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“Avada Kedavra!”
The words are said with triumph tinged with a hint of regret – after all, the Potter brat holds considerable power, and he doesn’t believe in the Light supremacy the old fool likes to preach. But, no matter the boy’s personal beliefs, the image he holds, the perceived threat he represents, the idol he symbolises to Light people, to mindless sheep, to his enemies and followers alike, is much too dangerous not to curb it before it has room to grow, in whichever direction that may be, for or against him.
Green eyes widen in surprise. The scrawny boy makes an aborted movement that is interrupted by a green light, hitting the same forehead it once struck years and years ago.
The boy drops like a doll with its strings cut.
Lord Voldemort breathes a sigh of relief. After all, he still does not know what exactly happened that fateful Samhain a decade ago. All he is certain of is that he offered that the talented couple may join him. After all, it is needless and ridiculous to shed magical blood without reason, and a bit more wand power on his side can never be a disadvantage. Obviously, he saw two problems before he held out his hand in invitation: The Potters might lay down their wands in surrender if it would save their lives, but he was not certain if they would also sacrifice their son for their continued wellbeing. Secondly, even if they had joined him, he would have had to remain vigilant in case of them trying to sabotage or spy on his Death Eaters. But, in exchange for a pureblood Potter and a Muggleborn as talented as Evans was, such minor obstacles are far outweighed by the pluses.
But, of course, stupidly brave as Gryffindors are wont to be, Potter tried to kill him as soon as he stepped foot into the estate. Estate, what estate – even the mansion of Lord Voldemort’s thrice-damned bastard of a father stands grander than the shack the Potter couple were hiding out in. Really, what happened to the great manor Charles Potter was always boasting about in his youth? Or were its wards too Dark and scary for such a dainty, right-hearted Light family that Potter turned to a shack in the middle of nowhere with his wife and babe?
And still, even after he was attacked and forced to defend himself, Lord Voldemort still tried. He said, “Your courage,” which is a much nicer word than foolhardiness, “and determination,” which sounds better than futile attempts to change that which cannot be challenged, “have spoken for you, Potter. Join me, and stop this fruitless struggle.”
“Never!” he huffed and puffed in reply, out of breath from only a few spells exchanged. Being a parent must be exhausting, if the feared Potter could not handle more than two minutes of duelling. His blue eyes shone with something a lot like hope and grief.
So he did know he would die.
Still, Lord Voldemort reached out a second time.
“You and your wife do not have to sacrifice yourselves in such a pointless fight. Join me, and live out the rest of your lives in relative peace.”
His gesture of chivalry and respect was thrown in his face as Potter snorted and raised his wand.
The duel resumed.
It took a mere ten seconds for Lord Voldemort to disarm one of the fiercest fighters the Order had left.
“I will ask one last time,” he said with a patience that he hadn’t known he still had in him. “Join me, or perish here.”
Potter spit in his face.
Calmly, Lord Voldemort wiped the saliva away. After so many years in the orphanage, such childish actions don’t bother him overly.
Flabbergasted, Potter watched, glasses askew, eyes squinted, face exhausted and expression regretful.
But Lord Voldemort had given enough chances.
“Avada Kedavra,” he cast without another thought or hesitation.
This spoke badly for Evans. After all, it was whispered that she was two times more stubborn and doggedly protective of her child than Potter was… had been.
But no matter. Even if he had to spill magical blood, this threat could not stand, lest it rise or be risen against him.
Lord Voldemort walked through another door into a short hallway, barely more than two steps broad. On the white walls hung Muggle pictures of landscapes and flowers. Individually, each picture was aesthetically pleasing, but they had been hung without thought, the order destroying every effect they could have had. A lonesome ship sailing out into the calm sea was framed by blooming flowers being plucked by two small children and a caravan of camels fighting through a desert. A single rose in simple colours was next to an abstract painting depicting a busy kitchen filled with chefs and waiters.
He passed by the four hardwood doors without second thought. Evans probably was upstairs, hiding in her son’s nursery, likely trying to flee.
He started climbing the stairs. They were made of a light wood that made a noise with each movement. Against his will, he felt himself reminded of one of those Muggle horror movies that Rabastan Lestrange was so fond of. He loved watching them with a slight smile on his face and likening the deranged murderer or bloodthirsty monster to his sister-in-law. Needless to say, dear
Bella did not enjoy the comparison overly much. Somehow, they had managed to involve their parents into the argument, and neither Black nor Lestrange could stand the hit to their pride of giving in or, even worse, agreeing with the other. So, of course, their friends and allies within the Death Eaters had had to take their side, and the argument had escalated further and further. Really, sometimes, being a Dark Lord was much too alike watching over toddlers for Lord Voldemort to be comfortable with. Anyway, wanting the fighting to stop, he’d committed the mistake of asking if the proud Purebloods even knew what Muggle movies were.
One thing led to another and before he’d known it, Rabastan had had to bring out his television and VHS and the Death Eaters had settled in for a movie night. The few who had protested because of Muggle technology or fear of behaving improperly when frightened as Rabastan had promised they would be had quickly been silenced with threats of ridicule, and Lord Voldemort had missed the timing for taking his leave without taking a hit to his image. So he had put off answering letters of allies and potential investors and instead had watched Muggle movies with his Death Eaters. He had to admit that the quality had surprised him – the movies he’s been used to weren’t in colour, and sound had been a new invention, not to speak of realistic costumes or special effects.
Lord Voldemort shook off the thought of that ghastly night and pressed forward. It was getting cold already, and he hated winter. It reminded him of the awful iciness that was his room in the orphanage, of seeing others cuddle together for warmth and knowing he was excluded, of the shabby thing that had been a winter cloak three owners ago. Maybe he would take a bath when this was over. That sounded nice. First, he’d try to convince Evans to join him. She would only have to step aside and let him destroy the threat to his life.
