My response to the Genre competition which had to feature an urban genre and the prompt 'word of mouth' so you get a Voldemort pov fic.
From the shadows of the alley, a dark figure watched. It was hooded and cloaked with oddly luminous skin and dark eyes with a red gleam that shone out from the gloom. The figure was eerily still like a statue as its gaze fell upon each muggle who walked by the alley.
Voldemort had a comprehensive memory of this place. The gates of Wool's Orphanage used to rest only a hundred feet from where he stood. The arched and coarse iron gates were still imprinted in his mind. When he was a boy he had been cursed to constantly step under them.
The rest of the area was almost as familiar.
Whenever he had the opportunity, he had walked out of the gates and trudged along the dark alleys and smelly streets. Even then it had never been the nicest of places in London; full of beggars, garbage and unappealing passersby. It could have been called Working Class if it would not have been offensive to good honest citizens who did work.
As a boy it had disgusted him. He could not see why anyone would be dressed in such rags and be so filthy or how they could spend their entire lives sitting on a street corner without a job. As he grew, the demand for wartime labour did mean the jobless masses did start to trickle away, but it barely increased his tolerance of the neighbourhood.
Time had caused the muggle word to disintegrate even further; values and standards of expectable behaviour had vanished completely.
Occasionally he allowed himself to come here. Perhaps it could be called a weakness if it was not for the purpose of highlighting his strength. He took pleasure in reminding himself that he had risen from these appalling conditions. He had risen to become the greatest and most powerful wizard in history with a name that was now universally feared. It was far above the leaders that the orphans had known as influential and powerful (Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill). The power of those muggles was only miniscule compared to the whispers of his power and the abilities he secretly possessed.
Smirking at his superiority, it minimised as another figure stepped into the alley. Dressed in tall spiky heels that were ridiculously tall and with a tight black dress that only covered an inch of her thigh, she swaggered towards him with confidence.
"Are you looking for some fun tonight, Sir?" she said suggestively with her dark painted lips forming around each word carefully.
His hand twitched around his wand pocket as he longed to curse the whore for daring to make a suggestion to him! Lord Voldemort! It was outrageous, but he decided not to waste his energy on the whore. It was needless.
Instead he lowered his hood revealing his waxy and distorted features. "Go," he hissed quietly but it was filled with so much venom and power that she hurried away immediately. "Get away."
Still breathing heavily he tightened his grip around his wand.
They were all filth. Some were filthier than others. He was aware that when he allowed himself to observe the surroundings that sometimes such people attempted to bother him. The whore must have been a new member of this lot and not have heard about the words describing a hooded figure which had spread even amongst this filth.
It had started when a muggle man had dared to try and rob him. The muggle had only had the chance to lift his knife before it was impaled into his neck. The other muggles had only watched the dark robed figure leave the area unscathed while a body was left to rot in the alley. Another whore had attempted to touch him and she had run screaming when her hand had slid clean off. Then, most recently, there had been the beggar woman who had pleaded for money or else she would die. She had been correct. She had received nothing other than a flash of green light.
Even in the muggle world, the word spread about how he should be feared.
Turning his now fiery gaze from where the whore had departed, he focused on the place where a set of new dingy apartments were being built. He had destroyed the orphanage. Words had never been spoken to reveal why he had targeted the institution, but he had watched with satisfaction as his Death Eaters burned his most hated building to the ground. The screams that filled his ears had almost been as sweet as the pleas that his father had made before he had killed him.
The thought of the dead children and burning building improved his mood considerably, as he smiled and watched the whispering masses of whores and drug dealers in huddle that shot glances to his alley. Chuckling lightly, he amused himself of the thought of any of the filthy muggles attempting to oppose him before he turned on the spot and apparated.
The dank and dirty spots of garbage disappeared replaced by the fresh country air as, for now, he left London and the memories of his childhood behind.