He was filled with his usual sense of purpose he felt when changing history. His dark hair was slightly damp from the humidity. The tree was close; he could feel it. What a stupid, gullible ghost. Even death hadn’t taught her the essentials: secrets and protection. He chuckled to himself. That was one mistake he wouldn’t be making.

One thing was bothering him. He hadn’t ensured that his soul had been broken yet again. He had definitely killed six people, but they had all been on separate occasions, and he had made a Horcrux after each. It would not be hard to kill somebody, but it could attract unwanted attention and stealth was necessary.

He approached the woods carefully. The trees were all in their prime full of rich greens with strong, sturdy brown trunks. Light filtered through the vast canopy, giving it a dappled green effect. He walked purposefully purposely towards the place Helena Ravenclaw had described, feeling the excitement mounting inside him. His goal was coming closer; he could practically feel the magic buzzing around him like tiny flies.

And there it was. The vast clearing Helena had described, home to one, lone tree. It was a beautiful tree. It did not have a rough, dark trunk like the others. No, this one reminded him of Slytherin. The branches and trunk were a soft grey that shimmered in the bright sun. The leaves were a bright, emerald green that shined like jewels. The top branches swayed slightly in a soft breeze that he could not feel due to the shelter of the forest.

But how could he get inside it? It seemed impenetrable, like a fortress. He circled it slowly, taking in the smooth elegance of the bark, the flawless foliage. It would be a shame to destruct such beauty. It reminded him of the cave, and its eerie beauty, and of Gringotts, which was powerful and intimidating. Still circling, he mused upon which spell to use.

A Reductor Curse could damage the dainty diadem, as could the curse Snape had taught him, which made deep gashes in its victims. No, there must be a natural hole. Helena would have been too distressed to seal the tree magically. He pushed his hair off his face with a long, pale hand. Then something caught his eye.

A tiny hole in the tree that was big enough for the hand of a young woman or child. He hadn’t noticed it before; it was the exact shade of the bark. He ran his hand over it. He would not be able to get it out himself. A Summoning Charm would not work; he was a clever enough wizard to know that Rowena Ravenclaw would have fiercely protected her most prized possession from everyone but her nearest and dearest.

There it was again. Love. It was the downfall of even the greatest witches and wizards. He chuckled to himself again, still stroking the hole absent-mindedly.

A noise behind brought his thoughts back to the task on hand immediately. He looked around and saw a young woman. She was obviously a peasant, the rags upon her frail frame told him as much. Yet, the Muggle could be very useful. He looked at her clasped hands. They were definitely small enough.

Playing upon his handsome looks, he turned to the woman. He knew enough of the local language to make conversation.

“Hello,” he said in his most seductive voice. “What brings a lovely lady like you to this area?”

She blushed deeply at his comment. “I am no lady, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes in respect. “I have come to visit the holy tree, just as you have done.”

“Really?” he asked, feigning interest. “Pray, tell me your name.”

“Arta,” she replied, nervously licking her lips. “Would you like to tell me yours?”

“Tom,” he answered pleasantly, feeling the fleeting rush of anger that he always did when using his Muggle father’s name. He hid it well and Arta smiled at him.

“You are not from here,” she said, and he could see it in her eyes that she felt like she was pushing the boundaries. Knowing that it was essential to keep her comfortable, he decided to answer truthfully.

“No, I’m not. I’m from Britain, but I had to just see this lovely tree,” he said lightly. “Did you ever notice it was hollow?”

“Hollow?” Arta frowned and moved closer to the tree. He showed her the hole, and her eyes widened in shock.

“There is a legend,” he began silkily, “a legend that whoever put their hand inside this tree would receive a gift. But there is a catch: the hand must fit perfectly into the hole, and only those of royal blood have such hands. I was hoping it would be me, but, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.”

Arta was edging closer; he could count the freckles on her sun-beaten face. She was wearing an expression of hope, disbelief and lust. He felt the excitement mount up inside him.

“Try it, my little princess,” he whispered. “You are beautiful enough.”

“I am no princess, sir,” Arta sighed blissfully. “I am a mere peasant, as I have told you.”

“Our heritage can shock. I only recently found my birth father. He was not what I expected,” he said soothingly. But underneath, he was starting to feel frustrated. How much more persuading did this girl need? Oh, he couldn’t wait to-

But he would not have to. Lady Luck had shined upon him and he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity. Arta stood there, unaware of her fate, her hand inching towards the tree. His tale had enticed her, brought her beyond her dreams.

“What happens if I am not a princess?” asked Arta, suddenly frightened.

“Nothing,” he replied smoothly. “Your hand just doesn’t fit in. Watch closely, my little princess, and you shall see.”

He tried to thrust his hand into the hole. He could fit in four fingers, but that was it. He felt them brush something cool and metallic, and, again, the excitement built up inside of it.

“Now it is your turn, my beautiful princess,” he said, gently taking her hand.

He plunged it into the hole without warning and it was a perfect fit.

Arta’s eyes widened in shock as her hand slipped in easy. “I can feel something, Tom!”

“Take it, princess, it is rightfully yours!” he urged exasperatedly, forgetting to be soothing and charming.

But Arta didn’t notice. She fumbled around inside the tree for a few moments, buried it inside up to her elbow. He saw her muscles tense through the sleeves of her ragged dress as her fingers closed around something. Shaking slightly, she withdrew from the tree and there it was in her fist.

It was elegant, made of silver with intricate designs on it. In the sunlight, he could just make out Ravenclaw’s motto: wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.

“It’s beautiful,” gasped Arta, delight etched into every crease of her worn face. She placed the diadem on her head as though it were a crown, beaming.

He looked at the Muggle fool for a moment. Her eyes were closed as she took in the story that she was a princess. Silently, he withdrew his wand from his deep pocket and pointed it at her.

“Advada Kedavra!” he bellowed.

And Arta fell dead on the floor, still wearing the expression of ecstasy. He bent over and removed the Diadem from her dirty, straggly hair, smirking. Now it was time to fulfil his destiny, just as the silly little girl had fulfilled her own. He pointed his wand at the Diadem, ready to perform the Animus Effrego Curse.

“Interficio Nex Animus!” He cried.

It was pure agony. It seemed to get worse with every Horcrux he made. He felt as though something dear was being ripped from him. It wasn’t physical agony, it was emotional. The Diadem twisted and glowed as a smoky, silver substance flew from his wand into it. He was the diadem, yet he was himself. The pain grew, until he thought he could no longer bear it. The diadem was thrashing in his hand, burning his skin. It was so cold, and it was pure anguish. He writhed from the pain, but knowing that whatever he did he must not let go of the Diadem. The consequences would be terrible, worse than death, and yet nothing was worth than death.

As he went through the ordeal, his life flashed before his eyes. He was being taunted by a Muggle teenager, and suddenly, the teenager had fallen to the floor as though stunned. He was in the cave with Amy and Dennis, and they were sobbing at his feet. He felt elated, in control.

And then it was over. The pain subsided, leaving him shaken, but unhurt. The diadem, although warmer, was still uncomfortably cold, yet also smoking slightly. He felt a heart beat that was not his own, and he smirked. It had been successful.

He stowed the diadem and his wand back in his pocket and looked upon the dead Arta.

“You have earned Lord Voldemort’s thanks,” he sneered, then left the clearing. He had completed his task and he said quietly to himself, “two more to go…”