Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry forum - Potions, Assignment #3. Prompt: a highly charged, emotional piece.
All I can say is, I tried... lol
Word count: 1152
Lord Voldemort stood by the docks overlooking the lake. He remembered what it was like to be Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., a handsome young man. He remembered what it was like to feel the wind on his skin as he rowed across the harbour. He remembered what it meant to smell the sea air.
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Lord Voldemort sighed and shook his scaly head. He had to cast his memories aside. He was no longer entirely human. Human emotion - human connection - meant nothing. All that mattered now, the Dark Arts whispered, was to conquer. To control. Domination. Worlds would crumble. Shields would fall. All would bow down to him. Let nothing stand in the way of the Lord.
Lord Voldemort hissed, feeling the power that should be his. He looked out along the horizon at the setting sun. Yes, how perfect. Fitting, almost. The blood-red sun, dripping down the sky. A foreshadow of the blood that was soon to be spilled. He contemplated what that meant. Of all his legions, only three people mattered to him. And one was a snake. Nagini, his precious.
He hissed again, this time speaking Parseltongue. Nagini, obedient as ever, slithered to his side. Together, Master and Companion, as one, walked along the water. It was almost time to issue his final proclamation. To show remorse - he paused. No, that wasn't quite the right word.
Ah, yes, Nagini. Understanding. To show understanding - now that had a ring to it. If he had seen The Wizard of Oz, he would have likely been clicking his heels together with glee. As he was the Dark and All-Powerful Lord Sent to Deliver the Pure from Evil, he smirked instead. An evil smirk that guided his way along the docks.
No, that was just his fancy. His smirk merely improved his mood. His wand was lit with a bit of wandless magic.
Don't be a mudblood fool, he thought to himself. Normally, such condescending self-talk would put someone down. Instead, Lord Voldemort's mood heightened, a scary prospect for most of his followers. Thankfully, for everyone's sake and the preservation of humankind, no one was around save Nagini to witness the most extraordinary moment in the history of an extraordinary wizard.
Lord Voldemort, right before he entered the Forbidden Forest, paused. He halted mid-step because, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cloud. Not just any cloud. An orange puffy cloud.
Turning on his heel mid-stride, Lord Voldemort stared up into the sky. His normally slit-like red eyes opened wide. He blinked several times with this unnaturally natural adjustment (again, had he been one hundred percent human).
The skies were changing colour. Blues, periwinkle, lilac, (Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour, Lord Voldemort absently thought, having read Lockhart's complete works in order to communicate with Ginny Weasley), oranges, even pinks and reds. But that one orange cloud hanging above the rest captured Lord Voldemort's full attention.
It was beautiful and big. It was loud and sassy. It was amazing. It mimicked what he aspired to achieve. And it achieved it without care. Without thinking about the far and distant future. Clouds don't plan. Clouds don't think. Clouds do.
Lord Voldemort became inspired. He found that a simple cloud had changed his view of himself and his goals. He couldn't just stop planning. He couldn't stop thinking. But he had to be doing - action was required. The gears in his mind whirred, running at top speed.
He peered into the water. The glassy surface was broken occasionally by the ripples of fish fins. But the cloud was magnificently reflected in all its true glory. Lord Voldemort then looked at his own reflection and almost had a cow. Almost. It was a close call because he caught himself just before his body recoiled all the way.
It was ugly. To say the least. Looking at Nagini, he couldn't help but admire her reptilian skin. Her long, lengthy body. The contours of her head and the shape of her muscles as she flexed and turned, anxious to keep moving towards the cover of the trees.
For the first time in a long time, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. asked himself, and his future self, if this was worth it. Was an unlikely future worth the risk. As if peering through the haze and fog of time, Lord Voldemort answered his own question. No, it wasn't worth it because he was no longer human. He had no humane concerns regarding others. He had lost his ability to care beyond his personal safety. But he was in too far to turn back. The only way to reach the end of the fog of Fate would be to go forward. The way back was shut. Sealed off once he had set his course.
Tom Riddle, Jr. perused his options. If he abandoned his plan, which would be madness, he would lose forever. If he continued with his plan, there was an admitted chance that something would go awry. If he did nothing - his plan would continue anyway.
Resulting in him doing something, hopefully. The snide remark came from the Lord Voldemort corner of his soul.
Pushing that part away from him, the dashing Tom Riddle, Jr. performed his last act. He called a truce and demanded Harry Potter in exchange for peace. He would meet the boy in the Forbidden Forest, or else his minions would want to know why and the killing spree would start all over again. Tom gave a two hour deadline, feeling generous - a memory of his former days as a beloved student. The cloud had lifted his spirits.
He also would need time to prepare, the Lord Voldemort side needled. Regroup and plan a new attack formation. Just in case. The Castle was always up to tricks and McGonagall was no fool. Severus had always made it clear that the real challenge had not been Dumbledore, the dotty old fool, but his Lieutenant, Minerva McGonagall. Tom remembered meeting Miss McGonagall when she was a seventh year student. She had been beautiful then. She was older now, but still retained traces of her beautiful soul. Of course, Miss McGonagall was pure. Not innocent, but pure.
He spat in disgust. No more thinking. He had made his choice. Tom walked into the Forest.
Night had fallen and all was still. It was the quiet before the storm. Lord Voldemort gathered his army and waited.
It was a sure conclusion that Saint Potter would arrive to save the souls of those already dead. Then, the future would begin, unfolding slowly, corner by corner, until the fog receded once more to the horizon line, far beyond the path of the rising sun.
Only to start anew in the wake of the setting sun.