First HP fanfic. Read and review, please :)
He creeps amid the trees, the late afternoon sun throwing stripes of light on him through the canopy. His feet itch to run forward and claim his treasure, but he resists the urge. Control is important- especially on a mission as phenomenal as this.
As he draws closer, he can feel it. An aura of magic, growing stronger with every step he takes... a sense of new worlds all about, such as those in the books he used to read so long ago... a ripple of power darting through his mind, very similar to what he feels when he has learned something new and helpful...
He shakes his head impatiently. A bubble of appreciation rises in his thoughts for the woman who could have cast such a powerful spell- one that would extend so far beyond the boundaries of the object it is contained in, and after so long too. A lesser man would no doubt have fallen under the charm.
Finally, he reaches it. The tree. The hollow tree.
He raises his wand. If he were to stick his hand inside the tree like a Muggle, there might be a spider or some insect that would bite him. Although he could fix himself up in a second, there was no need to enter into complications when there was an easier way. "Accio Diadem," he whispers.
Something glows inside the hollow, and a tiara-like object shoots out, dislodging a clump of mud and leaves on its way. They fall to the ground like a shower of so many dull gems, and he shudders at the thought of plunging his hand through that muck. He has wondered often how Muggles manage without magic... it is the element that makes one superior to the rest.
He shakes these thoughts from his mind for the moment. Soon. Soon, if all goes well, there will be no need for these thoughts anymore.
The diadem hovers in front of him and he plucks it from the air, caressing it under his brittle fingers. Another wave of its magic hits him... it offers bright knowledge of the kind he has always craved, telling more of the Dark Arts and how to master them... His mind delves greedily into the sea of new information, absorbing and storing as much as it can. Without realizing it, his fingers begin to move up toward his head, holding the charmed crown firmly.
A twig breaks not far off. The sound is not very loud- barely enough decibels to be picked up by his ultra-sensitive ears- but it brings him back to his senses effectively. He shudders violently to escape the charm and puts the diadem safely on a low branch nearby. He can feel its enchantment still trying to break through his mental defenses. But although knowledge of that kind would be a very useful tool, he cannot allow himself to deluge in it now. The diadem is just a tool- a host, if you would see it that way. A very powerful one, but still just something to be used.
He stares at it for a second, slightly in awe of the object that could cast a spell strong enough to overwhelm even him. It is, of course, one of the most powerful objects in the world. Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem.
Then he turns sharply. The twig. What kind of thing would cause a twig to crack? The rational part of his mind tells him it's just a rabbit, or maybe even a snake. But all his instincts tell him otherwise. His mind is sensitive and probing. It feels another, very-much-conscious soul nearby.
There is a person around.
While his inclination is to feel annoyed or disturbed, he knows this is all to his advantage. A person is just what he needs to complete his mission. He grabs the diadem, firmly strengthening his mind against its enchantment, and starts walking toward the noise.
Silent as a snake glides, he moves through the forest, his ears alert for any other noise, his robes ballooning out behind him black as the night sky. He feels a sense of the hunt- the part of his conscious that is snake is projecting certain emotions. When hunting comes a rising feel of anticipation, combined with caution and readiness for disappointment. He lets his mind sink into this sense freely. It is a good state to be in when hunting something- or someone.
Before long, his ears pick up the sounds of someone crunching through the forest. Millions of twigs snap under the pursued's feet. The pursuer shakes his head briefly, silently disgusted at his victim's lack of stealth, and continues his silent chase.
It is a Muggle. That becomes clear when the diadem-holder draws next to the hunted, slipping silently through the shadows of trees mere feet away from him. The Muggle strides along cheerfully, humming under his breath, hands in his pockets, his hair tousled- altogether a person to loathe, thinks the black-robed man.
He draws his wand in one swift, practiced movement, and readies himself, drawing slightly in front of the Muggle and walking backwards to get a clear aim. He can afford to miss, but it would be embarrassing, especially for a wizard of such high standing as him. Not long now. He narrows his eyes at his target and channels his mental power into the wand- years of pent-up hate and neglect just waiting to overwhelm his conscious, and now he calls on them to provide the strength behind his spell.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The high-pitched utterance resonates through the still forest. Birds rise above the canopy, fluttering frantically. Rabbits poke their heads out of their burrows for one frightened second before turning and burrowing deeper. Far off, a deer shaped mass runs away through the forest. A snake glides past suddenly and raises his head to look at the man, its eyes flashing black. Other signs of disturbance reveal themselves throughout the landscape.
The Muggle is dead before he hits the ground. In the shadows, the pursuer is convulsing in pain as his inner being splits, his wand falling to the ground. His hand clutches the diadem tightly. It is important- no, vital that it be at hand.
With a tremendous mental effort, he raises a consciousness above the writhing pain in his mind and channels all his mental power toward the piece splitting from his being. He grunts in pain and exhaustion, but cannot stop at this stage.
Finally, after seemingly an eternity, he feels his willpower wrap around the split piece of soul and smiles calmly, showing no evidence of the extreme triumph and relief he feels- relief because he had been afraid his soul was already pushed to the limit and that this next effort would destroy it. However, it is all under control now. He directs the split fragment of soul at the Ravenclaw diadem and focuses, sending it into the enchanted object.
The entire process is over in a matter of minutes. Now, knowing that his soul inhabits one of the most powerful objects in magical history, the man feels a low laugh rise in his throat. The magic in the diadem would be tinted by his being. More to strengthen him.
I will grow ever more powerful, he realizes, replacing the Horcrux in the same hollow tree. I will grow powerful, and with my rise, Muggles and Mudbloods will fall. Witches and wizards will turn to the Dark Arts, and all will sustain me and bow to me. The ones I pursue will tremble at my very name, and certainly they will not last long.
For I am Lord Voldemort.
~Flit