His footsteps didn't echo in the empty corridor. He was a professional. He didn't make a sound to be heard, didn't cast a shadow to be seen, and, more importantly, didn't use any kind of spell to achieve that. That was why he had been chosen for this job.
Get in, kill the target, and get out before triggering any alarm.
At first he had balked at the idea of killing a four-year old child, but the amount of money at stake was enough to make him shred the remnant of his morality. Not that he had any to begin with, it tends to be annoying for assassins.
He did not come from a poor and somewhat disturbed family. He did not take any pleasure in killing other than the one of a job well done. It never was personal. He never made mistakes. He was the best assassin money could buy especially since most purebloods could not even fathom muggle technology's wonders.
He stared at the ajar door. This should be the nursery. And it was a trap if he had ever seen one, so blatant it almost was insulting. The warning, though, was blood curdling.
He should turn around and leave, given it was still possible. His instinct told him he was most certainly already dead.
Well, if he completed his deal, it would ensure his family would be well cared for and he had nothing left to loose there.
Listening to logic he made his way towards the master bedroom he knew he should avoid at all costs.
The silence was eerie but nothing so unprofessional as a thundery beating heart impaired his earing as he worked his way through the heavy wards on the room. Finally breaking the ceiling, he let himself fall on the floor of what would most certainly be his grave. The sight that greeted him still managed to froze him in place. There, from behind the little girl with messy black curls, his own eyes stared at him.
He might have been reckless but no one could ever accuse him of being stupid. Shredding his wand and his Muggle gun he fell to his knees in complete submission.
A cold chuckled erupted next to him.
"How annoying of you."
The front door opened and Hermione Riddle walked in with a smug look.
"Well dear, I believe it's my cue to say that I told you so ?"
Minister Riddle sent her a quelling glare which had no effect whatsoever.
"You do realize that he was about to attack our daughter ?"
She shrugged.
"Well, he ultimately proved himself to be reasonable."
Her husband gave a somewhat resigned sigh.
"A pity it will not be enough to save him."
A flick of his wrist and the assassin watched his precious daughter be engulfed in a darkish bubble. He realized he had started to move toward her when he was thrown against the wall.
Riddle clucked his tongue.
"You might want to think it through next time."
Looking back at his blissfully unaware daughter he saw the bubble got smaller when he moved.
Not moving a muscle he watched Hermione Riddle scoop up her daughter and leave the room.
He watched as Minister Riddle turned on him with a warm smile.
His daughter tortured screams tore through the air.
And he couldn't help it, he started toward her and when he remembered he stopped and it was not fast enough, it was too late, she laid there, ashen, unmoving, her unseeing eyes piercing his soul and he screamed too and begged and cried but it was of no use.
She was dead and he was not. Has not been for the last fifteen years he spent in Azkaban, reliving this day over and over again.
Hope you liked it, this is my attempt to capture Tom Riddle as he is written by the wonderful Colubrina in A Big Ball of Wibbly Wobbly. English is not my native language so any correction of spelling/grammar would be appreciated.