On Blood, Homicide, and Torturing Muggles
I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: I've written yet another weird story… Voices from Voldemort's past will be in italics in the quotes.
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His eyes, narrowed to scarlet slits, glittered through the unwavering darkness, highlighted with the swollen moon that shone through the cracks in the yellowed window. He was twirling his wand in his spindly fingers, the only part of his body that wasn't cloaked in the ebony robe that extended to touch the filthy floor. He seemed to be almost poignant while sitting in that timeworn velvety chair, yet there was a sort of tinge of insanity that seemed to be noticed first. If one cared to observe, they would see the Death-Eaters hovering cautiously in the halls of the makeshift-hiding place. It seemed common knowledge that he, their Master, wanted no trivial matters to ponder at this hour. Something told them that he was uncovering the ghosts of his past in that room, bathed in the tangible lack of light.
There was a snake on the ratty rug, the only other living thing besides him, curled up by the dying fire, absorbing the heat through his skin, hissing faintly in content. He could understand the snake, yet he did not show he could. Voldemort, better known as You-Know-Who, had other things to think on that night, things that didn't include the happy mutterings of his pet snake. Some would call him reflective at that moment; others would say he was meditating. Yet, does it really matter? All we really need to know is that his thoughts had departed from that desolate mansion, and traveled to a dingy orphanage in some place far away from where he happened to be sitting.
"Fucking useless, just like his mother." The voice was clear enough to receive a blink, nothing more. It seemed as though that—that that vile Muggle was right next to him, an impossible occurrence. "She slept around, and what do I get? Her abnormal, bastard child who won't do a fucking thing, just sits there and plays jokes on the staff." An image of a portly man with nonexistent hair on the top of his head wavered in Voldemort's mind for a moment, then faded. "No one wants him, who would want him…" These statements did not anger him as they used to. He was not seeking revenge, at least not on that old, stupid, damned orphanage owner.
"Give me your homework, Tommy-boy, and I won't do more than just rearrange your face." Feh, another stupid Muggle voice, this time originating from the confines of his elementary schoolyard. "I said give it to me, you fucking deaf or somethin'? D'you want me to turn you into a puddle of blood on the pavement?" Funny, Voldemort didn't kill Muggles to punish them for a schoolyard bully (or two, or three). He killed for the sheer thrill of hearing them scream, hearing them plead for mercy at his feet. Oh, he felt omnipotent at times like that. "Now that's better, isn't it, Tommy-boy? Don't it feel good, helpin' me with my homework. Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood, so I won't disfigure you too much." No, Voldemort was indifferent towards the people he killed; the murders only elevated him closer to his goal: dominance over the continent of Europe, and eventually, over every human in the world. He could only imagine his empire, all the Muggles and the Mudbloods fresh in their graves, all the remaining life bowing piteously at his feet. It was an idea that appealed him to the point where he was almost salivating.
If one were chronicling the events, it would become noticeable that the eleventh year of Voldemort's life was dawning, bringing with it the significant changes that would turn that small, belittled, little boy into an evil overlord. "Whoever runs this damn school must be pretty fucked up if they're actually paying to have you go. Sending a representative to come and get you? A year-round boarding school? They're probably fucking crazy. Where the fuck did I put that damn bottle of whiskey?" He thinks he hears the swish of alcohol in a bottle, but it's only his imagination. "Hmm, ambitious, cunning…there's only one place that seems right for you… Slytherin!" If that hat had tried to put him anywhere else, the entire course of his history would've changed. "Are all Slytherins this greasy, or are you the prime example?" All the Gryffindor students acted in their blatant animosity towards their Slytherin peers. Ah, who needed them anyway, those 'perfect, little, saintly heroes?
"That's the third student petrified this year! Who on earth could've opened the Chamber?" It was complete bliss, seeing those damned Mudbloods stare unblinkingly at the hospital wing's ceiling. "Did you hear? Olive Hornby found Myrtle dead in the girls' bathroom on the second floor. You know Myrtle, the depressed, ugly Hufflepuff with those horrible wide-rimmed glasses." Ah, the murder that began his homicidal rampage. "But Aragog never hurt no one! Never!" But Hagrid, you great, big, blundering, idiotic oaf, didn't you know that absolutely no one could outsmart the inner-workings of Tom Riddle's brain?
The end of his years at Hogwarts had inspired—shall we say, a little trip. Dumbledore would call the events that followed 'dangerous magical transformations', but to Voldemort, they opened new opportunities, events that would help him realize what he planned to strive for. He found ties in high places, recruited faithful servants, his only real family. His very name provoked terror; his Dark Mark received frantic screaming. Yet, oh why in Merlin's name, why the fuck had it happened to him? One simple, a single small 'oversight' and he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. If not for that fucking child and his bitch Mudblood of a mother, Voldemort would have thirteen years of progress. Instead, he was stuck trying to return himself to his former glory.
Harry Potter. That name was blasphemy, that child was the bane of his existence. How had he managed to slip through Voldemort's waiting fingers like that? Not only as a one-year-old, that was bad enough, but he also escaped at eleven years, and recently at fourteen years. Dammit, why didn't all those coincidences work in his favor? Why didn't the spell make Potter's wand regurgitate his meaningless fourth-year spells, instead of spewing those vengeful echoes all over the place. Why the hell did everything work for Potter and not for him? He was the stronger one, dammit.
Why the fuck did Potter get all the good workings of fate, leaving him with the chewed leftovers? It was a question that Voldemort would agonize over for many hours, yet at the same time never reaching a plausible conclusion.
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End
A/N: What on earth did I just write?