Summary: On Hallows' Eve, a prophecy was set in stone, two lives inscribed by Fate's red ink. Two future paths created, as diverse as Dark and Light. But…sometimes, two paths may deceive, twisting apart in circles before fusing timelessly back together again.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. So does Voldemort.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own…
…But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
Voldemort closed his eyes as he leaned a little further out the window. A soft breeze caressed his cheek, sharp and chilling against his pale skin. It's long claw-like nails brought a pained pleasure and he shuddered, ever so slightly.
A bell's deep toll signified the arrival of a new day, dragging along all the problems and the hatred from yesterday.
Dong.
Such a rich, baritone hum that washed across his ears, so filled with the darkness that represented this new world he had created.
It was heaven.
It was hell.
It was his.
Dong.
With a silent sigh, he turned around, walking towards an ebony cupboard. His.
Tall and elegant it stood in all its splendor, patterns of emerald green twisting gracefully, elegantly through the dark wood. He touched it, watching it come alive as it always did under his command - his -, watching it writhe and dance with a heart of blazing white flame. He allowed them to capture his mind for just a moment, weaving lines of jade fire across his vision.
Dong.
Did time always pass this slow? Or was it mocking him today, creeping past with glowing silver orbs which were the moon, bathing the night with it's cold light, dim and colourless as his life.
Dong.
How many more till the end? How many more times till 12 seconds was past? Did it matter? Seconds were meant to be passed by, so short was their existence, a new one taking its place every next moment.
Knock-dong.
What? Oh, the door…
Was it time already, so soon? And-
'Hypocrite,' so Time would sing, and who was he to disagree? So slow yet so fast…so near yet so far. Like a prisoner in his home, like a caged bird in the eternal winter, trapped from freedom, yet trapped in the closest thing it had to heaven.
Dong.
Knock.
Such impatience. Impatience was to be punished.
A practiced wave towards the polished door and it swung open, revealing a black-robed man, hand poised to knock again.
Impatient, so impatient. Impudent boy, his mind whispered.
"Crucio," his lips murmured, and how beautifully the man screamed, writhing and thrashing on his marble floor. He waited for the blood to come, for it to flow from the man's lips and stain the floor in its bright pool of red.
Then the thrashing man began to choke, hands clawing desperately at his body and his throat, as if trying to claw away the pain that had seized him. His hood had long since fallen off, revealing one of the newer recruits. Typical.
With a sigh, he lowered his hand, watching idly as the bundle of robes, once a man, tried to regain his bearings. The blood did not ebb.
"M-My L-Lord…" the thing managed to rasp, choking on it's own blood.
"My Lord," it tried again, and seemed to sag in relief as the words passed his lips like blades. Eternal loyalty.
"It is… t-time."
"Yes, it is isn't it?" the Dark Lord murmured, glancing back toward the shadowed clock tower. The deep tolls had ceased, leaving only the silence to charge forth and take reign once more.
Not a single animal seemed to ever step into the manor that was his, not a single soul, magical and mundane alike. The Dementors were the only exception, but then they possessed no more a soul than he did. Listlessly did they patrol his grounds, tattered black robes trailing across his lifeless ground, leaving an atmosphere of despair in their wake.
Not a single Death Eater had complained.
And they had no right to, for who were they to lead a happy life when he had none? He was forever a creature with a seventh of a soul, nothing more. Forever fated to be immortal, to witness the world as it changed around him, leaving him behind in the dying ashes.
He was forever destined to be alone, ever since his birth at the orphanage, ever since his miserable childhood, ever since he wrote the words 'I am Lord Voldemort' in his mind and seared it into the souls of others, a name never to be forgotten or eclipsed. We pledge our lives to you…
But that was all it was. A name never forgotten, always remaining in every wizard's mind even now, but just a name all the same, nothing less…nothing more.
Fly from death he did, and here he was, counting time in the seconds as it trailed by, reminding him of what he would never obtain.
"M-my Lord?"
The Lord turned, and there the thing still was, a follower ruled by fear. In life and in death shall we serve you…
"I'm coming," he muttered, and closed the door sharply in the Death Eater's face, imagining the figure jump and flinch. Such was the way he gained his amusement these days. Pitiful.
Straightening his robes silently, he passed by the mirror without a glance and strode out of his chambers, all at once a symbol of fear and power. He was Lord Voldemort. He was the strongest wizard in Britain, and the whole Wizarding World. He was the leader, their ruler.
