He flinched as he heard another scream. Berating himself for the reflex, he stopped walking, breathing deeply in an effort to compose himself. Satisfied that he had retained his calm demeanor, the man continued his stroll along the alley. He was clad in a black hooded cloak, black, dull and ungleaming, pulled up over his head to obscure his face. The cloak covered him to his boot tops; the cowl tugged well forward so no part of him showed. The wind that beat at the man had not so much as shifted a fold of that black cloak.
He gazed upwards, hoping to catch a glimpse of a night sky filled with stars and constellations, bringing with them memories of astrology sessions and random bits of information glazed from browsing. Draco, Antares, Orion. The stories, myths, legends surrounding them. Not to his surprise, all he saw was a blank sky; the bright London nightlife overshadowing any star.
He returned his eyes forwards, seeing but not observing; his mind distracted by thoughts of the past, his past. A past filled with blood and death. Darkness and power. He didn't need John telling him to face his actions. But he didn't see himself as a villain. He knew what he had done yet regretted nothing. He grinned to himself, remembering their last dialogue.
"Don't try to romanticize me John. I'm not going to wake up one day and find a bloody conscience."
"God forbid anyone call you soft. But I'm not talking 'bout that. Sod the morality thing. You have to see the truth for what it is. This won't work. You have to realize that Voldemort can't win. Mark my words; it'll end in bloodshed. And not in our favour."
One thing led to another, and next thing he knew they'd hatched a plan to rid the Death Eaters and stop the reign of terror. Apparently it all lay with the boy. The boy who had to power to change the world. The one with the power…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…He despised prophesies really. As if it were ever as simple as that. Not all could be taken at its face value. For everything it said straight out, there were ten that could mean a hundred different things. As it was, the prophecy wasn't even complete. The fool who had overheard was half drunk when it happened and any attempt at prying at the drunk's memories were halted after he had lost his temper. A wry grin crossed his face. Pity really. While he was dim-witted, he had been useful muscle when needed and had the knack of being at the right place at the right time.
As far as he remembered the only fools who dared crossed with the Dark Lord himself three times were the Potters.
"Longbottoms. Don't forget the Longbottoms."
"That oaf?"
"Yup. Triple Defier Longbottoms."
"When?"
"Let's see…the bust in Manchester for one. The raid in Sussex. Oh and don't forget that cock-up with Nott."
"I can't believe it. He's about as smart as belly-button lint."
"What can I say? So there you have it. It's either Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom."
"Still say it's the Potter kid."
"Why are you so adamant? Anyways, you have to keep in mind that Lily's a Muggleborn. Longbottoms on the other hand; Purebloods."
"Trust me. It'll be James and Lily's boy."
They knew they had to plan the whole operation so that the rest of the world would never find out. They sat alone in the house considering the several alternative ways in which they might be able to deceive the wizarding world. After hours of unproductive thought, the idea finally came. They went over the problems and repercussions again and again until he was convinced nothing could go wrong.
Unconsciously, his head jerked to his left, reacting to the burst of magic he felt. Part of his blood reacted to the darkness he knew was being wreaked by the spell. Adrenaline made his heart pump faster, his blood pulse more violently. Knowing that resistance was futile, he willing reached for it, extending a metaphorical hand. His eyes opened wide, and he straightened himself, gasping and staring and shivering as he finally seized what he was seeking. Power slid along his bones, pure essence of fire. Something more. Power froze his marrow. Something to kill them all; all of them at once. The taint on his magic rolled over him, a mountain of rotting filth threatening to bury his soul. Raising his wand, he drew on his magic, drew on it till it seemed he must scream screams of frozen flame. He had to kill them all. Power raced through him, a raging torrent that threatened to carry all that was him into the spinning. He had to let go. He had to.
"MORSMORDRE!"
And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from his wand; it flew up over the buildings and into the sky. It was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As he watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. He chuckled, amused at the result.
Suddenly, the streets all around him erupted with screams, the only possible cause the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire place like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for anyone who might have been watching him and felt no one. Satisfied that enough had been done, he vanished from sight, only to reappear in a clearing in a forest, empty save a large tent, guarded by another robed man. He glanced at the Death Eater who nodded to his unspoken query.
With that, Lord Voldemort entered the tent.
~*~