The Only One He Ever Loved

Chapter One -- Decay

Green moss grew endlessly on the oil canvas. The dank atmosphere provided a perfect residence for the decay. But if you stare closely at the canvas with a lit wand, you can almost see the figure inside. It's a wonder what muggles can do with just a bristled piece of wood and colored chemicals, not to mention without the use of magic. The portrait of Tom Riddle was perfect; every spot of paint made the man look almost real, as if in a wizard painting. And though the moss covered his face, you could tell that he was still somewhere inside the canvas.

Yet the moss had lived there for years, ever since the family's mysterious deaths. Nobody had bothered to enter the house, not even looters. The house was still covered in muggle furniture, though most of it was broken and rotted, much like the painting. Lord Voldemort hadn't done much to clean things up nor get rid of them. He preferred the darkness to the light, the broken to the fixed. Yet he himself didn't know why he hadn't replaced the muggle items with ones of magic. Most of his magical objects just crammed against the muggle things, making the house almost a connection between the muggle and the wizard.

Sort of like myself, thought Voldemort, cursing his half-blooded nature. Ignorant muggle father, weak witch mother, was it his childhood that had made him this wretched? Albino white skin, blood red eyes, a nose like a snake, all of which that weren't even his to begin with, all just fake from when he rose again from his caldron womb. Who was to blame? Was it he or his parents? He wondered if something outside his control was the source for his power hungry state. Was it the indelible mark of Parseltongue that ran through Salazar Slytherin's veins that created his wish for power, therefore bringing him this horrid state? Or did he bring all of this upon himself? He dismissed the thought from his mind; it's not as if he was some kind of psychologist.

The marked man walked over to his father's desk. The wood was pale and dark, yet it wasn't went and covered with the mold like other objects around. This desk was still in use. The bark making it wasn't just ordinary muggle wood anymore either; a spell had been cast upon it to keep it fresh. A desk wretched as Voldemort himself wouldn't be good to preserve what lay inside one of the cabinets, locked by magic. It wasn't something that belonged to Voldemort anyway, and even in the restored desk, the object deserved more than it had. The dark lord sighed painfully, as he knew he had little better to offer the object thrown carelessly by a fallen angel.

A harsh wind blew through the fragile house. Voldemort shivered, his cloak was far too thin for the winter weather. He wondered why he hadn't worn something heavier. Did he expect some warmth? Was there ever warmth in the Riddle House? No, just cold chairs, cold tables, cold paintings, and a cold hearted being were inside. He considered a warming charm, yet he hadn't even reached for his wand when he realized he didn't deserve the heat. His heart was cold, and his body deserved the same fate.

My heart, he thought sadly. Did his relatively new form have a heart? Or was there just some dark magical force pumping the blood? He then realized that there had to be something causing his emotion and regret at the moment. It was odd to finally have such a humanlike feeling in a body that wasn't even that of a human. It was a new thing, as the heart and feeling of his old body had been shut out when he lost his only spark of possible love. Yet the new form contained promise for more emotions. The dark lord considered studying magic more to find a way to banish these emotions, as he had never needed to learn a charm to protect himself from this sudden weakness. It was a weakness that had destroyed so many; he wondered why a curse to destroy them hadn't been common knowledge. Perhaps nobody had desired it.

Maybe I'm the only one who has these wishes.

Being alone in this house, just him and his dark desires, wasn't a new feeling for Voldemort. Hell, he had been alone nearly all of his life. Friends were fleeting, family members never around, being alone was what he was used to. Yet he had never actually felt the pang in his heart that others feel when they are lonely. This pain was new. Yet it wasn't something that was created by another. It was all him this time. He was the only one to blame.

It wasn't at my hands, it wasn't at my hands! Voldemort put his hands to his ears, trying only to hear his own excuses, trying to put the shame somewhere else. But it wouldn't move. The depression, the loneliness, and the dank mold on his heart were there to stay.

Voldemort was used to physical pain. His scarred body, those painful battles with those whose strength nearly matched his; every mark was created with physical pain. Yet he had never known such a pain as the one which gripped his mind and heart. They were opposite worlds, physical pain and emotional pain. His state of vulnerability was entirely new, and he stayed in his rather fetal position for a time that felt like an infinity.

Voldemort removed his hands from his ears, cursing himself for allowing his heart to gain control of his body, putting him into a weak position. Weakness is the enemy, he thought to himself, as he does every day. It was his creed, his motto. Had an auror walk in, you'd have been dead, he thought to himself, practically hearing his high maniacal voice spitting out the words. The past is the past, and there isn't a thing I can do now to change it. I just need to either accept it or forget it. And acceptance sure as hell ain't coming any time soon.

The moment after he thought that, he immediately felt something that didn't belong. A magical presence nearby. He knew that nobody could come to the house, and no magical item in the room could give off such sparks. Unless…

Could it be? Is there really a soul still alive in the old thing? Voldemort rushed to the wooden desk, but before he could begin the sequence of spells to unlock the sealed drawer, he heard a shrill yet soft voice behind him.

"Lonely, my lord?"