MetaFic

The young man's quill scribbled furiously in the weak, flickering candlelight. His hand movements were erratic, and it looked as if the tip of the quill followed the light-flashes from the candle, instead of imaginary lines that keep the handwriting neat as possible.

As the Fwooper feather in his hand caught the light, it shimmered. It was semi-transparent, like it was only partially there. Every now and then, sparks appeared as the quill met the paper in their violent mating dance.

His breathing was rough, just like his motions. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and dripped down his cheeks. If his features had not been frozen in a grimace of pain, his face would have been quite handsome.

He was writing into a leather-bound book, but the quill left no trail, despite the fact that he had dipped it into an ink bottle filled with red liquid just a few moments ago. Next to the candle, a thin blue hair ribbon lay as the book’s only companion.

His left hand held the book firmly in place, and a fresh, jagged scar ruined the smooth skin of his upper hand. A few warm blood droplets trickled down the fine hairs of his hand, dripping to the table.

He was aware of his situation and surroundings, but he could not care less. There were more pressing matters that needed his attention. Besides, the pain of the roughly healed wound only helped him concentrate. It caused negative emotions, and he needed plenty of those.

He had to finish his little project before the night ended. There was a limit to how long he could hold the material. Attaching it to a hair ribbon might have been unwise, but it had been his best option at that time - anything larger might not have gone unnoticed. Next time, he would bring something better.
Even though each movement of the quill made his soul less, he smiled. It made him more. That was the reason for everything. There were wrongs that needed to be righted and if he was the one to do it, he had to make sure nothing could stop him.

He turned the page of the diary and the blood from his hand smeared the page. He showed no concern as he dipped the quill into the ink bottle once more. By the time he returned to his invisible writing, the blood was gone and the page was empty.

After a few moments, he drew a circle. This time the ink stayed. He lowered the quill and took the ribbon. Carefully, he placed it into the circle and closed the book. He took his wand and directed it at the book. One deep breath later, he started chanting. The spell had been almost forgotten, but he managed to find it after a long search. Slughorn’s gullibility was easy to take advantage of. Not only the man provided him with necessary information, but he also wrote him a note that allowed him to leave the orphanage during the summer. In the end, he learned that the emotions were more important than the spell itself. With time, he could learn to minimise the ritual.

He gasped as pain shot through him. He dropped his wand as he fell from the chair. His body curled up in a foetal position, a reflex that would have only made him more vulnerable if he had not been alone. He was not sure how long it lasted. As soon as the pain began to recede, he made himself get up to check whether we had been successful.

There were no visible changes to the exterior of the book, but his vision was still a little foggy from the pain. Even though Rosier’s depiction of enduring the Cruciatus was the only way to judge, he was sure that this had been more painful than the Unforgivable curse.

Sitting back into the chair, he opened the book on the same page where he had left the ribbon. Both the circle and the ribbon were gone, but as his fingers trailed the paper, he could feel a strange tingling. That was enough to let him know that he had been successful.

He vanished the ink bottle, and conjured a new one, filled with black ink. He dipped in the quill and started writing.

Hello, my name is Tom.

Incidentally, so is mine. He could almost hear the laughter.

It succeeded.

Of course it did. There was no doubt.

The way he talked about it, I would've expected to feel some loss. Between the one of us, on some level, I wanted to feel that loss. As a reminder of...

As a reminder of what you've gained. Amusing.

It is. Especially when you consider that all it took was one small action. Instant immortality. I only had to blow out a candle.

That fool, Dumbledore, would have probably said you did. An innocent flame of potential and life has been extinguished.

That's why he's a fool. There is no innocence when you're impure. When your blood is diluted by that dirty life-carrying fluid of those creatures . . . Creatures that were supposed to act only as servants.

It is still blood. But no different from that of a dog. Or a rat.

No! There is a difference. Look what it did to me. Look at how much we suffered because of it. The noble Salazar's idea was right, but not perfect. The issue is not in educating only the pure-bloods. The real issue is that anyone but the pure-bloods shouldn't exists! I could have been spared! We could have been spared! Only if that crazed witch hadn't fallen into the temptation.

It is liberating.

What is?

Existing in this form. The chains we've been shackled with are lifted when you exist like this.

Really? I almost envy you. But what you've said worries me.

You needn't be worried. The anger is still there. The unfairness lingers.

That is good. You will need it. A companion.

One that followed us all these years. I'm always pleased, to see its familiar face.

Especially if that face keeps reminding us of what's at stake. Why we're doing this.

Imagine how weak the wizarding world is, when they fail to affirm their rights on this world. The changes simply have to be done. It has to start somewhere.

We knew it was going to be a long endeavour. It's why we are, now.

Yes, but it still amazes me. Where has all that power gone? We are supposed to rule. Not hide like worthless maggots. Where is progress?

It's within us. We shall bring the wizarding society forward.

Five more?

Yes . . . With the seven of us, it's going to be a simple task. And I hardly see any strong opposition forming once we make ourselves known. We already have strong support.

Will you keep me?

I shall hide you for now. There will be a time when your role might become more active.

I will look forward to it.

Good.

Go now. You have much work to do.

He closed the book and locked it in his trunk. Indeed, he did have work to do. More planning was necessary. Absently, he healed the wound on his hand with a simple spell. The scar disappeared as well. That way, he prevented any unwelcome questions. A twisted smile appeared on his face as he realised that this was the last wound he would have on his body. Lasting wound, that is.

He walked towards the exit, hissing the password. The snakes moved away together with the doors, granting him passage. He needed to plan the next part carefully, and then . . . Then, he needed to see a man about a ring.