A/N: After a prolonged break from writing, and from FanFiction, I've decided to return to the community. This is something I've wanted to do for quite a long time but haven't had the chance to; "real life" consists of holding down a full-time job, sorting my horses and, if I'm lucky, reading. So as you can imagine, I am rather busy!
Coincidentally, I've been reading through my old stories on here and I'm a little embarrassed at a number of contradictions; the way my writing was swayed by bias and, of course, a mediocre vocabulary. Granted, I was only 14 and that seems to be a lifetime ago. I remember when writing would make me so happy, as it was something that gave me purpose (even though I wasn't particularly good). I miss writing, and so here I am. Please be patient with me, as I am very rusty. :)
The prologue of my story is set where Tom Riddle is still in Hogwarts, discovering the truth of his family history and realising just how important he is to the Wizarding World.
PROLOGUE.
The sun lingered for its last few fleeting moments, over the town of Little Hangleton. Winter had not yet arrived but the nights had become so cold and dark over the past few days, which was strange for early August. It was, according to old Bill Hansen, owner of the local and only convenience store for miles, 'Shop and Go' (which was so named because Bill disliked people and social interaction), one of the most freezing periods the town had seen for decades.
Sharp icicles hung from the doorways of homes, proving a hazard to those who forgot and slammed the door too harshly behind them. Flowers had wilted, due to the rare appearances of the sunshine, and the river had frozen over much to the local children's delight.
The village was shrouded in a mist and with the mist came an unsettling misery, that rested upon the villagers shoulders and stayed with them, even all the way to their homes; no matter how firmly they closed their doors in an effort to regain some warmth, they could never quite shake the feeling that something was not quite right.
Bill fumbled with his keys as he left his store, determined to hurry home and have a nice cup of tea, maybe even a warm bath if there was any hot water left. In his eagerness to lock up, he lost grip on his keys and swore with impatience as they fell to the floor.
He bent to retrieve them, his bad knee clicking when he saw a flash of slender, spider-like fingers close over the keys. As Bill straightened up, and turned around, slowly, he met the gaze of a young boy who was perhaps sixteen years of age. The boy was tall and handsome, yet was wearing an almost bored expression. "Thank you," said Bill gruffly, holding out his hand and expecting the keys to be dropped into his open palm.
Instead, the boy looked at him directly as he twirled the keys in his hand. "Is the Riddle House nearby?" asked the boy with a hint of authority.
"It's not far from the graveyard, that way southward," said Bill, pointing in the direction he explained, frowning at the boy's tone, "but there would be little to no point in you visiting."
"And why is that?" the boy's tones grew sharp and Bill flinched.
"They don't like visitors, do the Riddles, especially strangers," said Bill uneasily. He leant forward to grab his keys, impatience seizing him once more, but as he moved the boy turned and walked a few steps away. He was looking upward at something Bill could not see, but he was beginning to feel very cold indeed. "It is incorrect to be presumptuous, old man," said the boy, his back turned to Bill, "the Riddles have you personally deliver their shopping, do they not?"
Bill was astounded - how did the boy know? "And just how do you know that?" exclaimed Bill, looking furious, "they pay me a little extra, and it helps me live, so what's it to you?"
The boy turned to face Bill once more, but he was examining one of the keys on the key chain; it was long, golden and slender; a sharp antithesis to the rest of the worn keys that jangled sadly.
"That's their spare key, for deliveries," said Bill, unsure why he was sharing such information with a stranger, a rude one at that. "And just who are you, boy?" Yet again, Bill leant forward to grab the keys but the boy was too quick; he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pinned him to the shop wall with a crunch; a wooden stick jammed into Bill's throat.
"My name, muggle, will be the last words that run through your mind," hissed the boy, his eyes flashing with an evil that chilled Bill to the marrow, "and I will be keeping these from now on. You won't be needing them." He pocketed the keys with one hand, whispering two words to the old man as a flash of brilliant green light blinded him.
Before Bill could reply, he had fallen to the floor with a sickening thud, the shadow of terror on his now lifeless face.
Tom Riddle straightened up, looking at the old man with disgust. Muggles were such scum, he thought, glancing at the Dementors above him. They were a nice touch, and he was pleased that Azkaban, the wizarding prison, was not missing their presence; Tom's magic was powerful beyond measure after all. Little Hangleton was not a place that Tom wanted to linger; he was there to eliminate all unsavory links of his heritage before anyone made the connection.
All family trees became a little tainted over time and needed pruning, he thought with a smile, turning and walking towards Riddle House with his shoulders and head held high.