Notes: Written for Saeva's Second Genficathon. This was an enjoyable challenge – my first darker fic. Many thanks to Chaotic Vanity for the beta.
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Voldemort held the small hand mirror at arm's length and examined his appearance, searching for any changes that might have come upon it since he had begun his enterprise. He found none. He twirled the handle of the mirror thoughtfully, sending shards of light flying around the small room, and thought of the way primitive wizards had believed that a mirror could capture a part of the soul of the person reflected in its surface. They had known so little, he thought, and yet tonight he would bring the legend to reality.
He smiled, but it was not the charming smile he used to convert the purebloods who fell in so easily behind a charismatic leader or the angry grimace he used to keep them in line if they dared to question him. It was a grin full of wild happiness, a baring of teeth that seemed to elongate his whole face. He caught the handle of the mirror tightly as the reflective surface revolved again towards his face.
I will do what no one before me has done, he thought, I will live forever.
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He carefully re-wrapped the mirror in silken cloths and set it aside to finish his preparations. These were few; for the most part, purity of body was unnecessary for spellcasting, though purity of mind was paramount. He needed only to finish the warding on the mirror's case so that when the Horcrux was complete it could be hidden as safely as possible. An hour passed as he set the spells into the velvet and hard leather, his wand sending out a fierce, pale-green light with each swish and flick. When the final nimbus of light contracted into the dark surface, he stood back, a thin sheen of perspiration on his brow. Now to test it.
He drew on the power of Pettigrew's mark to call him. Moments later, the small, rat-like man appeared at the door.
"Master?" he queried.
"Ah, Wormtail," he said, sliding easily into the smooth and assured tones of leadership. "I require your assistance. If you would be so kind as to take that object there…"
Pettigrew only flew a few feet and screamed once, but it was satisfying just the same.
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They stood on the hill above Godric's Hollow and he ordered Pettigrew to start the fire so that he could enjoy presenting the village with the forbidding image of their silhouettes against the flickering light. It took the rat three tries to get the spell right, and during that time Voldemort's wild exultation evaporated, leaving a thin tiredness. It hadn't been much of a challenge to infiltrate Dumbledore's little group, but Pettigrew was growing exceedingly tedious.
Voldemort soothed himself with the reminder that it was almost time to end the preparation period of his domination and begin the fun part. The Horcruxes he had previously created were now well hidden, and he fancied he could feel the remaining piece of his soul thinning in the middle, which would make tonight's task that much easier. And best of all, after tonight, Pettigrew could be quickly disposed of, now that his usefulness was exhausted.
The fire was finally lit, but overhead the clouds swept in, bringing with them a charged feeling to the air. Sensing the approach of a storm, he cut short his musings.
"Which is the house, Wormtail?"
His servant indicated a two story cottage near the edge of the village. The lights were still on in the lowest level of the house. Sneering at the quaintness of it all, Voldemort slowly descended the hill.
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During his descent, he considered his plan of action. Usually he liked to play with his victims a bit first. They would lose themselves in threats and demands and futile displays of defiance, until their energy, and his amusement, was spent. Often he would choose a slow, lingering, painful curse, and his prey would struggle against the magic like a bird in the jaws of a snake, their will against his like the fluttering of wings between piercing fangs. Other times he would draw them in, the spineless fools, hypnotize them with his hissed words, until they were weeping at his wisdom and generosity. Then he would casually cast the killing curse and watch as that delicious expression of surprise and betrayal appeared on their faces.
Tonight, though, he hadn't the time or energy for such entertainment. Outside the house but just under the west eaves, he checked again his precious cargo – the small, silvered mirror. He carefully rewrapped it after only a moment; the ritual would be his final task of the evening. First, to remove the obstacles. He waited a bit longer as the village slowly darkened, though the cottage's lights remained lit. The wind swirled harder around him and the charge in the air grew stronger. Finally, judging the rest of the village asleep or suitably distracted (and, if he were being honest, the moment suitably dramatic), he cast the spell to throw open the door.
I love magic, he thought.
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"It's him, Lily! Take Harry and go! I'll hold him off!"
The man wasted his breath, as most of them did. Brave, yes, but not very smart. Still, better that the brave should die still strong in their convictions than become one of the sniveling populace he would soon have at his feet. Voldemort lifted his wand.
As the body fell, he moved swiftly up the stairs. A filthy mudblood she might be, Lily Potter, but even a mudblood could bring Dumbledore down on him. The old man probably couldn't kill him, but he could set him back a fair bit.
Voldemort almost hesitated as he saw she hadn't even tried to call for help, and was instead huddled in the far corner of the nursery, hiding the child and its crib from view. Was she merely incapacitated by fear, as so many were? Or did that glint in her eye reveal a deeper plan? A second glance, however, revealed that she merely had no wand with which to threaten him. He considered the possibilities for a split second as she turned to meet his eyes, obviously knowing why he had come.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
Perhaps she would be valuable as a gift for one of his followers. There was no need to waste possible good breeding stock. He would give her the choice. The feeling of charged power in the room intensified.
"Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside, now..."
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead–"
He couldn't understand such an impulse, never had. She could always have more children. Still, bravery deserved its reward. He cast the curse again and she fell, but the buzzing of the magic he felt did not change.
Nudging the girl out of the way with his foot, he looked down at the eerily silent child. This had all been too easy, he thought, the boy's protectors falling before him like grass. Had they truly not anticipated a betrayal? Or that he might overpower their protections? For a moment, anxiety gripped him, then he shrugged it off. They were weak, he thought, and they placed too much trust in love and friendship and nobility when only power can be relied on. As for the final obstacle? Prophecied or not, it is still but a child. Perhaps one day the boy might develop the power to defeat him, but here, now, that chance would easily be eliminated. The buzzing increased in strength and he luxuriated in the feeling, sure in the conviction that the very air itself was acknowledging what was about to be the moment of his triumph.
Reaching into his robes he brought forth the bundle of cloths and unwrapped them to reveal the mirror. The firelight glinted off the intricate silver designs on the handle and frame. Voldemort admired his reflection once more, the fierce grin distorting his face, before he set it carefully on the dressing table. He finished his preparations quickly.
Turning to the babe, Voldemort wasted no more time. Outside, as if in anticipation of this moment, the storm rose to a fever pitch and miniature bolts of lightning crackled through the air. As he raised his wand, their eyes met, an unusually solemn expression on the child's face. Voldemort stared into deep green. He sucked in a breath.
"Avada Kedavra!"