Only the thought made cold shivers run down his spine. His life, ended before he could achieve what he wants, what he fights for, what he longs for… Lord Voldemort can barely imagine a worse fate. If he were to die now, just another insane Dark wizard going against the Light order, he might as well have died during one of the exorcisms of his childhood, or one of the pranks of Slytherin, or one of the bombs of World War II, as an unfortunate orphan who could have been so much more if only… If only.
He has already punished his father, hesitant though he may be to use that word for that creature, for taking this opportunity away from him, and his grandparents for allowing him to. His uncle, even more unworthy of this title than his bastard of a father, is still being tortured in Azkaban. To be honest, that man was the only one who really deserves his penance. Tom Riddle Senior was bewitched and raped repeatedly. The grandparents hadn’t even known about his existence.
But still, Lord Voldemort will not let himself be held back by weak, childish desires. He slayed those who slighted him, and will continue to do so.
And he will kill those who stand in his way and threaten him.
This is why he kept walking up the stairs. It was not pleasure that drove him. Oh, ending a life and standing above the lifeless corpse in the ultimate moment of triumph, secure in the knowledge that he is superior, has its benefits, but he prefers enemies that can bite back as he kills them. If he is in the mood for venting his anger or squishing helpless bugs, he turns to muggle scum and cleanses the earth of their blight.
He does not turn to children.
He never did, and never will.
But this was an exception. Lord Voldemort has always understood that threats must be answers and destroyed in their diapers, if possible.
So he stepped off the stairs onto the wooden planks of a hallway. Two doors to his left, one to his right, one in front. As he started moving again, he mentally recounted where each room was. On the left were the couple’s bedroom and a lavatory. Stored in the room in front were the washing machine and cleaning supplies. Was the Potter family so poor that they could not even afford a house elf, or did Evans come with muggle ideas of being a housewife and actually doing the housework?
No matter. The room to the right led to his price.
A defiant mother. A crying baby. A threat answered.
As expected, Evans did not choose life. But no amount of begging and screaming could make him change his mind.
The babe must die, for nothing shalt threaten Lord Voldemort.
He disposed of the mudblood and finally, finally turned to the child.
It was cute, he noticed in the distant part of his mind that was not attuned only to the next step forward, the necessary kill, the overstepping of his principles. Cherubic cheeks, red with blood, glistening with tears. Chin almost completely disappearing in baby fat, a bit of drool running over it. Green eyes, so alike the mother’s, wide open, then pressed together in another cry. A few curls of black hair, so alike the father’s, wild and untamed, matted from lying down. Rosy lips, open in the scream of the speechless, showed off three pearly teeth. Chubby hands moved in an erratic way to announce its unease to the world.
Too bad that Lord Voldemort didn’t have time to comfort the screaming thing.
It was no babe, no child, no innocent, defenceless, harmless infant. No, it was a mere thing, squealing as it saw its end draw near.
Lord Voldemort would not draw it out any longer.
He had to return to Bellatrix and convince her to stop her reckless plan to charge at the Longbottoms, of all people. As if the one to pose a risk to him could be anyone but one alike him, born of an impure union, made in a moment of lust, resisting what should be held true. Oh, Lord Voldemort knew that Potter was not Evans’ soulmate, just like the muggle scum hadn’t been his mother’s.
On the other hand, there was the spoilt spawn of a Pureblood Family, born into wealth and fortune to a pair of soulmates. They could not be more different, those children, if they tried to be.
And now, Voldemort would step up and end the threat to his life, his life that was worth so much more than a brat’s who had not even seen his second year yet.
Resolutely ignoring any lingering feelings of doubt and regret, Lord Voldemort lifted his wand and intoned,
“Avada Kedavra!”
And awoke, bodiless and powerless and so pathetically fragile, in a familiar forest he’d once spent a year searching inch by inch, driven by determination and belief, held together by stubbornness and the knowledge that he was right.
He would do so again. He would scratch together everything he had, and he would survive this forest once more. He would gather his forces once more and tear the babe apart as it had torn him into pieces, for nothing stood in his way.
He was Lord Voldemort.
He would rise again, for he was and is eternal.
But nothing like this happens now.
The boy sinks to the ground, lifeless.
Lord Voldemort stands, untouched.
As it should be, for nothing stands in his way.
He finds himself laughing, almost hysterically so.
Fifteen years of planning, fourteen years of waiting, a decade as nothing more than a helpless worm, and now, now, Lord Voldemort finally has returned to what he is meant to be.
Untouchable. Invincible. Unfailing. Infallible. Unshakable. Insuperable. Unsurmountable. Invulnerable.
For he is Lord Voldemort, and Lord Voldemort is eternal and everlasting.
He is no Tom Riddle, cowering and weeping in fear. No, he is so much more. And now, the final obstacle between that weak little boy and the fearless, powerful man has fallen.
No more will Lord Voldemort have to fear for his life like that pitiful orphan did.
Finally, he is as unbreakable as he always knew he was meant to be.
His eyes land on his wrist.
Grey letters stare at him.
And Lord Voldemort can only laugh harder, for what is another parallelism between them?
Orphans, meant for greater things, living in fear of death for all their adolescence, half-bloods, born out of soul-lock, and now this: soulmates with the one person who could never accept them.
And truly, most truly, the last link between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort is broken, for Tom Riddle dreamed for a soulmate with all that he was and never would have thought to hurt them. He even held hope that he would come to know what this mysterious “love” feels like.
Lord Voldemort will now never know.
He laughs and laughs until tears roll down his cheeks, and he continues laughing still.