What May Have Been
A/N: Depending on how this is received, this may turn into a chapter fic.
The Master of all things dark and unimaginable in this world exists only for hatred and the pain of others. A sentinel of sorrow, hollow except for an inhuman desire for immortality. This is a quest for which he has deemed himself worthy. Salazar Slytherin's descendant stands now atop of the tallest tower of the formerly known Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
A statue stands in the centre of the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall. It is a marble version of the cold, twisted wizard who commands this castle. Arms outstretched, welcoming new students to the Riddle Academy for Dark Arts. It is a striking sight, a vision of the ounce of humanity left in his black soul.
Students are forced to don robe of blood red, with masks of purest silver and green, the coat-of-arms painted onto their chest. A serpent, twisting and writhing, hungry for the taste of death and destruction once more is the school's only logo. Attendance to this dwelling of pure evil is compulsory and failure to attend is punished with death.
The Elder Wand rests in his fist. He is the true master of it now. Harry Potter had been silenced permanently, killed by the Dark Lord's own hand. His body hangs around the neck of the stone Voldemort. He Who Must Not Be Named is satisfied. Black clouds surround the castle always and storms are frequent.
The true purpose of this academy is a hidden secret, so dangerous that if it was discovered by anyone outside, they must be killed. Voldemort is using this place of learning to build his army even more. The pupils are taught right from their first day that Muggles and Mudbloods are the scum of the Earth and not worthy of life. They are gruellingly trained to recognise and kill enemy agents. After six years of training, the Initiation begins. Three tasks must be performed to prove a student worthy. It is three years since the Order of the Phoenix has been seen- most are dead, if not all. Voldemort believes the organisation to be crushed.
He looks down on his school. Albus Dumbledore is long forgotten. The red of his eyes burn with a sense of success. This is what he's has always wanted. He runs his skeletal hands gently over the chilled flesh of his hairless head. His simple black robes billow in the wind, a cloud of black smoke around him. He smiles. But it is not a smile of warmth nor joy. A smile served with a sense of anticipation as he remembers his last hunt. He has just had news of someone he has believed long dead.
He extends his arms, and steps from the tower, plunging into the air below.
Albus Severus Potter will be killed.