Dreaming of Defeat
A/N: This erm, weird, little fic was written for the Diagon Alley II Potion Club. Ingredient: Lavender—Write about a dream.
Word count: 505 words
Enjoy!
His heart was pounding, limbs shaking like a leaf. The fog taking over his mind made it increasingly harder to concentrate, yet he continued to grip his wand and hold the curse—he was not one to give in, especially when he knew he was so close to achieving everything he had ever wanted.
Cheers and shouts of encouragement echoed around the hall, urging his opponent on. They were faceless enemies he did not dare to look at, lest it give his opponent an advantage. He would deal with them later when he had destroyed their master.
The figure before him chuckled; a tired, almost deranged noise. A sign that, just like he, his opponent had lost everything that mattered to him. Mocking him, letting him know that he intended to kill him. He could feel the power behind the other's curse, his wand now locked onto his opponent's and unable to disconnect, even if he wanted to.
"Why don't you just give up?" his opponent asked, calculating eyes narrowed into slits. "Only one of us can survive."
He braced himself against the curse's force, feet slipping backwards on the marble floor. His heart became wilder and wilder, as though it was racing against the clock, determined to get as many beats in before it was stilled. No, he wouldn't lose.
His opponent pushed forward, his laughter reverberating against the room. He could hear the gasps from his own supporters, growing louder as his opponent took a few steps forward. It was becoming harder to keep a firm grasp on his wand. He could feel the magic being sucked from it. The feeling only stopped when his opponent lifted his wand for a moment, green eyes sparkling with triumph.
"Time's up."
His opponent smirked and re-aimed his wand, a tidal wave of power overwhelming him. A blinding white light assaulted his eyes, causing him to shield his face with a hand, knowing already that it was too late.
He woke with a start. Sweat covered his forehead, sheets twisted around his body like emerald snakes. The dream had been so vivid, more so than the others he had been having that year.
His body trembled as he thought about the cold voice that would put an end to his life. The voice had been so real, so powerful, so…
"Time to get up," one of his peers called, tossing a pillow at him.
He glared at the boy before sitting up, a list running through his mind of the things he had to do that day. Stretching and getting out of bed, he began to dress. The crisp white shirt and warm grey trousers of his uniform were a welcome presence as they enveloped his body, almost like a hug that could drive away his discomfort, memories of the nightmare already fading away.
There was no point dwelling on dreams. After all, he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, a Wizard yet to lose a duel—in waking life, he knew no one could ever defeat him.