Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, they belong to J.K. Rowling. But all characters not mentioned in the books belong to me.
The forestlands he stood in were deadly silent. As they should be, he thought in contempt. No being would dare to grace his presence unless they wished death. A cool breeze shook the trees he stood under. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling more energized then he had ever felt before. It seemed every living creature on this planet were giving up their life's energy just for him; just so he could have their power and feel this invigorated. Perhaps not willingly they gave it up, but he took it gladly.
They all had said he would fail. They all had laughed as he gave hints of what he knew he would one day accomplish, laughed at him, of course, never with him. He had been informed that the fates of destiny had frowned upon his dreams, and that a different path lay ahead of him. He could have gone that way, but to give this up? Never. So he had just ignored the fates, and that in itself revitalized him. No power he could not even see could control him. Nothing could control him.
They had laughed at him, but if he was to fail then why was everything going so smoothly? In just a few days time he would begin something that had started when he was a mere boy. Those few days would not be long, though. Time was rather irrelevant to him. He was patient, he had not been before, but he was patient now, and so he would gladly wait any number of days that was required.
He looked around him; he knew what was around him as well as he knew his own name, but he looked. A few feet away from him was a small crystal blue stream. How it had stayed so pure in this horrible forest he had no idea, but it didn't really matter. He knelt down beside it and scooped a handful in his hand and leisurely sipped it. It tasted better than how it appeared as it rolled down his throat quenching his thirst.
Still kneeling, he looked at the hand he had just drunk from. Then, unhurriedly, he turned to look at the stream to see his reflection staring back at him. The water was so clear that he saw himself perfectly. He slowly turned his head from side to side. He was flawless. He saw looking back at him a young man with a perfectly chiseled face, oval in shape, he had death-black hair that fell to his shoulders, parted down the center, not a hair out of place. His eyes, a metallic red, shone brightly. His body was a little on the tall side, slim yet muscular, although he had never really worked out a day in his life. He wore slacks the same color as his hair, and a black long-sleeved shirt. Over it he wore a hooded cape with the hood down.
He was completely flawless; or, he better be. He had long ago lost count of how many charms and enchantments he had cast on himself to make him so perfect and strong. He was no longer the gangly, clumsy, disproportional fool he had once been. The only way you could have possibly related the two to each other was by his red eyes and jet-black hair.
He sighed, and then stood up. There was so much that was yet to be done, yet he didn't feel the least bit rushed. He could have easily flown or apparated, but he chose instead to walk. He would not be found here. As he walked aimlessly yet with a vague idea of a destination, he stared ahead contemplatively.
A smirk crossed his face as he thought. Sidliple had tried to thwart him yesterday, had shown his cards and declared betrayal. Not a major loss. The kid had been an idiot anyway, and he had enjoyed vaporizing him. He much preferred bloody deaths, but unfortunately they leaved too much evidence that would be difficult to hide.
Derlyn and Slyireia considered themselves to be quite clever; they had thought he wouldn't know about their plan to overthrow him before he even had a chance to get somewhere to be thrown off of. He clenched his hand in sudden anger. He had found out about them a little too late, although he would never admit it, and the ministry had got a whiff of just what he was up to, where he was hiding. Because of them he had been forced to move operations a little ahead of schedule. It didn't really make any difference to him that the schedule had changed, but it enraged him that those two betrayers had almost managed to make a fool of him.
He slowly unclenched his hand, ignoring the small droplets of blood that fell to the ground, and brought his hand up to rub thoughtfully against his chin. An evil smirk crossed his face. Yes, he would have much fun making those two pay, if only he didn't have so much more pressing matters to take care of first. Never mind that, though, time is irrelevant.
He looked up as three figures approached him. Jilp, Kythlianne, and Efrijim walked up to him with a courage he wouldn't let himself admire, and each, in turn, bowed respectively to him. If he trusted anyone, he trusted these three. To no one but himself would he give his life, but he would trust these three. Jilp was tall and slim, with hazel eyes and soft blond hair that was cut at his ears. Kythlianne, too, was tall and slender, and had an elvish beauty about her with her contemplative blue eyes and long red hair that fell to her ankles. Efrijim, on the other hand, was averaged size and a little plump. He had fiery orange-colored eyes and short brown hair. All three wore long black robes.
