(A/N: For the Voldemort Challenge on the HPFC forum. Prompts used: 1981, Bartemius Crouch Jr., Azkaban, Spello-tape and restless. Let us delve into the mind of the most feared Dark Wizard the Wizarding World has ever seen. Enjoy.)
The soft patter of footsteps on the dead grass was the only sound on the dreaded island. That, and the soft swishing of robes as the dark figure approached the giant, triangular structure.
A hiss sounded at the figures bare feet and the man looked down to see a large snake, big enough to wrap around a full-grown man's torso a good number of times, slithering beside him, its giant body moving gracefully over the charred and unattended grass.
The man did not seem alarmed by the presence of the menacing snake. In fact, he seemed to welcome it. As he walked, slowly and unhurriedly, the snake began to circle up his leg and make its way up around his torso, draping its large body around the man's neck.
Lord Voldemort smiled as he stroked Nagini's head fondly, his snake-like eyes glinting somewhat in the half-light. He wasn't really sure why he was here. He had no purpose here at all, but he was restless tonight. He had work to do. People to kill. His servant, Pettigrew had gotten the location of the Potter's for him. He must go there and kill them and their child, so as to prevent the prophecy from happening. He would not let a child get in the way of him and his takeover of the Wizarding World. No, the Potter boy had to die.
He didn't know why he was hesitating on going there now though. There was something foreboding about it though, and whenever he was about to Apparate to Godric's Hallow, he found himself stopping himself, telling himself it was a bad idea. He knew he was being stupid. He was Lord Voldemort! The most feared Dark Wizard alive! Voldemort does not worry about such things!
But yet, for some unknown reason, he procrastinated. He did not know what brought him to Azkaban. Maybe it was its dank, dark and cruel properties. Maybe it was the despair and fear that lived and thrived here. Maybe there was no reason at all and this had been the first placed that had popped into his head. He didn't know. He didn't care.
He reached the looming walls of Azkaban. Dementors swarmed all around him, their dark hoods pulled up and an unnatural chill filling the air. They did not go near him though. They didn't dare. They knew, they knew that he was the one who had promised to give them souls, give them people full of fear to prey on. They would not touch him as long as he gave them what he wanted. Voldemort could not prevent the small smile from forming on his almost lipless mouth. Even creatures as feared as dementors could be manipulated. Everything could be manipulated. And he was the master of the art.
Without so much as a second thought, Voldemort made himself levitate, hovering and then rising parallel to the giant and feared structure that was the great, dread wizard prison: Azkaban. He studied its structure, it dark color and forbidding feel. He liked the fear that seemed to radiate from it, the power. It intrigued him, how something as stupid, as inanimate as a building could hold that kind of power. He wanted it. He wanted its power. And he had it. He had power. He was the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world. But yet he wasn't satisfied. He would never be satisfied. There would always be more power for him to gain, more power that he yearned to have within his grasp.
Power. Power was everything. Whoever had power, had the keys to anything they would ever wish for. He was power.
He smiled somewhat. He was power. He liked the sound of that.
He reached the top of the giant structure and landed, touching down as soundlessly as a ghost. Nagini hissed and descended down from him, bent on exploring this new area. Voldemort watched her go, before looking out at the barren, empty and gloomy view before him, letting his mind wander for a change.
He didn't know what made him think of Crouch, but for some reason, it was he that his mind went to. The young Death Eater was enthusiastic about his cause and eager to please. He liked that. He could use that, and he was eager to stretch the son of Bartemius Crouch Seniors' son to his limits and use every little bit of the youth at his disposal for his own purposes. He didn't know what those were, yet, but he knew, one day, that he would use the boy. Yes, he would use that undying devotion. For as long as it was useful, that is. As disappointing as it was, nothing ever lasted, and once a loved toy is used up, it needs to be thrown away. He hoped he'd be able to use Crouch Jr. a long while before he had to throw that particular toy away. He had many ideas in which the particular servant could be…useful in.
A light breeze ran through the folds of his dark robes. Without any emotion on his face, the Dark Lord soundlessly observed a bit of spello-tape that had found its way to sticking onto the edge of his robes. How desperately it clinged to him. Like life. How people tried to cling to life as he pointed his wand at them to take it away from them. How they begged, how they reasoned with him, how they bribed and offered him all that they had. How foolish they were, how petty. Didn't they know? Didn't they see? Didn't anyone see how obvious it was? There is no use in clinging to life. Clinging does nothing. If you want to live, if you do not wish to die, then you must pursue other ways to keep life, to assure that death will not claim you. But people are too stupid to do that. Too shallow, or too afraid. He was not. No, he, Lord Voldemort, was not. He would never die. Never. He would forever be the most feared and powerful Dark Wizard in the world, forever gaining more and more power, forever supreme!
No, no he would never die. He was too strong for that.
A strong gust of wind blew through and ripped the small strip of spello-tape from his robes. Voldemort watched it blow away. Weak it was. Weaker, much weaker, then him. He would never allow himself to become that weak.
He took one last sweeping look at the landscape. With a sigh he rarely let himself emit, he closed his eyes and forced his mindless thoughts to leave him. He did not have time for this idleness. He did not have time for this restlessness, for these human emotions! He was Lord Voldemort. The most feared, the most powerful, supreme. He had worked to do.
"Come, Nagini," he hissed in Parsletongue, and the large snake obeyed him, slithering over to her master and obediently snaking up his robed arm.
Voldemort took one last look at the island of despair.
And then with a loud crack, he Disapparated.
And Azkaban went back to its depressing, quiet state, the lingering thoughts of the most powerful and evil wizard to ever walk to earth still lingering softly in the still air.