A/N - This is sort of a random-stream-of-consciousness fic from Voldemort's point of view. Yes, I know it's pathetic and slightly depressing, but please no flames! It's my first fic, give me a break!! Read on (and please try not to vomit). The companion to Veralidaine's piece is much better (I actually spent some time on that one . . .)
Lord Voldemort slouched in a battered armchair next to the fireplace in the old Riddle House. Pettigrew was massaging his shoulders (he had gotten quite good since Voldemort had given him that magical hand). Voldemort could hear the sounds of his Death Eaters talking quietly downstairs. He closed his eyes and took a swig from the glass of amber liquid that sat next to his chair. Everything was going wrong.
"Does my Master wish for some more brandy?" Pettigrew simpered, looking frightened of this new side Voldemort was showing.
"Yes Peter - no, don't leave me just yet." Voldemort tipped that last of the brandy down his pasty throat. He stared at the empty glass for a moment and then threw it violently into the fire. "It's all gone to hell!" He shouted hoarsely. He slumped even further into the cushions.
"W-w-what has, M-Master?" Peter questioned, growing an unnatural shade of pale green.
"All my plans, all my ambition, ruined," Voldemort ignored his servant and stared red-eyed at the flickering light that bounced off the walls. The crimson eyes hardened as his voice became a sibilant hiss. "All because of that damn Harry Potter!" His voice grew increasingly loud until the conversations below stopped. Voldemort lowered his voice. "Yes, Harry Potter." Voldemort rose from his chair and paced for a moment. Suddenly he turned in a rage to Peter, who was cowering behind the chair.
He grabbed the cringing man and shook him as a dog would a rabbit. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND, FOOL?!" Voldemort shrieked at the hapless wizard. "A boy, a mere boy with no outstanding talent in magic has managed to not only elude me for this long, but conquer me! Escape me! Humiliate me in front of my servants! A BOY!"
Voldemort let go of the trembling Pettigrew and threw him on the ground in front of the hearth. "Crucio!" he shouted. Peter Pettigrew screamed and clawed at the carpet as Voldemort watched with a hint of a serpentine smile. The luckless wizard flickered in and out of his rodent shape a few times before the Dark Lord ceased the spell.
"Never go to the boy, Pettigrew. If you or any of my Death Eaters were ever to betray me to that wretched boy, I would torture you so horribly for so long . . ." the ill-fated wizard laid panting on the floor, unable to respond. Voldemort continued, "I would torture you until you could no longer think clearly. You know it would be nothing to me. Then I would kill you in as vile a way as I could conceive. Then your family."
Pettigrew, in response, gasped, "My Lord, I would never leave you . . ."
"I ask you to do so now, servant. Leave me and go socialize with my other slaves. Tell them nothing if they ask. Now, go." Pettigrew scampered from the room, tears running down his face.
Voldemort conjured another bottle of brandy with a wave of his wand and again sank into his chair. "A boy . . . a mere boy." He said quietly. How could this have happened? To him? He, Lord Voldemort, was the greatest dark wizard of his time, maybe all time. People were afraid to speak his name and yet a boy had defeated him, outwitted him, again and again . . .
He took a long swill of the brandy, swallowed, and gasped, feeling the muggle-magic do it's work. With another wave of his wand he conjured a small packet of white powder and a tiny straw. "More bloody muggle-magic." He whispered, pouring out the packet into the palm of his hand. Taking the tiny straw in his other hand, he put it to his slit-like nostril and inhaled the substance. His flat nose stung for a moment but then the pain was gone and in another moment he knew his mind would be clear of all disturbing thoughts.
"Harry Potrrr," his voice was becoming slurred as he quaffed some more amber liquid. He chuckled mirthlessly for a moment, thinking, "So this is what the infamous Dark Lord has been reduced to. All because of a single boy. Look at me, look at me, look at me . . ." Lord Voldemort crumbled into a heap at the foot of his chair, looked at his inadequate self in a pool of spilled liquor, and began to weep.
