Chapter Text
Crushes are the Worst
Chapter One: Prologue
The deathly pale man glides up the stone steps on the breezy August night. He twirls his wand absent-mindedly, smiling triumphantly. This would be so easy. Just by peering into their sitting room window, he can tell that they were completely unprepared. They might not even be arms! Once at the door, the stretches out his long, deathly pale fingers, and rattles the door knob. Locked. But not a problem, not a problem at all. He points his wand at the door, thinking, "Alohomora!" and the door swung open quietly. Very good, very good indeed. He could surprise them... not, no, he'll make his presence known before he kills them. He wants to see the light leave their eyes very clearly. He always likes to see the light leave his victim's eyes.
He bursts into the sitting room, smiling triumphantly. The man and the woman, Brandon and Jasmine Knight, look up. Shock flits across their face, then fear, then courage and determination. The little baby girl, however, who can't possibly be over a year old, looks up in mild shock and interest. But she isn't at all afraid. The ignorance and fearlessness of infants was astounding to him sometimes.
They get to their feet, pointing their wands at him. He had always admired courage, but it won't save them no. No, definitely not. There may be two of them, but he was much more powerful. He takes a moment to decide who his first victim will be, then points his wand at Brandon Knight, directly at his heart.
"Avada Kedavra!" he casts, and Brandon Knight falls to the floor, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Jasmine Knight screams his name desperately, but something about the hopeless look in her eyes tells him that she knows that he'll never reply. Instead, she turns and runs to her daughter. She glances up at him, and that's when he directs the final blow.
"Avada Kedavra!" he says, and she twists rather gracefully, and falls to the floor, dead before she hits it.
The little girl looks slowly from her mother to her father, as though trying to comprehend with her foolish infant mind what just happened. She doesn't seem to understand that he mother and father are gone forever. Then she stares blankly into his eyes, her head tilted to one side, as though asking for him to give her some answers.
He's torn. Should he kill her or leave her? It'd be so easy to kill her. All he'd have to do is wave his wand, and mutter the simply incantation, and she would live no more. Just like her parents. And it would be safer this way, wouldn't it? That way there's no chance that she can oppose him when she's older.
Finally, she seems to have understood. A few tears drip down her cheeks. Then she starts sobbing quietly. And before he knows it, the baby is wailing at the top of her lungs, tears streaming down her face like a waterfall.
It's the mere fact that the girl is crying - something that all babies do, probably by instinct - that makes him want to kill her. He despises crying with every fibre of his being. All those whiny, annoying children at the orphanage used to do it, and he couldn't stand it when they did. He'd finally be able to do the very thing that he's wanted to do to them to her. Yes, it's better to kill the annoying, useless thing right now, and get it over with. Better to make a clean job of it, an kill the entire family, anyway.
He raises his wand to cast the fatal spell, but as he does, he hears about a dozen cracking sounds.
Apparating. But by who? It must be Aurors, he decides. Who else would be brave and foolish enough to oppose him? He decides to leave. He could, of course, fight all the Aurors off. But that would be endlessly useless. What's the use of fighting about a dozen well trained Aurors, over a silly, little girl? A silly little girl that he could easily finish off if she proved to be a threat later on. and besides, she could become a very faithful, skilled Death Eater when she is of age. Yes, I don't really need to kill her now, he decides. It'd be more convenient, yes, but not necessary.
He turns on the spot and disapparates without further ado.
Nearly twelve years into the future, probably miles and miles away, I bolt upright in my bed. I'm completely drenched in a cold sweat. My face is wet with both sweat and what I think are tears. Once again, I've woken up from the very nightmare that usually haunts me while I sleep. The very vivid, and very realistic nightmare of Lord Voldemort killing my parents.