Now, I don't have anything against any religion, but I figured that Tom Riddle would have hated it, because he believed that anything that concerned him was because of his own doing. I don't think he would believe in luck.

Personally, I think this is one of my better pieces of writing. Oh well.

Enjoy!

A Christmas Visit

It was Christmas Day, but the streets of London were deserted. There was originally supposed to have been festivities, but a heavy snowstorm had quickly put an end to that. Now, at three in the morning, everyone had long since hurried home, and was fast asleep in their warm beds, all thinking of the wonderful day that was to come.

By this time, the snowstorm was ending, and only a flurry of snowflakes was falling from the sky to the ground already smothered in white. It was still very, very dark, however, and only the cold, pristine stars shone in the night sky.

Through this, a slender figure cloaked in black swept through the streets, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was freezing cold, and even the snowflakes that landed on the cloak could not seem to wet it, but simply drifted to the ground. The hem of the cloak that touched the ground was dry too. As the figure passed by a dark alleyway, he was confronted by a burly man who had just stepped in front of him. The man, brandishing a long, ugly knife in his right hand, held out his other palm in a gesture that could only mean he wanted the stranger's money, but the cloaked man only stood still calmly, with his head lowered slightly. His hand, however, had already gone to his pocket.

The robber's face further contorted into a nasty snarl. "Give me your money!" he growled, and thrust the knife closer to the stranger, but the stranger only laughed from under his hood. "Why should I give anything to you?" he asked the robber, and his voice was cold, high and utterly cruel. The robber felt fear beginning to clench around his heart, but he pushed it aside. As if the figure had known that he was starting to be frightened, the mysterious man lifted a pale, thin hand to his hood and pushed it back.

Then three things happened almost at once- the robber yelled in horror and frantically backed away, dropping the knife in the process; the figure slid a thin, long stick from his robe pocket and muttered something; there was a flash of sickly green light-

And the foolish robber collapsed onto the ground, his scream silenced forever, and his eyes open and unseeing in horror.

The figure sneered, pulled his hood back over his head, and stepped over the still body. He continued along the street until he stopped in front of a building that was originally quite imposing and white, but so many years had passed that it was rather grey, and sad now, though the steps were still clean and the large door knobs well polished. A large cross sat on the roof. The man stepped up to the door, and ran an abnormally long finger over the still-shiny brass plaque that read The Church of Our Blessed Lady, and then grasped one of the door knobs and twisted. A half of the large double doors opened silently, without any creak, and the cloaked man entered quietly.

The room immediately inside was quite spacious, though equally old and bare now, but the man remembered the time when he and other orphans had been shepherded to this place every Sunday, dressed in their best clothes, and the matron Mrs. Cole had ensured that their hair was well-combed back and their black shoes shone. He had his Sunday school there in that room itself; but while the other orphans had participated in that class eagerly, he had been quiet and merely listened, but on the occasions that he spoke, it was always against what everyone else there thought. Soon, the 'nice lady teacher', as Mrs. Cole had called the woman there, had learnt to dislike him, and thereafter he had practically no chance to speak up at all.

The children were all gathered around the sister of the church, listening attentively. "Now, children, who is the greater being above us?" she asked them gently, and the children chorused "God," as one. The Sister smiled.

"And who is His Son?" she asked again, and when the children told her "Jesus," she nodded, satisfied.

"So why do you think Jesus died for us, then, children?" she inquired, and a girl in a pastel pink dress right in front raised her hand immediately. "Yes, Amy?" the Sister asked kindly, and the teacher's pet answered promptly, "He did it to cleanse us of our sins, ma'am," she said, and when the sister gave her a approving smile, she cast her eyes around smugly, noting how everyone shot envying glances towards her, and lifted her little chin proudly.

There were a few answers after that, all much the same as Amy's, and when the sister had listened to them all, she decided to continue on. "You see that-" and she was stopped by a hand at the back. "Yes, Tom? You wanted to give your opinion on why Jesus died for us?"

The young boy, good-looking already at such a tender age, nodded imperceptibly. "Let's hear what you have to say, then," she told him, and what he said would later make everyone gasp in outrage and horror.

"Jesus died for us because he didn't know self-preservation, ma'am," he spat, and even the Sister was shocked at the venom in his voice. "He decided to play the noble hero and save us all, then," and somewhere along there his eyes had begun to flare with an fierce, angry light, and the sister could have sworn his eyes looked red for a moment.

Tom didn't remember what the sister said next, but he remembered being caned by Mrs. Cole once they had gotten back to the orphanage.

Lord Voldemort paused in the middle of the room, as if remembering something, and then strode through an open doorway into the main room itself.

An old priest was there, kneeling in exuberant prayer, with only a candle on the floor beside him. He heard the footsteps coming towards him, and slowly, unsteadily, got to his feet, to see who had come to join him in prayer so early in the morning. But then he turned his head, and caught sight of the ominous black figure, and stopped short. Lord Voldemort felt a sardonic, taut smile stretch his lips at the priest's stunned expression, and before the old man could say anything, he found himself floating up to the large, man-sized cross. Then Voldemort swept his wand in an oddly graceful manner, and to the priest's horror his clothes were torn to shreds, leaving him naked. They floated to the ground clumsily, and the priest shouted, "Who are you, stranger?"

But the unknown man only shook his head and let the hood fall once again. Like the robber, the priest gaped in revulsion, and then out of nowhere four large nails appeared. The old man eyes' widened- and then the nails drove themselves into his hands and feet.

The priest screamed.

The Dark Lord studied the struggling figure coldly, and then he waved his wand once more. A white cloth appeared, and with once more flick of the wand, floated to the priest and tied itself into a lazy knot around his waist.

"You wanted to know who I am, old man? I am Lord Voldemort, muggle, and my name will be the last you remember before you die. I promise you that," The voice had become a sibilant hiss, and the last four words were said so quietly that the man had to strain to hear them.

"Do you know what a muggle means? It means someone who cannot perform magic, someone who has to depend on their God to do the impossible." Now the Dark Lord's voice had become light with controlled anger and sarcasm, but the priest was no longer listening. Almost as if he was delirious, the old man whispered, over and over again, "Forgive him, Father, he knows not what he does—"

Voldemort let his long-simmering rage erupt, and his face twisted into something so animalistic that it no longer looked human. "Crucio!" he snarled, and the old man flayed and screamed and twisted and struggled uncontrollably- and after a while, he went limp.

But the old priest was awoken again by a stream of water blasted into his face. His eyes opened groggily, and before he could register anything, he heard a word, and then he felt as if he was being stabbed with a thousand knives, each wound more painful than the last, and through the hazy pain, he heard a voice saying, "You see how your God cannot do anything to save you? You see how useless he is? Muggles say that Jesus died to save us- but I have saved myself, I have found my heaven on this sinful earth, and I have become greater than any other! Avada Kedavra!"

The priest went limp, this time for good, his head drooping against his chest, his hands hanging downwards.

Lord Voldemort's eyes gleamed with something indescribable. Then he clasped his hands together, in a mockery of a prayer, and said the words that were alien to him.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Then Lord Voldemort stepped out into the cold air and lifted his eyes to the sky, the very gesture itself scorning the heavens above, taunting them to defy him, before looking away contemptuously. Tossing his head back, he laughed.

Ooh. The last part was pretty intense.

Review please! I need your feedback in order to improve.