Written for the International Wizarding School Championship Season Three Round 6

School and Year: Mahoutokoro, Year 5

Theme: Wartime struggles.

Main Prompt: [Genre] Drama

Additional Prompt: [Word] Hopeless

Word Count: 1575

There comes a point in everybody's life when all hope seems lost. When there is no light at the endless tunnel of despair. When each time one tries to step out of the shadows, the sun moves away, when the cold is all-encompassing. At this point, most people chase the flicker of a candle to cling onto the last bit of warmth.

Other people blow out the flames and embrace the night.

Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped outside onto the elevated porch of the manor, a cold wind blowing his robes around his slim form. Acres of grass rippled in front of him, shining with a silvery hue under the full moon. The world was filled with an oppressive silence, but Tom could still hear the screams ringing in his ears. He looked at the gold-and-black ring on the middle finger of his left hand, and rotated it thoughtfully. The silver S, indicating it once belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself, peered back at him. The night had gone exactly as he had envisioned, right from his undetected apparition to Little Hangleton to visiting Morfin and the Riddle house. He looked back at his ancestral Muggle home, shuddering. He reflected on the events of the last hour, how he had been escorted inside the house to meet Riddle Senior.

The living room was painted white and luxuriously spacious with a few pieces of furniture adorning it. Tom sat on the proffered nineteenth century Vicorian chair and waited for his father—whom he had detested from the day he had been born—to come and meet him. He knew with quiet certainty that the older Riddle would not live to see the next day, but he had to give him a chance. Maybe his father was a powerful wizard, after all, and was simply hiding because he had committed a grievous crime. Yes, that sounded like someone he could admire.

Riddle Senior walked in, a beaming smile on his face as he shook hands with his strange guest.

'I gather you are here at the prospect of working for us on the farm,' he said as he sat down. 'You, my friend, are in luck. Our previous h-'

'No,' Tom interrupted his father. 'I am here for something else.'

He didn't have the time nor the patience for long-winded explanations. With a practised gesture, Tom waved a hand over his face and removed his glamours. There was that same cut of the chin, those same handsome looks and dark brown eyes. The smile melted away from Riddle Senior's face instantly.

'I'm your biological son,' Tom said evenly.

His father staggered up, his face white, as if he had seen a ghost.

'You're– you're dead. They said you were dead,' he said. Tom instantly knew his father wasn't a wizard. Any real, sensible wizard would reach for his wand when frightened. His father reached for the door, but he didn't go outside.

'Emily!' he shouted, his voice trembling. The sound of feet came pattering down the steps. A few moments later, a woman stepped in. She was slim and dark-haired, with rather weak eyes and flushed cheeks, but there was a firm conviction in the way she calmed down Riddle Senior.

'So, you're the bastard,' she looked at Tom curiously, comparing him to the man beside her. 'We thought you were dead. You're what, fifteen?'

'Sixteen, actually,' Tom's smooth voice cut through the jumble of thoughts overwhelming his mind. This was a factor he hadn't anticipated. 'Who may you be?'

The woman burst into laughter. She had a pretty laugh—a burst of tiny, trickling giggles which sent sharp prickles of irritation along the young wizard's skin. He was here on serious business, and this woman dared laugh at him?

'I'm Emily, his wife,' she said, showing the ring on her finger and laughed again.

Tom sat down on the porch, gazing into the black stone set in the ring. He remembered his mind going blank upon finding out about Emily. He hadn't even considered the fact that Riddle Senior might have married someone else after his mother. That man had left his mother to die on the streets, like some common Muggle. The scandal surrounding their marriage should have prevented a repeat, but Riddle Senior had seemingly moved past all that and was living a normal life, blissfully unaware of his son's existence. Emily was the only daughter of the local baker, as simple as she was sweet. People said that Tom's father had married below his stature, again, but he believed that she was the luckiest thing to have happened to him since Tom's mother had bewitched him. She not only trusted Riddle Senior's integrity, but she could also bake a chocolate cake like no other woman in the town. The couple were sickeningly happy, much to Tom's disgust. It was unforgivable.