At first he had been suspicious when told they had wanted to side with him. Their very appearance spoke against the evil he had allowed to infest him. But they had all proved their loyalty to him, several more times than he could count, and he had done some research and had found out that they had all led difficult, pain-ridden lives and though pure on the outside their hearts raged for revenge. He had, of course, used their pasts to keep them loyal and make them lust for blood. He had found he was very good at that.
As he looked at Efrijim, an almost sad look crossed his face, but he erased it before it was seen. Efrijim had once been as lovely as the other two, but the evil he had inside of him long before Efrijim had come to him had already started to wear away his body. He feared it would one day happen to him, but ultimately decided that it only happened to some people, tough for Efrijim.
He looked at each of them in turn; forcing them to make eye contact with him, and then without a word turned right and started walking. He didn't need to look behind him to know that the three followed him without a sound or inquiry, nor did he fear that they might stab him in the back with his eyes turned away from them. If anything it should be them who should be afraid.
He continued walking until he came to an old tiny shack. From the outside it looked barely to be one room. Impossible for any being to know that it was indeed actually two full stories high with a basement and attic. He had doused it with so many spells that only he could walk inside and make the hidden house appear, which it did as he stepped inside. The room immediately inside was a large den room with a huge flaming fire directly ahead, and large comfy armchairs and small coffee tables spread here and there, and bookshelves lined a few of the walls.
He had never before let the three of them into his home, and he enjoyed the awe he saw on their faces as they took the room in and the huge silver chandelier above the center of the room. But more than that he relished the look of shock, horror, and fear as they one by one looked to the corner of the room and saw the gigantic fifty-foot snake curled up there, its color yellow, black, and blood-red.
He walked to the center of the room, and watched them intently out of the corner of his eye; he had yet to turn his back away from them. The three stood shock-frozen in the doorway.
"Do you like my pet?" he asked softly. "I acquired it from an ancestor from way before our time."
He watched as Kythlianne swallowed hard before walking into the house until she stood behind him. Yes. He knew she would be first. Kythlianne was the most loyal, competent, and skilled of the three, and he considered her his second in command, although he would not tell her that lest she get an overblown head. Efrijim came next, and then last Jilp.
The door closed behind him. He walked up the stairs all the way up to the attic, and went inside. With a barely noticed hesitation the other three followed. The attic was dusty and contained a few bats and spiders, but he ignored them. He went directly over to an old trunk, opened it, and began sifting through the books inside. He spoke as he searched,
"Erijim, tell me how your work is going." Erijim, Jilp, and last Kythlianne informed him that everything was going smoothly, and accordingly to his overall plan. As he looked he saw out of the corner of his eyes Kythlianne looking at a shelf near her.
"My Lord, if I may be so bold, might I ask who are they?" she asked pointing with one of her long fingers to a picture with two smiling people in it. Jilp and Efrijim turned to look at the photo as well. On the left was a young man with short, dirty blond hair and fiery red eyes, and holding his hand was a young woman with long black hair that fell to her thighs and gorgeous purple eyes. He was dressed in a tuxedo, she a beautiful floor-length white dress. He took one look at the picture before answering her.
"They're dead," he said flatly. She hesitated before her curiosity bested her.
"Is that man your-"
"I killed that man," he snapped. "That's all you need to know." She took the hint, but didn't falter.
"Yes, my Lord."
Her bravery and the fact she didn't cower every time he spoke was one of the reasons he liked her. Finally he found what he was looking for. He lifted one thick book from the trunk; it was draped in black velvet and light for all its size. He handed it to Kythlianne.
"Here. The spells and potions required for your next assignment are in here. You may go now." Kythlianne took the book, and she and the two men bowed before leaving the attic and exiting the house.
He stared after them at the door of the attic before going over to the shelf where Kythlianne had found that old photograph. He stared at it for a long time. He had taken his wand out of his pocket and was absently twirling it in his fingers. The fact that the people in the picture were stationary was probably what had caught her eye at first. He realized there was another framed photograph next to that one, only it was laying face down. He slowly lifted it and placed it up right.
