He walked quickly, without pausing, down the long gravel driveway, his footsteps echoing into the night. He was a solitary figure – face completely hidden in shadow, dressed in a long, hooded black cloak, blending in with the dark landscape which surrounded him.
The moon suddenly emerged momentarily from behind a cloud, casting the surrounding countryside with an eerie, white light which lit up the face of the man in the cloak. He was deathly pale, with dark, almost black hair falling over his face. There was no emotion on his face whatsoever, but there was something sinister about his expression. Perhaps it was his eyes that gave this impression; they were merciless, cold. He was young. Too young. That face belonged to someone much older.
The cloud slipped behind the cloud once again, the landscape was plunged into darkness, and the pale, handsome face disappeared into the night.
The figure, which was barely visible in the inky blackness, stopped suddenly. There had been some noise on one side of the driveway – amongst the undergrowth, a tangle of wild berries and thorns. The slightest rustle, the slightest noise, and the boy stopped immediately – he pulled out a wand, and pointed it at the spot where the noise had come from.
Whispered words, a sudden flash of bright green light, and the animal – whatever it was – was dead instantly.
The boy, who couldn't have been more than 16, turned away and carried on calmly walking to the manor house. He could kill without a conscience, shoot Unforgivable Curses without a second thought, and he was still only a boy. But it was clear he was not an ordinary one.
As the boy drew closer to the Manor House at the end of the driveway, his strides became longer, as though he was eager to reach the house quickly; his cloak streaming behind him. His face broke into a grin. Not the grin most teenage boys wear; but a cruel grin – one of pure evil.
The look of a killer closing in on its prey, knowing that they could not escape.
The look of someone who is torturing another; and enjoying it.
That grin was to be worn on the face many, many times in the future.
He ran up the stone steps, up to the large, imposing wooden door, and knocked 3 times.
A butler answered the door wearily. He had been swept off his feet all day, answering to the numerous demands of the Riddle family, and he was utterly exhausted. He had no time for late night visitors, especially boys. Especially boys dressed up as if it was Hallowe'en.
"May I help you S-sir –"
He wasn't sure what had made him stutter, but there was something oddly unsettling in the boy's eyes. There was murder in those eyes, and it sent chills down the Butler's spine.
Don't be ridiculous.
"May I help you, Sir?"
After glaring at him for some time, the boy then spoke for the first time that evening. His voice was measured and calm, but there were undercurrents of fury there which he was trying to disguise.
"I would like to see Tom Riddle"
It was an order.
And then, he took off his black hood, revealing his face to the Butler, the face that resembled his fathers so much. The high cheekbones, pale skin, black hair and deep dark eyes were looks which were instantly recognisable in this village as the looks of Tom Riddle, the eldest son of the Riddle family. The Butler gasped.
"Who are you?"
"I am Tom Riddle". The boy paused, and allowed a smirk to enter his face at he said the next word. "Junior".
The Butler stared at him in shock. It was common knowledge that Tom Riddle Senior had run away, about a year ago, with the daughter of a common tramp who lived on the outskirts on the village. Gaunt, their name was, wasn't it? Lived in near poverty – or so he had heard. It had caused quite a scandal at the time – the son of the squire eloping like that. It had been not so long till he had returned though; claiming that the girl had bewitched him, avoiding all questions. But there had been rumours – that he had truly loved her –
The Butler realised that he had been staring blankly at the boy. He brought himself together; gave a respectful bow, trying to regain his composure. Mr Tom Riddle had forbidden anyone to speak of the affair ever again. He had waved the whole incident away, claiming that he had been "taken in", and the Butler knew better than to push Mr Riddle's temper. And the fact of the matter was, it was utterly ridiculous that Mr Riddle would ever have fathered a child by that girl. Whoever this boy was, he was pulling a prank or some such hoax. Even though the resemblance was uncanny...
"I'm afraid that is not possible at the moment", he said coldly. It was a cruel joke.
"Oh, really?"
