hi everyone!
yes, I'm not dead. Seriously. I just haven't updated my other story for a LOOOOOOONG time. don't worry, I'll get to it.
i did this as an english assignment. i don't know if it's any good, but it was dying to make it's way on to the internet. i don't know whether or not i should continue this. if you think i should, let me know!
disclaimer: i don't own Harry Potter.
He hated a lot of things. He hated his mother for leaving him in that horrible orphanage. He hated his father for being of inferior blood, and therefore tainting his own. He hated his name, a constant reminder of his filthy blood. He hated his childhood, surrounded by falsehood. He hated the way the old fool Dumbledore never for one moment trusted him (no thanks to that woman at the orphanage). He hated the ones who got in his way when he finally achieved the power he wanted, or at least some of it. He hated the way the ones who supported him seemed to think that he was their friend, that he confided in them and was close to them. He had never in his life needed a friend, much less wanted one. But most of all, he hated the boy.
Ah yes, the boy. The boy who had interfered with all his plans, the boy who had brought his dreams to a standstill. How he cursed that day, himself, and the boy's stupid muggle mother. He admitted it; he had been careless that day. He had ignored the ancient magic that had cast itself when the stupid woman had died for her son. He would have died, if it hadn't been for his cunning, for his own precautions. Those bits of his soul that he had safely guarded and conserved had saved him that night, although it was almost not worth it. Especially now, when he was so weak and helpless, and had to be fed and looked after by that stupid cowardly least faithful servant of his who would have bolted given the first chance. He hated being dependent on another being.
But that mistake he had made thirteen years ago would be corrected tonight. If all went well, which it would, the boy would arrive here in the cemetery tonight and he would at last have the boy's blood, essential to get the body that he had been denied all these years. And once he had it, he could kill him and finish what should have been finished on Halloween thirteen years ago. If he had been able to smile, he would have.
The boy who lived. What an idiotic name. Tonight, the boy who lived would cease to exist.
The graveyard was silent and he waited in the cool air, the feeling of anticipation rising with every second. He could feel Wormtail trembling slightly, and hissed his annoyance. Around them, Nagini slithered in the grass, hissing softly. He knew she wanted to eat.
"Patience, Nagini. You will feed soon enough," he said softly in Parseltongue.
Just then, he heard movement from beyond them. He felt that strange sense of joy, of jubilation. At last the boy was here. Wormtail moved closer. It seemed the boy had brought a companion with him. No matter, he was easily taken care of.
"Kill the spare," he hissed. Wormtail obeyed, and he felt himself being lowered to the ground. He waited impatiently as Wormtail went through with collecting the essential potion ingredients he needed for a new powerful body. Through the fog, he could just barely see the boy's bound and gagged figure tied to the tombstone of his muggle father. Then he was picked up again, and Wormtail dropped him into the cauldron.
That second it took to fall seemed to be the longest in his life. As he fell, his body twisted around and he barely glimpsed the boy's face, alight with horror and understanding. The last thing he heard before he hit the potion was Nagini's hiss of impatience. Patience, Nagini. Soon I will have what I want any so will you.
Satisfaction filled him. Tonight, he would once more rise, and the boy who lived would be no more.
read and review, please! no flames please!