His slit eyes held no emotion. No. Never. He was the almighty Dark Lord. It was he, and only he to take over the Wizarding World. Only he. Voldemort. His stared at his array of Death Eaters. They were awaiting instruction. Waiting. Just waiting.
Maybe it was then when Voldemort , previously known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, snapped. No, not a broken in half kind of snap. A snap. One which wanted to tear apart his insides, and let them sun dry out in the glorious June day. He dared not to share any of his inside person to anyone. Anyone. He eyes squinted in the pouring sunlight. Annoying him to the highest extent.
He looked again at his expecting Death Eaters.
He dismissed his meeting.
---
Time passed. Voldemort, if not odd already, grew even shakier and stranger. June was silenced as the rest of summer peaked its way through, finally giving in to the fall equinox.
It was then, when he felt it. He felt like someone had taken many parts of him and smoldered it with hate. Like a part of his life...his soul... Voldemort's eyes grew wide in shock.
Alas, time had gotten the best of him. His face weary and gaunt, his slit eyes looking mostly pried open with pliers. His lips, thin and chapped, almost peeling off. But the worst, his face. His face almost gave it all away. The abrupt paleness of it. Like a piece of chalk. His expression always blank... It almost gave it away. Almost.
Thoughts ran wild in his head. All he could do was trace a finger over his chin, and think. Had Harry Potter and his followers gotten the best of him? His eyes flashed, a rare occurrence. Deep putrid hate flushed and filtered through his body.
---
And yet, although Voldemort knew he was dying, he did not do as much as he could to save himself. He felt himself itching with thought in the cold, harsh winds of winter. It was almost like he was going insane. Maybe he was insane to begin with. Maybe this was his return to normality.
A million maybes flashed through his head.
His mind shrugged off them all.
He just couldn't find the time to care about it.
---
The ritual began. He announced his fatigue and retreated to his bedchambers. Dilgently laying down on his enlarged bed, he retreated his eyes to the ceiling. It gave absolutely no reassurance. A vast tear formed at the curve of his eye socket. It fell almost silently, almost sorrowfully into his pillows. The pillow absorbed the tear, as if it were awaiting its arrival. As if.
He had no control anymore. Not now. Not ever again.
---
Another meeting with his admiring Death Eaters. Another glareful, remorseful look into their eyes. He hadn't begun to speak yet. He wasn't on planning on speaking at all.
He raised his wand. Feeling ever so mortal. Because he was. He could feel it now.
Pain.
His wand rested in his hand.
He blew up the room. Shards of it went everywhere. A chunk of a chair came flying past Voldemort's ear. He could've sworn a slightly severed leg went flying out of a broken window.
Voldemort looked at the remains.
Everyone was dead.
Except for him.
Except for him.
He raised his wand, again. Held it to his temple.
The last thought. The last thought Voldemort ever thought. They will never know.
"Avada Kedavra!", he bellowed into the now empty room.
A flash of green light.
Then-nothing.
---
Yes. They will never know. They will never know that Voldemort's tourniquet was himself.
They will never know. They will never know the truth in things. The bad side may be gone for now. But it will rebirth. Harry Potter won't be around forever.
But the one thing, the one thing Voldemort feared they would find out...those big voluptuous tears trailed down his gaunt face...
They never need know.