A/N - Yes, I know it's pretty lousy, but it's my first post so please, no flames? I'd reeeeeeeally reeeeeeeally appreciate some reviews, though!!! I'll be posting the first chapter of my companion to Veralidaine's "Fa A Bhiallan Ann" any day now, so please watch for it and R/R!
Lord Voldemort slouched in a battered armchair next to the fireplace in the old Riddle House. Pettigrew was massaging his shoulders (he had gotten quite good since Voldemort had given him that magical hand). Voldemort could hear the sounds of his Death Eaters talking quietly downstairs. He closed his eyes and took a swig from the glass of amber liquid that sat next to his chair. Everything was going wrong.
"Does my Master wish for some more brandy?" Pettigrew simpered, looking frightened of this new side Voldemort was showing.
"Yes Peter - no, don't leave me just yet." Voldemort tipped that last of the brandy down his pasty throat. He stared at the empty glass for a moment and then threw it violently into the fire. "It's all gone to hell!" He shouted hoarsely. He slumped even further into the cushions.
"W-w-what has, M-Master?" Peter questioned, growing an unnatural shade of pale green.
"All my plans, all my ambition, ruined," Voldemort ignored his servant and stared red-eyed at the flickering light that bounced off the walls. The crimson eyes hardened as his voice became a sibilant hiss. "All because of that damn Harry Potter!" His voice grew increasingly loud until the conversations below stopped. Voldemort lowered his voice. "Yes, Harry Potter." Voldemort rose from his chair and paced for a moment. Suddenly he turned in a rage to Peter, who was cowering behind the chair.
He grabbed the cringing man and shook him as a dog would a rabbit. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND, FOOL?!" Voldemort shrieked at the hapless wizard. "A boy, a mere boy with no outstanding talent in magic has managed to not only elude me for this long, but conquer me! Escape me! Humiliate me in front of my servants! A BOY!"
Voldemort let go of the trembling Pettigrew and threw him on the ground in front of the hearth. "Crucio!" he shouted. Peter Pettigrew screamed and clawed at the carpet as Voldemort watched with a hint of a serpentine smile. The luckless wizard flickered in and out of his rodent shape a few times before the Dark Lord ceased the spell.
"Never go to the boy, Pettigrew. If you or any of my Death Eaters were ever to betray me to that wretched boy, I would torture you so horribly for so long . . ." the ill-fated wizard laid panting on the floor, unable to respond. Voldemort continued, "I would torture you until you could no longer think clearly. You know it would be nothing to me. Then I would kill you in as vile a way as I could conceive. Then your family."
Pettigrew, in response, gasped, "My Lord, I would never leave you . . ."
"I ask you to do so now, servant. Leave me and go socialize with my other slaves. Tell them nothing if they ask. Now, go." Pettigrew scampered from the room, tears running down his face.
Voldemort conjured another bottle of brandy with a wave of his wand and again sank into his chair. "A boy . . . a mere boy." He said quietly. How could this have happened? To him? He, Lord Voldemort, was the greatest dark wizard of his time, maybe all time. People were afraid to speak his name and yet a boy had defeated him, outwitted him, again and again . . .
He took a long swill of the brandy, swallowed, and gasped, feeling the muggle-magic do it's work. With another wave of his wand he conjured a small packet of white powder and a tiny straw. "More bloody muggle-magic." He whispered, pouring out the packet into the palm of his hand. Taking the tiny straw in his other hand, he put it to his slit-like nostril and inhaled the substance. His flat nose stung for a moment but then the pain was gone and in another moment he knew his mind would be clear of all disturbing thoughts.
"Harry Potrrr," his voice was becoming slurred as he quaffed some more amber liquid. He chuckled mirthlessly for a moment, thinking, "So this is what the infamous Dark Lord has been reduced to. All because of a single boy. Look at me, look at me, look at me . . ." Lord Voldemort crumbled into a heap at the foot of his chair, looked at his inadequate self in a pool of spilled liquor, and began to weep.
A/N - Yes, I know it's pretty lousy, but it's my first post so please, no flames? I'd reeeeeeeally reeeeeeeally appreciate some reviews, though!!! I'll be posting the first chapter of my companion to Veralidaine's "Fa A Bhiallan Ann" any day now, so please watch for it and R/R!