and with it, the memory. Patiently he waited and remembered the music from so long ago, the music that always pushed back the shadows. Smiling to himself, he strode up to the door and walked in without knocking.

Lord Grindelwald sat by the fire, staring up at him with his one good eye. Like its brother, a cloud had begun to form over it and Tom knew that soon the sorcerer would live in darkness forever. He shivered at the prospect.

“You are still determined to make yourself immortal?” the old man sniffed.

Cautiously, Tom nodded. He would give nothing away this time.

“Thy eternal summer will fade and thou will’st lose possession of that fair thou owest but Death shall not brag thou wander’st in his shade,” Grindelwald croaked, pulling the blankets tighter around himself.

Tom hated when the old man misquoted Shakespeare. He was well aware that what he was planning would only keep him from experiencing mortal death. It would keep him neither healthy nor youthful. The proof was staring back at him from the depths of those clouded, sunken eyes.

“Then you have found the spell for the Horcrux?”

Nodding slightly, Tom whispered.

“Alighieri, canto three.”

The old man shook uncontrollably as a fit of coughing racked his body. Tom turned his head away, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He’s the only one who can help me, Tom thought with revulsion. Composing his features he turned back to the tortured old man.

“And you want to know why the spell will not work for you?” Grindelwald exhaled slowly, settling his skeletal form deeper into his chair. The crackling fire threw his face into sharp relief. Despite the oppressive heat in the room Grindelwald lay wrapped in several woolen blankets.

Pulling up a low stool, Tom drew closer to the broken wizard.

“Yes, Master,” he whispered, “I am curious.”

The old man’s bloodshot eyes narrowed, his lips thinned slightly. His hair and mustache looked grayer and thinner than Tom remembered. Huge clumps of hair had fallen out giving him the appearance of a badly sheared sheep. Papery thin ebony skin was blotched with angry, open sores. There was a noticeable tremble in his hands that had not been there before and when he opened his mouth to speak Tom noticed his teeth and gums were flecked with blood.

“I believe you have already committed the supreme act of evil,” Grindelwald began slowly, staring into the fire; his voice still a rich bass. “Murder for murder’s sake?”

“Yes Master,” Tom replied without hesitation. The darkness around him edged closer but he didn’t care.

“You have found a receptacle for a piece of your soul to reside, one that is most precious to you?”

“Yes Master.”

Grindelwald leaned forward, gnarled hands tight on the chair arms, breath sour and rasping.

“You have selected some piece of your humanity to sacrifice, forever?” he demanded furiously.

Tom hesitated, his eyes widening. Sacrifice a piece of his humanity?

“Did you think this was going to be easy?” Grindelwald spat. “Did you think you could just wave some stupid magic wand, mumble a few worthless words and become immortal? Immortality demands sacrifice!” he thundered in Tom’s face. “Everything worth having demands sacrifice! I should have thought you would know that by now.”

Grindelwald fell back against his cushions, exhausted. Moaning slightly he stretched his neck, rolling his withered head to the side. Tom saw the faint patchwork of scars than ran across the old man’s deeply lined cheek. Grindelwald stared into the fire again.

“Is some inconsequential piece of your humanity worth more than immortality?” he sighed.

“But how do I …” started Tom.

“Each of us,” interrupted Grindelwald slowly, “has some trace of humanity, however small, in them. We all possess, in varying degrees, aspects of faith, hope, love, compassion, justice, loyalty and honor. You need to sacrifice one of these in order to complete the spell, rending your soul and securing it safely in the receptacle.”

Tom paused hard at the idea. Become something less than human? Was immortality worth such a price? How could he even define such a quality, let alone give it up?

“Give up love,” sniffed Grindelwald. “Where you are going you are better off without it. You will feel different after you do, but I believe the feeling will agree with you.”

“Master, how can I give up love? I don’t even know …”

Again Grindelwald cut him off.

“Do not know love?” He was smiling that wicked, evil smile of his. “That schoolmate of yours, the musician, what was her name?”

“Devon, Master,” Tom whispered lowering his head as if in prayer, “Devon Trilby.” He felt the darkness recede at the mention of her name and he drew strength from it. Maybe immortality wasn’t worth the price, he mused.

“Ah yes, talented and beautiful Devon Trilby,” Grindelwald chuckled cruelly. “The pureblood witch who gave up her tremendous talent and powers to pursue, what was it, classical music? She left even after you professed undying love for her.”

Each word cut him and he felt his resolve slipping and the darkness drawing closer around him.

“She abandoned you Tom, just like your mother did!”

