The first dark mark
AN. This is my version of the night Tom Riddle attacked his father and grandparents. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: All characters and situations belong to J.K. Rowling OBE (we are not worthy!) and were in no way created by me. No money has been made from this story and I'm skint anyway so please don't sue.
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'What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does.' Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (British version) Page 623
Three people sat at dinner in a richly furnished dining room. There were two men and a woman. The younger man was tall with sallow skin and brown hair. He was pike-thin and sat very stiffly straight. His eyes were a light brown, a strange arrogant light seemed to shine from them as though his very soul poured out through them and told everyone else how far inferior to him they were. His father was almost his double save that he looked thirty years older; he too had an almost tangible aura of arrogance pervading the air around him. The woman was around as old as her husband; she had very aristocratic features and silver-grey hair. She was around the average height, perhaps a trifle below but one look at her was enough to know that her height was of no consequence, she had a fiery temper. These were the Riddles (AN. No prizes for guessing the next part).
The three Riddles sat at their places around a dining table which was big enough for at least three times the number currently occupying it. They ate in silence, no one spoke. There was nothing to suggest the events about to occur in that very room.
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Outside the house, a tall boy snuck along one of the paths which ran through the immense garden. He was trying to avoid being seen by anyone, there was no light as the windows of the house were blacked out.* The only person who saw him was Frank Bryce, the Riddles' gardener. This boy was different from anything the gardener ever seen before; he had dark hair, pale skin, and red eyes which glowed fiercely with an internal light. His mouth was cruel and stretched thinly into a very evil smile. He was tall but seemed even taller than he was, he seemed immeasurable. As Frank tried to creep along behind him, he did something and the door sprung open, in a flash, the boy disappeared inside and the door sprang shut again. Frank tried to pry the door open but it seemed to be locked in a way which could never be reversed.
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The Riddles still sat silently in their dining room even though they had finished their dinner. They seemed to have taken the 'careless talk costs lives'** posters to heart by not talking at all, even to each other. It was thus that they heard the sound of light and hurried footsteps in the corridor outside the room. They all looked as on towards the door and drew back when it opened of its own accord. A tall figure in robes and a cloak stepped through, a cowl over his head hiding his face, only the red eyes were visible, boring into the eyes of any who looked at it. The Riddles drew themselves into a huddle in the corner looking terrified, their proud faces etched with fear.
'So,' said the figure in a high, bitter voice, 'we meet at last.'
'Who are you?' asked the older man looking terrified.'
'You do not know me?' said the man in the cloak, 'you who deserted me before I was even born do not know me? I am Lord Voldemort.'
'I still do not know who you are,' said the older Riddle, 'either state your business or get out of my house.'
'Now now,' said the stranger sounding amused, 'is that any way to speak to family, mudblood?'
'I have never seen you before in my life,' said the older Riddle, he seemed to be gaining confidence and loosing his fear. The atmosphere around the stranger immediately froze; he stood stock still for a moment and then took out a piece of wood from his robes.
'And do you know why you have never seen me, mudblood?' said the stranger, cold fury hanging from his words, 'your lovely son abandoned me and my mother before I was born. He left me to rot in an orphanage when my mother died, and all because my mother was a witch. That is why you have never seen me.'
'Get out of my house, now,' yelled the elder Riddle losing patience, 'I do not blame my son for leaving you and your worthless mother. Out!' The stranger stared at him for a moment and laughed, the sound was like a thousand knives being drawn from a thousand sheathes.
'Who are you to order me, grandfather?' the stranger said this last with a jeer in his voice, 'I am Lord Voldemort, I am so much greater than you. You are a mere smear on a piece of parchment, a smear I intend to wipe away, Avada kedavra.' As soon as he said this, green light whooshed from the piece of wood he held, hit Mr. Riddle in the chest and caused him to fall. He lay still, a look of surprise etched on his face, his half-open eyes glassy. His wife and son screamed and turned terrified faces once more to their attacker.
'Much as I hate to break up this lovely and touching reunion, grandmother, I find myself short of time, Avada kedavra.' Mrs. Riddle too fell to the floor next to her husband. 'Now, father,' began Voldemort, 'you gave me my former name, now, I return the favour, mudblood, Crucio!' Tom Sr. fell to the ground screaming in agony, Voldemort laughed, pleasure sounded in that laugh. Voldemort finally took the curse off, 'now, apologise to me for abandoning me.'
'If I had the chance, I would do it again,' roared the other.
'Dear dear, smirked Voldemort, we must teach you a lesson here, imperio.' Tom Sr.'s eyes took on a far away look; he bowed at his son's feet and muttered,
'sorry, my lord. I am a worthless mudblood.'
'Your apology is not accepted,' snarled its recipient, no, stand and receive you payment. Avada kedavra.' Tom fell down, never to rise again. Voldemort let out a high-pitched cackle before taking his wand and shouting 'Morsmordre!' A green skull began to hover near the ceiling, a snake twisting out of its mouth. 'This the first time you have been cast, my dark mark,' murmured Voldemort as though it were a child, 'but it will not be the last. On my father's grave,' he sneered, 'I promise this. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. Soon, this will be a name people fear to speak,
* In Britain in World war II, houses had to hide all light from them by putting heavy cloths over the windows, this was to prevent German bombers from seeing places to target them.
** Posters with 'careless talk costs lives' as the slogan were to try to spread awareness about the possibility of German agents operating in Britain.
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AN. This fic is the result of a telepathic message from my muse (if you see it, tell it if it doesn't get back here soon, I'll kill it). I know it's short and I know it's not very good but please review anyway. If you leave a signed review, I'll try and return the favour (no promises I'm afraid as I am horrendously busy at the moment). Also, if you have time, please r/r some of my other stuff, please? ::Voice echoes in empty room::
Pax vobiscum, Nemo 11/04/01