Pinpoint
The child was ugly. Small, fat, pink. His head was topped with the raven black hair of his blood traitor sire. Bright green eyes – the same as his dead mudblood mother's – were his only notable trait.
Those eyes stared now. Had he been anyone else he would have found the unnaturalness of it unnerving. Children that small were not meant to stare, but stare the boy did, and had, for hours since he lifted him from his crib.
"Harry," he said and frowned. A common name. A muggle name. Disgusting.
Harry raised up a small fat hand as if to reach out and touch him, but he caught it and forced it back down.
He wanted to kill the boy. Wanted to hold him beneath the water until his tiny lungs filled. Wanted drag a blade across the soft flesh of his throat. Wanted to feel the life of this revolting creature fade beneath his fingers. He wanted to be rid of the insult of his existence... But he would do none of these things.
Thin lips curled into a satisfied smile. He could not help but be impressed by his own brilliance. They had all believed he would kill the one foretold to be their savior. They should have known he would find another, better way to tarnish their precious prophecy. Slytherin was his legacy, after all, and Slytherins were nothing if not cunning.
"Harry," he said again, this time as though the boy was the most treasured thing in the world.
Harry Potter, his prophesized destroyer. Harry Potter, his sixth horcrux.
The light hit the child's eyes making them shine the color of death. It was almost beautiful.
