The smooth blackness of the lake gave it the look of obsidian, the green light reflecting off it's surface inlayed emeralds glowing in the darkness.  Even as the island rose from it's center, not a ripple formed across the surface.  In the darkness the flick of a wand gave only the slightest hint of movement as torches grew from the ground surrounding a stone basin on the island.  Another flick and the orbs of green flame hovering eerily in the blackness of the cave decended into them.

Tom Riddle stepped onto the island he had created and walked purposefully to the stone basin, the lamps now casting a diffuse green light over his waxy skin.  Reaching into his robes he stowed his wand and in its place removed a small silver locket.  "Not yet" he thought to himself, glancing at the stone bottom of the basin.  Replacing the locket he pulled again from the inner pocket of his robes a small glass vial filled with a potion as luminously green as the fire in the torches.  Pulling the stopper out of the vial, he began to pour the potion into the basin.  Two, three, four times as much as the vial should have held, the potion filled the basin, still as the lake surrounding the island, and the cave was filled with something like the sound of screams made silent, yet palpable.

"Yes" he thought to himself.  This would do.  How appropriate that a part of himself would remain here, forever in this place where he had, so early on, proved his supreriority to those filthy muggles, shown that he, Lord Voldemort, triumphed over all.

Standing over the stone basin, watching the stillness of the glowing potion, it's green light mixing with the red of his eyes, Voldemort went over the second part of the plan to himself.  He would need guardians, but how many?  That decrepit sack of bones he had taken the locket from wouldn't do, not now that he had used it on his path to immortality.  There must be others though, surely, but who?  His father and grandparents? No.  They would be rotten in the ground now, how useless they were even in death.  His Death Eaters had killed too, but somehow it seemed good, seemed right that those who would guard his soul should have been disposed of by his own hand.