Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the book mentioned here. I do not make money in any way from the story.
Lord Voldemort was sitting on his armchair in front of the dancing fire, his long, white fingers calmly caressing a book. It would have been a very familiar image for a late night at Lestrange Manor if one would except the book. Instead of the usual heavy leather tome full of Dark Magic and complicated diagrams, this little thing was not over 60 pages long and colourfully illustrated. It was, indeed... a children's book.
It had slipped his mind he actually owned it until ten minutes ago and it was quite natural, he had obtained it over forty years ago. It had been donated to the orphanage during the Christmas celebrations and everyone had been fascinated by the adorable farm animals dressed in human clothes; pretty things were hard to come by in that grim place. His much younger self had it read to him and other toddlers from older orphans that were lucky enough to have gotten the very basic education. The repetition of the simply-phrased story and the vague instruction of "one letter is one sound" that came from the old lady had led to a gradual transformation of the funny-looking drawings into letters and texts and meaning.
After it had fulfilled its important role, he had put it in the deepest of his pockets and left it there alone. And, somehow, the little book had managed to find its way to the depths of his memory and sat silent for over forty years. Because, well, it was pointless: rabbits cannot talk and think and wear jackets and mother-rabbits don't put their young to bed after a long day- not that he would know anything about that.
But it had taken a single name to make the dark blue cover spring to life in front of his eyes. He had seen quite clearly the silver capital letters that had formed the phrases: "the tale of Peter Rabbit, by Beatrix Potter" around the painting of a bunny in a jacket. Yes, Potter.
Α mere coincidence, surely. He highly doubted this woman who had been dead for decades had anything to do with the young boy that posed such an inexplicable and horrible danger to his power and, perhaps, existence. The contrast couldn't be more hard: a woman of another era writing meaningless, silly stories; a male infant threatening him like no one had ever dared to. He had ignored the woman's life and death and he was going to monitor every step the child took until he cut his life short with his own wand. How more different could they be? A silly book didn't change anything, he wasn't some sentimental type of person who got all emotionally attached to inanimate objects just because they held some connection to his past. Especially if it was connected to that place.
He raised his hand to throw the book away, when he stopped instantly. From the way the fire had illuminated the letters, he thought he had read Bellatrix Potter on the cover. Quietly, almost shyly, he cast a glance over to the vast bed, where his Bellatrix was lying exhausted and naked, her long black hair serving as her shiny blanket. Back in the day he had found the name Beatrix nice-sounding, royal or exotic, but now all it brought to his mind was the sleeping girl. He had never exactly understood why his brain and body reacted in such odd ways when she crossed his mental or actual path, at first he had found it highly confusing and counter-productive, but soon fascination and pleasure had taken over.
Voldemort turned his attention back to the book. He would not be storing it away this time. It was curious indeed, a book with a bunny in a jacket had assisted him in learning to read and included the two most important people in his life.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.
Beatrix Potter (1866-1943) published in 1901 'The tales of Peter Rabbit' privately and then normally in 1902. The book was a huge success so Tom Riddle would have crossed paths with it at some point in his young life, even if he didn't have the money to buy it himself.