This picture also held two smiling people sitting on a bench. On the left was a young boy only perhaps eleven. He had messy black hair that was supposed to be combed and shinning red eyes. The boy was holding the hand of a girl of about the same age sitting next to him with strawberry-red, soft hair that fell to her middle back and energized sky-blue eyes. Both children wore jeans and shirts. They looked to be the happiest things in the world. Beneath the photo, mounted on the frame, was a silver plaque. It read: Tom Riddle & Lyli Baleraw.
He stared at the photograph for five long minutes. Or perhaps fifteen. Or thirty. He had forgotten he had this picture. He had almost forgotten about the people in the picture. He stared into the eyes of the girl.
"Was it my fault?" he whispered to the picture in a pain-ridden voice he would never let a living soul hear. "Did I kill you, too, Lyli?" Of course she didn't answer. He hung his head.
These pictures were dangerous, he decided. They filled him with so many overwhelming emotions that could be used against him. He wasn't a fool; he knew how powerful love was, had experienced it himself. He knew that he was what people called 'evil.' But that did not bother him, did not slow him down. But these pictures would. He abruptly stopped twirling his wand in his fingers and pointed it directly at the picture with the man and woman.
"Damn you both," he muttered angrily. If they were in person in front of him, he would blast them both. Or he would blast the man. The woman he would give a chance; he almost admired her. But he would relish the man's screams. He muttered a few words and a sickly-colored green goo shot out of his wand directly at that photo. He watched as the green acid leisurely burned and dissolved the photo into ashes.
He was about to do this with the second photo, but hesitated. He finally came to a decision and when he mumbled a few words the photo of the two children shrunk until it was barely an half an inch in diameter. He conjured up a skull locket and placed the photo in it. He then zapped a chain around it and put it around his neck. He considered what he had just done. Perhaps he was going soft. Though just looking at the skull locket made him want to rip something to pieces, so this may not have been such a bad idea, he decided.
He then scooped up the ashes of the photograph he had incinerated, left the attic, and went downstairs to his den, and took a seat in the large armchair in front of and on the right of the fireplace. He was concocting a powerful potion in his potions room upstairs. It was a lengthy potion. He had been making it for two years now, and it was almost done. Just a few more days. That's why he had been waiting, for this potion was crucial.
He looked intently in the fire, trying not to think about the photographs, trying to think about the potion, not the photographs. Without taking his eyes off the dancing flames he furiously threw the ashes in his hands into the fire, and watched them become engulfed, and he watched the small explosion it caused in the blaze. He had never been told about his father. He had never met him. He had been told all about his mother, but no one knew about his father. No one had been able to tell him a single thing about his father except his name, but he knew everything about him.
Someone must have cursed him. Perhaps it had been Fate who had punished him for ignoring her; perhaps for the path he had readily chosen. He knew all about his father. He could not sleep in peace, for he dreamed another's life. When he fell asleep he lived his father and mother's lives as if they were his own. He knew their lives to the detail. Well, not all of their lives, but a certain part, when they had met, fallen in love, when they broken apart, when they had died. He relived his own life as if he were still only eleven.
Even as he watched the flames he saw figures of a life not his dance and speak soundlessly to him, mock him, haunt him, tell him things he wished not to know in a voice he couldn't hear. He did not want to know about this past. He would not have minded the future, would not have minded seeing his glory, would not even have minded to see his death for he knew that even in death he would still be remembered and his work continued.
He was called twisted and foolish, while he was very much sane and had a very clear idea of where he wanted to go. Though, he wasn't sure how long he could stay sane with these dreams haunting him. He had always dreamed of the past. Ever since he was kid, he had dreamed the past. It hadn't been until he was an adult that he had dreamed of his parents.
As he watched the flames, he saw his father quite clearly, and without truly realizing it he slipped into the darkness of sleep. He wasn't afraid someone would murder him in his sleep, not with his snake ten feet away. So he slipped into slumber. He saw his father standing in front of him crystal clearly. His stupid, muggle father. How dare he give me muggle blood, he thought contemptibly. But soon, as always, he was no longer looking at his father. He was instead looking out. And he no longer was himself. He was instead Thomas Riddle…
