AN: My first fanfic, no flames please.
Warnings- Character death, implied slash, and Ginny bashing
It was raining. Fitting really. Today he was victorious. The dark was victorious. And yet the black rolling clouds and endless downpour described what he was feeling perfectly. The dark lord felt no joy on this day.
He stood, still as a statue in the large field facing Hogwarts, the only place he ever called home. Flashes of lights whizzed past his head before explosions rocked the earth as they hit their intended targets. All around him, his loyal Deatheaters fought with a viciousness that would normally spark some dim feeling within him; perhaps it was pride, or simple kinship. Who knows? He rarely acknowledged something as fickle as emotion.
Today he felt nothing at the sight of the snarling faces, the gleaming eyes, the blood soaked robes. He hardly noticed the bodies of the light strewn grotesquely across the muddied earth. The sight of his defeated foes seemed surreal; Meaningless.
Because today was the day he died. He had felt it when he first opened his eyes. The feeling of impending doom that had so rarely visited him. But today, he knew. He knew before his loyal Severus had burst into his chambers with the news. He knew before he gained the courage to prod the tenuous link that had plagued him for years now. He knew before he arrived at Hogwarts to find the grounds silent and the Great Hall bearing black banners.
He knew the boy was dead.
His enemy of the last fifteen years; the black haired, green eyed menace that had plagued his dreams and waking thoughts. Harry Potter was dead.
For months now, Voldemort had been planning the perfect time to invade Hogwarts. He wished to take control of the school with the least amount of force as possible. Over the years his goals had been warped in the public eye. His aim was complete separation of wizards and muggles. The muggleborns, of course, were necessary to avoid incest and would be taken from muggle parents when their powers manifested.
Voldemort, like Harry, knew what it was like to be different in the eye's of muggles. It meant instant fear and hatred. Wizards were a disappearing race and the dark lord was willing to take any steps needed to prevent their extinction.
But now, it didn't seem to matter. The stress had gotten to The Boy Who Lived. Voldemort knew the boy was feeling torn. Just not to this extent. If he had known he would have come sooner. He would have left his vision for the future to someone else.
Didn't the foolish boy know that a wizard always put their soul mate above all else?
Voldemort had discovered their connection and its implications when the boy was thirteen. After a few weeks he had been able to manipulate the bond in order to enter his dreams. At first the boy had been terrified and angry, but two years later the soul bond had worked its magic and Voldemort was… dare he think it… content.
He knew Harry Potter loved him. He had even forced his Deatheaters to become model citizens to please the boy. He had thought they would rule together. So then why, he asked himself, was his little love dead at his own hand?
A streak of red entered his line of sight and he finally focused on the destruction surrounding him. It was the youngest Weasley child. The girl. She had fallen and lay curled, clutching her bleeding arm to her chest.
Rain streaming down his pale face, dark hair plastered to his skull, Tom Riddle briskly strode over to the crying girl. Reaching down he hauled her up to eye level and jerked her head back with one hand in the mass of red hair to look directly into her panic stricken brown eyes.
He hissed a needless "Ligilimens." The freckled whelp must have seen something useful.
Immediately he was accosted with the brutal images. He saw the little witch slipping a potion into a mug during dinner the night before. Saw sparkling green eyes grow hazy and lidded. Saw the disgusting little whore lead his soul mate to her bed. Saw it all.
And then he saw the witch wake to find his Harry with a conjured blade slipping from a blood slicked hand. Dead.
Throwing Ginny Weasley to the ground the dark lord roared his pain and anger. He brandished his wand and with two words the prone figure was dead and he left alive. Standing tall, wand outstretched, face contorted with anguish, panting, chest heaving.
Around him the slaughter of his kind continued. And it didn't matter.