A/N: So this is my first attempt in years to write fanfiction, and my first ever attempt at Harry Potter. I'm doing this because of.. I dunno why. To examine TMR and his relationship with Bellatrix. I know that, logically, by the time Bella is in school, Tom has become Lord Voldemort... but I feel the need to differentiate. By this point he has a number of horcruxes under is belt, but he's not completely become LV. It's personal choice in the character tags I've given this story, and I claim a level of freedom in fiction for the purposes of examining this dynamic.
As with all people posting here, reviews are appreciated and will be lovingly read.
Also DISCLAIMER: This will be the only one I will post for the story. I own nothing, no characters, no locations, no nothing. All belongs to JKRowling, Warner Bros. and any other affiliates that I cannot think of right now. All that I own is my original ideas which do not appear in the original series.
On one of the low stone walls that stretched along the vast acres of grounds around the ancient castle, a figure sat, crouched over, staring out over the dark waters. The silhouette was obviously female, the long dark hair and curves a dead give-away for the more intelligent to happen upon the still figure.
In the early morning light, which trickled slowly over the horizon, bathing the wall, girl and lake, in a warm glow of promise, the waters were silent and unmoving, save for the gentle beaching of water upon the pebbled shore. The lack of birds at this early hour gave away the season of winter. Or it would, if the still, cold air hadn't already done so. There was no trace of life, only the slow and steady stream of smoke rising from the chimneys of the castle.
Other than the birds, everything was unmoving and silent. Even the female had begun to appear as nothing more than a statue of sorts, over-looking the water as still as the stone that formed the wall upon which she was resting. Only her sodden ebony locks and loosely fastened cloak gave away her true nature, gracefully blowing slightly with the steady, crisp wind, flying from her body.
Surprisingly, however, the figure stirred. The wind shifted to push her hair away from her face, revealing a sight that was far from comforting. It might have been the light from the dull sky, or the dark and colourless clothing, but the woman's pale complexion, though flawless, was a sickly pallor, her high cheek bones accentuating the gaunt expression in her heavily-lidded eyes.
She was not pretty, the hardness in her eyes leaving no room for such a description. Nor was she necessarily beautiful. Something about her gaze, her expression, the way she held herself... it was simply too unyielding, too cold. There was the perfect adjective: cold. Everything about the woman radiated coldness.
Her gaze shifted as she heard the sleepy movements of a gargantuan man leaving his hut, like clockwork every morning. The harsh sound of metal on metal reached her ears as the man fumbled with the iron catch lock on his door before continuing on his way. She watched him steadily, the silence of the dawn allowing the wind to carry the sound of the irregular splash punctuating his slow, heavy footfalls every few paces as he does nothing to avoid the minefield of puddles that follow the nights of rain, so quintessential to wintery Britain.
The man did not look up, didn't look around to see the young woman. Nor did she expect him to. As usual his shoulders were hunched, his head bowed and his knuckles decidedly white from his grip around his axe. The look was commonplace around the castle; a defeated mind-set that had spread like wildfire through the wizarding world in the years of war.
A soft sigh escaped her lips at the knowledge that, soon, she would have to vacate her habitual night time haunt. With day break, the school would once again be bustling and, however much the rumours amused her, the repetitiveness was beginning to put a strain upon her already exceedingly limited patience. Rumours that, if true, made the school's students very wise in avoiding her.
The girl's eyes lingered on the forest pathway down which the man had turned. Though her chiselled features appeared to be void of any emotion, her eyes, chasms of life that they were, twinkled in the growing light. To anyone who ventured close enough, the dark orbs would have shown a severe, haunting depth beyond the female's years. It was this that implied something distinctively wild about her gaze, as if bound, only barely contained, and desperate to be set free.
Though maybe not beautiful, she was alluring to a fault, something that provoked longing as well as fear in those who gazed upon her. As if, when watching a tiger pace in its cage, one desperately wishes to reach through the bars and stroke the beast's luxurious coat. But instinct would tell them no, and instinct would save their lives.