Tom Marvolo Riddle took in the scene before him. It was idyllic, really. Not something that he would forget.
Well, it should have been idyllic. The corpse in front of him ruined the scene somewhat, but it served the purpose. The old woman was dead, and the children were all that he cared for either way. It had taken some time to move through the manor, but here he was now, and his goal was in sight. Immortality and victory, both within his grasp.
The middle child, he was shaking. Tears and snot mixing into a concoction of mess that reminded him of the orphanage. It filled him with disgust, and he would be sure to kill the child just like the others. WIth a thought, the child crumpled, ceasing that infernal noise of crying and wailing.
His target, surprisingly, was silent. She made no noise, instead watching him with eyes that were wide and innocent. They took him in as though he were nothing more than another adult in her life now. In a way, that was true. She had no way of knowing that he would be the last.
Riddle stepped over the corpse of the old woman, gliding towards the child in a hurried, relaxed gait. The child still made no noise, unlike her infernal brother. Were she older, his respect for her would have grown in this moment before her death. Instead, he pondered the future that he was now denying the child, no more than an infant. What would she have been? Great? Average? Neither? It wouldn't matter soon enough, but it was a shame nonetheless.
"PIty." Muttered Riddle, tilting his head as the child finally began to whimper, perhaps understanding what was now coming. "Were things not the way they were…"
Still, things were the way they were. Destiny waited for no man.
Lord Voldemort raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra"
He did not expect the sudden influx of energy that was all at once familiar, and so very strange and alien. It was bright, so bright that it was white and it seared into his brain. It came in response to his will, this was obvious. But it could not have been intentional, the old woman was dead and the two children were far too young…
Accidental. It must be. Power that was so vast that even he could not comprehend what he was seeing, with no true intent behind it except to exist just came into being before him. Such manifestation of will and power was beautiful, and simply reminded him of what he wanted to create in the world. Unfortunately, such willpower before him was greater than his own. As powerful as he was, he was not a match for limitless, sudden potential.
Normally, he would simply cast another spell after this one he cast would fail to connect to his target due to sudden wall of power between him and her. What was not normal was the spell… reacting strangely. The sickly green bolt of sustained will made contact with the wall in nanoseconds, near instantaneously. He had seen spells be absorbed, and turned into nothing. In all his studies he had seen spells turned into something else entirely. He had seen spells turned back on their caster, or spells outright taken into oneself and becoming part of the target, merging with their magic and raising their power.
He had never seen a spell mix with something. The sickly green light of death mix with the formless, searingly bright light of pure will and potential that had manifested between them. The light between them then… pulsed. It pulsed once, emitting out a wave of bright blue that washed over him and the child in an instant. Just after, from the depths of the light, came the sickly green sickness of all that he had ever feared, coming straight for him,
As Voldemort's eyes widened, and his unnatural reflexes twisted his wand and attempted to shield himself, he cursed inwardly. The child was obviously the danger that the prophecy had deemed her to be, and he had been arrogant enough to come here without being properly prepared. Strange, though. The power felt so much.. Older than the child.
Before he could consider that any further, pain overruled everything as his spirit was forcibly split from his body, and he could recall nothing further of that night.
All the while, the infant was left in its crib, wailing in pain from the imprinting of light upon its retinas. It would be three years before Rosaline Potter would be able to see again, but her eyes would always seem to shine like emerald glass.