Silently, he strode toward the doors of his initiation chamber. Silently, were they opened by the guards.
In the centre of the room, ten figures in robes of black, but no white masks to hide their faces. On every one he saw their pride, their excitement, their suffocating aura of anticipation as they prepared to swear themselves before their lord.
They waited in tense silence as he seated himself on the throne that was his, and the word fell from his lips.
"Begin."
And within a moment did they pledge their loyalty to him, in mind and in body, in magic and in soul.
And within a single, boundless moment, did he accept their pledge, seal their fate, and condemn them to his Hell.
And within one moment did the Dark Lord wish, just once, that he had not won the war. That he had been given the mercy of death.
hphphp
This was it. He had won. He had won. A strangled sound of joy escaped his throat as he flung his gaze toward the stars; tears running freely down his face.
He sobbed, cried, shouted, fell to his knees on the stained red grass with a hysterical burst of laughter.
"Harry!"
He turned, and there they were, all of them, running toward him, embracing him, sharing his crazed happiness as they cried with him, minds whirling with emotions fighting for control.
Voldemort was gone. He had won. He had lived. Ron had lived, Hermione had lived, Ginny had lived…and he had actually won.
The thought ran circles around his head as sharp spikes of rain began falling on his face and clothes, soaked with dirt and blood. The rain grew heavier, more painful, until he was drowning...unable to breathe and he was clawing at his throat, choking, grasping frantically-
He awoke.
Sunlight, warm and gentle filtering in through the tall glass window. His sheets lay tangled all around him, one of them lying loosely around his throat as Hedwig pecked at it, trying to untie it from her owner's neck as he'd thrashed in his sleep.
"Thanks Hedwig," he murmured.
The owl hooted softly, nibbled his ear and returned to her perch by his bed, giving him a concerned gaze before placing her head back under her wing.
He sighed, and untangled himself from the bed sheets, pausing at the edge of the bed.
It was early morning, early enough that he would probably be the first one awake, late enough that the animals would have begun to rise. Outside, he could faintly hear the birds singing their daily tribute to the sun. He could imagine the soft summer breeze, gathering into an exhilarating rush of cool air were he to mount his broom. He could hear Ginny laughing as she watched him from under her favourite spot beneath the oak tree.
He could taste the bitterness that never left his mouth, and which he kept hidden, under cloaks of false happiness, masks of bright grins, charms of uncaring laughter.
They never noticed, not Remus, not Hermione, not Ron, not even Ginny, who knew him best. He was an actor, his whole life a play written by Fate, his costume woven by Destiny and her prophecies. A knight in shining armour, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, and now Leader of Wizarding Britain, the symbol of light, as always was and always shall be.
And underneath the cloaks and the masks and the laughter and cheer, lurked his soul.
The child that could never see the sun, could never play in the grass, never go on carefree adventures that did not end with blood and tears and death. The child that did not have to carry around the world's burdens on his shoulders, to feel for more than a moment that he could fly, could unfold his wings and escape to the blue skies that he so longed for.
There was a knock at his door.
He lifted his head swiftly, and hoped the smile on his face looked truer than it felt. A freckled face with long, red curls appeared around the doorway, smiling.
"It's time."
And, yes, it was wasn't it? How could time pass by so slow, so fast?
Already he could imagine the reporters with their Quick-Quotes Quills and the fans with their cameras. And they would ask about the prophecy, the one everyone had been fortunate –unfortunate- enough to hear.
"Who is the Chosen One this time?"
"When will he defeat the Dark Lord?"
"Will you be the one to train him?"
And he'd smile and nod, and decline to comment, even though he knew the answers to all their questions, already knew who the Chosen One would be.
And having assured the public he was still alive, he'd Apparate away, to a cottage no one could see but him. The Fidelius Charm had been useful in the past, and it was no different now.
The cottage was like one from a dream, small with a thatched roof, surrounded by a garden and flowers and grass. He imagined a father would sit at the table, reading the Prophet or eating his breakfast. A mother preparing breakfast for her child, chiding him for eating too fast or playing with his food. A child happily ignoring his mother's chidings, knowing she would forgive him for it once he gave her an innocent smile.
As he knocked on the door, he prepared himself to be the one to steal away this child's innocence and life, just like Dumbledore had once to him.
And for just a single, eternal moment, Harry wished that he had not won the war, had instead been given peace. Just once.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.
A/N: The poem is 'I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings' by Maya Angelou. Reviews will be joyfully accepted.