Tom clenched his robes in his fists, twisting the folds into knots. He was staring at his knees. He would not let Grindelwald use Devon against him; he pushed back against his own anger.

“What do you need with love?” demanded Grindelwald, his voice full of mock concern. “What has it ever done for you? Where has it brought you? You used to be strong but look at you now. You, who are standing on the threshold of immortality, are about to give it all up for some schoolboy recollection of a lovesick female.” Grindelwald spat in disgust.

Tom’s fingers clawed deeper into his flesh. Keep control, he thought as Devon’s eyes swam before him. The darkness loomed closer, comforting him, whispering in his ear. Was Grindelwald right? Was some adolescent infatuation he’d never gotten over standing in the way of his greatest dream? He jerked his head up and stared into those silvered eyes.

“Tell me what I need to do, Master.”

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Standing alone, Tom looked around the shivering cold springhouse. Night had begun to fall and soon the darkness would return.

“I am not evil,” he attested. “I serve no master.” The image of Grindelwald, broken and defeated appeared in his mind. My apprenticeship is over, he assured himself. I did what I had to do.

Looking down at the spell again he chuckled darkly. Millions of muggle schoolchildren look at this spell every day, he reckoned, and have no idea what it really means.

The heavy gold locket gleamed in the guttering light. Picking it up, he tenderly stroked it with one long finger. His mother’s locket would become home to a piece of his soul bound with his love for Devon. Rubbing the chain between his fingers he found this notion oddly satisfying. Devon had worn the locket and he felt traces of her even after all these years. He caught a faint whiff of chrysanthemums. Her scent. He didn’t need to concentrate to remember her now. The familiar rush of memories flooded back with frightening clarity.

Someone singing always reminded him of their fifth year Start of Term feast. Leading everyone in an impromptu singing of the school song her crystal voice drowned out all others. She always believed that the true magic was in music and not what was taught at Hogwarts. He had hated her for giving up magic and living as a muggle; for betraying her blood. She cried and pleaded for his understanding but he left her. But as time passed he realized how much she meant to him and how badly he missed her.

Traveling to West End he heard her perform. When she toured America he sought her out, sneaking into her performance at Carnegie Hall. He remembered the way he felt when he sensed her eyes searching for him from across the theater and the way she looked when she returned to find him standing in her flower filled dressing room. Wild adventures together, secret rendezvous, moments of shared triumph and despair, they all flooded back in a tangle of sensation. But in the end he realized she was devoted to her music and not magic. She would never live as a witch, even for him, and he would not live as a muggle. Where she was headed he could not follow.

As angry and as hurt as he was when she left, he could never bring himself to hate her. Would he hate her now? Would he simply forget her and all the things they’d done together? Tom dug his fingernails into his hands until they bled; no one could hurt him after this. Focusing on the pain, just like he had done the morning she left, he let go of her memory and began.

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,” he recited and searing white-hot fingers tore through his flesh. Voices screamed in his head. I am not afraid, he repeated and then gasping, continued.

“Per me si va ne l'etterno dolore.” Knees buckling he felt his stomach rise; fingers tightened around his throat. It became hard to breathe. His flesh felt as if it were on fire.

“Per me si va tra la perduta gente.”

He was choking. Six more lines, he pleaded to himself, just six more. Then there will be time enough for everything. Then not even time itself will stand in my way. He heard himself sputter out the next five lines. The voices in his head screamed louder; he felt himself being torn apart. Then struggling against the crushing weight on his chest he croaked out the last line.

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.”

Stars exploded behind his eyes and thundered in his ears. Thin sheets of pain clawed at his face. He couldn’t think anymore; he didn’t care about anything. Surrendering to a most exquisite agony that began at the base of his feet and ripped up to his forehead he fell face down on the floor. Forcing his eyes open he watched as a thin slice of his humanity flew off, a slender thread of gold twisting briefly around the locket and then fading. At once the locket burned hot in his hand. A remnant of his soul was locked safely inside, bound tightly with the love he had for Devon. The only love he would ever have for anyone. Then a terrible coldness came over him. Darkness closed in around him and filled the place that before, only Devon could fill.

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Tom’s eyes flickered in the pale, gray light. The world looked blurred and lopsided. Struggling to move one arm he brought a hand towards his eyes; fingers reluctantly stroking his face. His lower lip felt huge and there was a coppery taste in the back of his mouth. A dull aching behind both eyes made him think a headache might be on the way or maybe the flu. His vision cleared slowly and the room swam into view once more. The dusty slate floor, the wooden legs of the table, his own hands still clutching the locket gradually emerged and sharpened to crystal clarity. How long he’d lain there he didn’t know. He remembered night was falling when he started. Whether the graying light was sunrise or sunset he couldn’t guess but the darkness felt oddly comforting.

