Disclaimer: Harry Potter and characters belong to J. K. Rowling, this is just a fanfic written by a fan of the world she created.

"He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge."

"I believe the orphans were taken there for a little sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot." - - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Strike During The Rain

I find it queer how people tend to tire when it rains. I am not like them, I thrive on these damp, dreary days. That distinct smell that tingles the senses upon inhale fills my lungs with eager breaths as I silently watch the world around me.

Worms slowly slip up and onto the paths from their earthly beds, only to be picked and pecked at by passing ravens and robins on their way to their nests of young, away from here, probably chirping for their guardians return. Nature is so fascinating, those newly hatched chicks will be flying around, peaking at worms on the ground with in weeks.

I prefer to stomp the worms that sprawl up near my feet. I could pick them up, collect them like some of the other boys do. For fishing, I think, but I find it an utter nuisance and waste of my time.

The rain beats down stronger. As it flows down my head, it collects my hair in clusters around my eyes. A droplet is about to fall into the puddle at my feet.

That's when I see it. Out of the corner of my eyesight, near the stone wall of the vegetable garden, sits a small field mouse carefully sniffing the air for its next meal.

But it is not the mouse that has caught my interest. No, not the mouse, pathetic thing.

Instead my eyes focus to the blades of grass seemingly gliding with the wind just a few feet before the small creature. To anyone else it probably would seem a soft sway with the wind, but not to me.

I can sense it.

I grip the edge of the stone step I am sitting on. My heart is pounding faster, my breath quickens. My muscles begin to tighten at my shoulders down to the tips of my fingers and toes. I watch without blinking in anticipation of the attack I know is inevitable.

The lunge of pure instinct and vicious precision. Like a whip, the black snake strikes out for the prey. My eyes widen as the fangs puncture through the fur and skin, pumping the paralyzing venom into the blood.

I can taste it. I lick my lips. It is as if the warmth of the kill is flowing down my throat. The sweet, intoxicating taste of death rushes through each of my taste buds, and yet I know it is not mine.

I watch the snake take its kill out of sight through a crack in the garden wall. As quickly as the snake strike, the taste is gone from my senses. I try to get the feeling back by closing my eyes, but all I can sense is the rain falling down on me.

The sound of laughter permeates through my thoughts and echos in my brain. Opening my eyes I see Polly and John holding hands, skipping together towards the coastline. The laughter increases even as they go farther and farther away.

I pull myself up, taking firm, careful steps forward.

I want it. I want that sweet taste for myself.