'Excellent.' Tom's bloodshot eyes gazed into Emily's, cold as ice. For the first time, Emily looked a little scared of him, the strange boy who had barged into their house without displaying the slightest bit of emotion upon seeing his long-lost father. Her laughter subsided.

'Pathetic,' Tom murmured to himself.

'Are… are you like her?' Riddle Senior laced his fingers with Emily's. He had clearly been gathering up the courage to ask the question. 'Like the witch?'

That had been the breaking point. The look of disgust and fear on his father's face as he said those words made Tom realise: this could be no ordinary death. The Muggle deserved much, much worse for all the pain Tom and his mother had had to suffer.

'I am a powerful wizard, with the noblest of all bloods running through my veins,' said Tom with satisfaction, taking out Morfin's wand from his pocket. It would cover his tracks nicely. 'Does that answer your question?'

Tom Senior looked in awe.'So you can… you can do magic?'

Tom scoffed incredulously while Emily looked at both of them in confusion.

'Have you gone crazy, Tom?' she patted her husband's back. The younger Riddle stiffed at the use of his name. It sounded so tame, common, ordinary. No, that wasn't his name… no longer. And from that day onwards, there would be no living proof to the contrary.

He was Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort walked across the lawn, the ritual complete. It had taken only a few minutes, but the hate and power he had harnessed from killing his closest relatives had been utilised to perfection. It had been almost too easy. The ring on his finger now carried a piece of his soul, emanating a darkness which felt almost sweet. He felt a sense of freedom—one step closer to his final goal. No one had even come close to what he was about to achieve. True immortality.

The corner of his eye twitched—he had forgotten something. Yes, he could feel the thought knocking on the back of his mind. Seconds later, Voldemort was running back to the house. The front door blew back on its hinges as he entered. There she was, hiding behind the curtains. He had completely forgotten about Emily—a misplaced witness. She stepped out, looking at Voldemort with tear-stained cheeks.

'I'm here,' she said bravely, though her voice trembled. 'What are you going to do, murder me too?'

Voldemort appraised her silently, deciding on a course of action. His eyebrows scrunched slightly. 'Now, why would I do that?' he said. 'Murder.' He shook his head. 'What a distasteful word, and entirely unsuited to this context, mind you.'

He lifted his wand, causing Emily to flinch, but he only vanished the curtains which she had been clinging onto for comfort. She stumbled wildly, looking around in despair. He could see in her eyes—she had no hope left.

'The word almost implies a certain madness to it,' Voldemort continued, expressively waving his wand, 'a lack of rationale. But I assure you, what I did was anything but that.'

'You're mad!' Emily screamed at him, but a quick Silencio prevented her from speaking any further.

'Mad,' Voldemort mused, tilting his head. 'I suppose I am, a little. But there was no greatness without madness, as you Muggles like to say.'

He removed the silencing charm from her and transfigured her well-kept, ironed clothes into a bunch of rags.

'What are you doing?' she shrieked.

He pulled out a single golden Galleon from his pocket and shoved it into her hands. She mutely took it.

'My mother suffered a life she did not deserve, and I can think of no greater justice than giving you the same chance to live the life that she got,' said Voldemort. 'This Portkey will take you to London on my command.'

He wasn't heartless—he didn't kill without reason.

'What am I supposed to do?' Emily tried her best to not let her fear show.

Voldemort shrugged and, after a quick Obliviate, erasing her memory of that day, said the activation word as the Portkey whisked her away.

He didn't feel the sense of accomplishment he had thought he would feel upon sparing her life. It should have felt good, but all he felt was emptiness. He had dreamed of this moment all his life, but all of that seemed pointless now. The only thing which made sense to him was making more Horcruxes. Perhaps there was no light at the end of the tunnel for him, after all. Perhaps there was no hope left for him either, only spite.

Voldemort embraced the night.

A/N: Emily is entirely AU.