Attempting to sit up he realized his cheek had frozen to the flagstones. No amount of rubbing would release it and in the end he had to tear his skin in order to arise. The wound burned bitterly in the frosty air. His muscles felt sore, and shivering slightly he wondered if he’d been successful. Rubbing his arms briskly he stared down at the locket carelessly tossed in his lap. It lay there still and cold. Slytherin’s locket, he thought to himself rubbing the chain between his fingers. Inhaling deeply, he stood up. The air felt cold, bracing. His joints complained bitterly but he felt sure he’d succeeded. He had taken his first step towards immortality and would never need fear the ignominy of death.

Funny, he reflected, he didn’t really feel different. He could still recall Devon, her eyes, her hair, her angel’s voice. He easily recounted things they had done; only the emotions, the searing pain of her memory was missing. The empty hole created when she left no longer existed and Tom found himself strangely grateful.

I’m finally putting the entire relationship into the right perspective, he thought, and unceremoniously he dumped the locket into his bag.

Grindelwald was mistaken, he decided. Losing the battle with Dumbledore had been too much for the old man. Dumbledore was a powerful wizard and much younger than his Master. Grindelwald returned very ill after his trip to Japan that year; sicker than Tom had ever seen him. The year he swore he saw the sun rise twice in one day. Tom shook his head at this ludicrous concept. The late autumn duel with Dumbledore must have further addled his brain as well as finally breaking his body. It certainly robbed him of his powers.

Looking around, Tom examined the room. Everything looked the same, well maybe a little darker he decided, a little duller. Collecting his things he reached for his traveling cloak and noticed a small mirror he hadn’t seen before. Perhaps, he thought, he simply missed it in his impatience. The light was poor in the springhouse, only an ancient oil lamp and the light blush of twilight. He stared at the reflection, but it was not quite the same reflection he remembered. Was it a trick of the light or did his face really look that harsh? The eyes that stared back looked bloodshot and pitiless. His cheek was torn and raw. Cruelness appeared around his mouth and there was an unfamiliar pallor to his skin. Tom blinked and looked away, unconcerned. Surely it was a combination of tiredness and poor light. He simply needed rest. Gathering his things, Tom went out into the darkness. He did not look at the mirror again.

Dawn was fast upon him. It came creeping on little cat’s feet bathing the world in blues and grays. Pastel colors once again streaked the eastern sky. A few branches rustled in a light wind. Tom listened to the familiar crunch, crunch of the snow beneath his feet and stopped. Looking up for a moment, he gazed at the lightening sky and waited, listening. The world remained still and silent and in that stillness it occurred to him what he’d done, the terrible sin he had committed. He had sacrificed a piece of his humanity.

Hate wasn’t the opposite of love, indifference was. Gone was the passion he’d had for anything, for everything. All that was left was a cold, grasping want. The lightening sky meant nothing to him now, and what made it worse was he remembered that at one time, it did, but it was a cold, passionless memory. He struggled to remember the feelings he had for Devon but it was like trying to recall a story someone else had told him. He thought about all those things that once he delighted in, that brought color to his otherwise drab little world, puzzles, music, poetry, Christmas puddings, her voice. They meant nothing to him now, nothing. Reality sank in. There was no way to undo what he’d done. Grindelwald was right after all, he did feel different; he felt nothing. He was a cold, empty shell.

“What have I done?” he moaned softly, sinking to his knees, “What have I become?”

He heard a cruel chuckle in his ear. Was it his old Master having his last laugh? Kneeling in the snow he tried to mourn but the tears wouldn’t come. He had no love, even for himself and then Grindelwald’s words rang in his ears.

Then look upon thyself, and curse thy fate, Grindelwald had told him at their first meeting. Now Tom understood it more clearly, more cruelly than anything else.

Even in the advancing dawn, Tom felt the darkness all around him. It had been there all along; it was part of him. And it had won. Let go, it entreated him. You serve only me now.

Tom stopped struggling against the darkness within him, stopped resisting it. He was no longer afraid of it. It was all he had left.

You need never fear the pain of loss again, it promised. Bowing his head, Tom let go. Then Tom Riddle disappeared into the darkness and only Lord Voldemort remained.

Lord Voldemort raised his eyes to the lightening sky. “You’re right,” he replied to the darkness, “Where I am headed, I won’t need love. I won’t need anyone.” Then pulling his cloak tightly around his shoulders he turned towards the east and disappeared before the sun rose.

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