A second flash of green light, and the Butler knew no more – his face set in an everlasting expression of cold disbelief, his eyes unseeing – staring blankly into the dark night sky.
Tom Riddle Junior smiled.
He entered the house, the house where he might have once grown up, where he might have been living with his mother and his father. He could almost see his mirror self, a boy who looked much more content – much happier, walking through his home. An actual family home.
He shook his head impatiently, and that small moment of emotion passed; replaced by the cold fury and resentment he had grown used to, which masked any other feeling. He wouldn't want to live with this dirty Muggle family, especially with that man – that Muggle, who had disowned him, abandoned his mother, that man with the common Muggle name. Tom.
He could see an open door at the end of the corridor; warm golden light was spilling out of that room into the cold, dark gallery and the murmur of voices drifted towards him. Content, happy voices – voices which had no right to be content and happy, they had no right at all.
He would soon put an end to that.
He approached the door without making a single noise; the thick carpet muffling his footfall, and drawing his wand, entered the room.
The room was large and airy, with a high ceiling and bow windows. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, casting a warm glowing light on the sofas, chairs, and tables. But Tom Riddle Junior only had eyes for the 3 people in the room.
There was an old man sitting in the sofa, conversing with an old woman – they looked up as he walked in – their faces registering shock.
The old man spoke, his voice uncertain but forceful.
"Who the devil are you, and what are you doing in our house?"
Our house?
He walked up to the old man, his Grandfather, and looked him straight in the face, his eyes boring into the old mans. When he spoke, his voice was quiet with rage.
"I am Tom Riddle. Your grandson. And I believe, this is my house as well, you filthy Muggle."
And before the old man could speak, he was dead, his face set for ever in a look of surprise, arms outstretched in front of him. He crumpled to the floor with a thud, the glass of port he was holding shattered on the floor – the dark red liquid spilling onto the carpet.
The old woman screamed, and started to run away from him.
She never made it to the door.
The curse hit her in the back, and she fell forward, her arms clutching at the air as she fell.
His grandmother. The person who would have stopped him crying, who would have picked him up when he fell over, who would have looked after him when he was ill, who would have spoiled him with presents. Dead.
Now it was time to erase his filthy Muggle family once and for all. He looked around the room, and saw him – his father.
They were so alike, the same hair, same dark eyes, the same face. He – his father – wasn't cowering, he wasn't hiding. He was looking right at him, staring at him in disbelief. Despite the fact that his parents had just been murdered in front of him, he didn't appear to be frightened. He looked almost as if he was resigned to his fate.
"My God – who the devil are you?"
"Your son."
"Her son?"
"Yes. Her. The woman you abandoned when she was pregnant, the woman you left to starve"
"You don't understand – she tricked me –"
He was making excuses.
"I don't want your excuses"
"What do you want, then?"
"I want to kill you".
The man had started to back against the wall, his arms stretched out, as if he thought that they would protect him.
"Crucio!"
He felt some satisfaction by watching the man writhe around in agony on the floor, screaming and yelling in pain, face contorted. He was getting what he deserved.
"No – please -"
"Crucio!" And again.
Tom Riddle Senior screamed in pain, rolling around on the carpet, arms thrashing everywhere.
"Don't – I beg you -"
CRUCIO!
Scream followed scream, he was twitching uncontrollably, as if a thousand knives were boring into his skin. So much pain. Excruciating pain.
Tom Riddle Junior smiled.
He stopped the curse, lifting his wand away from the pathetic body which lay sprawled across the floor. His father was shakily looked up into the eyes of his son, and if he had expected to see some sympathy, a single drop of pity, he would be disappointed. There was not a single drop of pity in those eyes.
"Please -"
His last word. The rest of the sentence was snatched away by a flash of green light. His eyes became lifeless, and his limbs fell limp.
The last of the Riddle family, Tom Riddle Junior, who had succeeded in wiping out the last members of his family, knelt down besides his Father, and touched the lifeless face almost gently; the face which looked so much like his.
He stood up, and walked away. He didn't look back.