Astraea_Minerva
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A flash of green, and the mother collapsed. As cold, crimson eyes settled on the baby in the crib, the air in the room shifted. It was colder, more tense, more.. deliberate. Calculations constantly ran through Voldemort’s mind; There was not a single moment where he was not planning, considering, and evaluating. A curse of genius, perhaps. But on this night, Voldemort had a small shift in thought, a test in fate: What if he raised the boy in isolation instead?
After moments of consideration, Voldemort settled on one thought:
“The child will be shaped.”