Disclaimer: I own one copy each of every book out so far, but the Harry Potter plot, characters, and everything else belong to J.K. Rowling.

So This is Murder

I looked up at the mansion before me. It would have been intimidating to a mere Muggle, but not to me, for I knew what would soon become of the three fools that lived there.

It had taken me quite some time to track down Tom Riddle, the man whose name I was given, though I now went by a more...fitting name. But no matter what I called myself, I was still this man's son, and I had to sever my ties with anything Muggle, in order to bring a new world purged of filth.

This was also partly revenge. Because of this man, I had spent the first eleven years of my life at a run-down Muggle orphanage, completely unaware of my noble bloodline. Because of this man, my mother had died in childbirth and left me parentless. Because of him, I had never known a home, or a family, or anything but the hard life I had at the orphanage with lots of work, little food, and even less compassion.

And to think I had his name. Disgusting.

But I would fix that now. The three Muggles living in the mansion would meet their demise tonight, by my hand. And the world would be purged of at least some filth.

0000000000

Later That Night

0000000000

I walked up the path to the mansion. I hadn't liked having to wait until darkness, but it would be best if no one saw me heading up to the house. I could overpower anyone who tried to stop me, but I preferred that it seemed as if the Riddles had simply dropped dead. No one needed to know that I had been in this town at all.

The front door was locked, but I took care of that with a simple Alohomora charm. Pitiful, how easily these Muggle security precautions fell when faced with magic. I was doing them a favor, really. At least their house wouldn't be robbed.

I entered the house and began systematically searching for the people I knew were here, careful not to make any sound that would alert them to my presence. I found them in the drawing room. As soon as I saw my father, I was filled with rage. Here he was, living a comfortable life with all the money he could want, while my mother was dead, had died still loving him enough to name her first and only child after him. I quickly stepped in and slammed the door.

All three of them turned to look at me in surprise. The older man, my grandfather, spoke first. "How did you get in here?" he demanded. I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster, and was pleased to see him shiver.

"That does not matter," I said coldly. "What matters is why I am here."

"And why is that?" the older man asked. He was obviously trying to face up to me, and failing miserably.

"Him," I said, gesturing at Tom Riddle. He visibly flinched. I had no idea how this weakling of a man was my father.

"M-me?" he said. Pitiful, that a grown man was afraid of a sixteen year old. I was doing the world a favor by destroying him.

"Yes, you," I said. "Would you like to know who I am?" He could only nod. "I am your son, the son that you abandoned as soon as you found out that my mother had magic. I am the boy that you condemned to live out his life in an orphanage, alone, because my mother only lived long enough to name me after my pathetic father. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle." I spat out my name like venom.

All three of the people before me were stunned into silence. The man found his voice first.

"Now look here," he began, "even if you are my grandson, you have no right to come barging in here and - "

"Quiet, fool," I interrupted him. "I am here for one reason, and you will not stop me."

I stepped toward my father, who leaned away from me. His father immediately got up to stand between myself and my father. "Wait just one second," he said. "I might have let you get away with breaking and entering, but I will not allow you to harm my son!"

I considered this for a moment. I was going to kill them all anyway, it didn't really matter what order. "Very well," I said. "You first. Avada Kedavra!" A jet of green light hit him, and he fell to the ground, dead before he had a chance to realize what had happened. His wife screamed, the only noise she had made since I entered the room.

"He's dead!" she cried. "You killed him!"

"Yes," I said, "I did." Then I killed her as she was still weeping over her husband's dead body. I turned to my father. His eyes were wide with fear.

"Please," he begged, "don't kill me. Let me live."

I looked at him, disgusted that I carried the blood of someone reduced to begging this pitifully. I pointed my wand at him, and then faltered. My gaze flickered to the two dead bodies, lying crumpled on the floor. Their lives had been taken from them before they had time to even consider what was happening. And I had not thought twice about doing it.

My father was now looking at me with a slight look of hope on his face. I almost turned away right then. I almost gave up death, and killing, and pain. I almost allowed myself to walk way from the title of Lord Voldemort, and become Tom Riddle.

But then I remembered. I remembered living out my life in the orphanage, with no friends, no love, and no hope. I remembered being teased, and taunted, and shunned for being what the other children saw as a freak. I remembered the words of the Matron - She lived just long enough to name you: Tom Riddle, for your father...

My mother had cared for him enough give their child his name, and he had left her to fend for herself. It was at that moment that I shed the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle, and became Lord Voldemort.

"Avada Kedavra!"

0000000000

I walked down the dimly lit street. In the distance, I heard someone scream. They had been found, then. It didn't matter. There was nothing that could bring them back, and no one would suspect a sixteen year old of being capable to kill three adults.

I should be feeling happy, or at least satisfied or relieved. I had done my duty. The scum that had been Tom Riddle, Sr., was gone, and his parents with him. I was one step closer to my goal. So why did I feel this way? Why did I feel so empty, sad even? Lord Voldemort does not grieve for Muggles.

I looked down at my hands, and they seemed to be covered in blood. But it must have been a trick of the light, for the next moment they were once again spotlessly clean. Slightly unsettled, I continued to walk away from the site of my first victims, killed by a sixteen year old looking for revenge.

So this was murder.

0000000000

(A/N: No idea where this came from. Just a little angsty fic that I thought up, and I couldn't resist putting it here. You know how I love it when my stories can make people cry. Please review! I need input!)