Chapter 5
Recruiting
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Which is better? To be a slave in Heaven, or a king in Hell?
Playing God
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Craig turned down a dark alley in an attempt to throw off his pursuers, who had been chasing him for several blocks now. Craig still didn't know the exact reason why they had singled him out of the crowd. His pursuers were a small local gang. They didn't play a large part in the scheme of gang warfare. But they were much bigger than Craig, and that was enough reason for him to run.
They alley was cold and drab. Craig spun around several times to see whether they were still chasing him. When he saw no one turn down the alleyway, he let out a sigh of relief. He turned around...
And came face-to-face with the entire gang.
"You're on our territory, punk," said their leader. He was the tallest and had a shaved head. He had a multitude of scars from many fights. This was not a person to take lightly.
"I didn't see any signs," Craig said defiantly.
The leader reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small and black switchblade. He pressed a button on it and a small shiny blade appeared on the end.
"Here's your sign," said the leader, waving the blade in front of Craig's face. He began to walk towards Craig. Craig remained still until the leader was upon him. Craig could hear his heart beating and his pulse racing. The leader towered over him, and gave him a toothy grin.
"Got anything to say?" the leader asked.
Craig lifted his foot and kicked the leader in a very vulnerable area. The leader crumbled, dropped the knife, and began to groan. Behind him, several of the other members drew out knives and brass knuckles.
"Not really," said Craig simply, wishing he was as calm as his voice.
The gang circled him. The yelled taunts and jeers at him. Craig was breathing hard and fast. He had no earthly idea of what to do.
Suddenly, the gang stopped circling him.
"GET 'IM!" yelled one of them.
The gang leapt at Craig, just as he shut his eyes and raised his arms over his head to shield himself from the blows...
Then there was a blinding flash of light. Craig slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and saw that he was on a fire escape. Looking down, he could see that he was now several stories up. The gang members all lay in some stage of injury. Many of them had burn wounds, several were nursing broken limbs, and one of the more severely burned ones lay very still. The whole gang had been tossed back several feet.
Craig slowly raised himself and began to climb the fire escape to the roof of the building, leaving the injured down below. He reached the top and began to walk across the rooftop towards his shelter.
"Well I must say I'm impressed," said a cold voice behind him.
Craig spun around. There stood a dark and ominous figure. He was cloaked in black robes, and all that was visible of him was his pale head, which was bald. His eyes were tight slits, and they had a slight red tinge to them. Craig felt himself falter underneath those eyes. He made a move to flee.
"Oh, I don't think so," said the man. He waved a small stick at his side that Craig had not seen before.
When Craig turned to run and immediately stopped. In front of him stood a tall brick wall, which he had not seen before, now blocking his path. He whirled around to face the dark man.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Craig asked frantically.
The dark man began to walk slowly towards Craig.
"I am Lord Voldemort," he said with a slight hiss in his chilling voice.
"What kinda stupid name is that?" Craig asked.
"You would be wise to mind your tongue," Voldemort answered. "And to answer your other question, I want your help."
Craig stared intently at him.
"What are you talking about?" Craig asked.
"Do you remember what you did down there on the street?" Voldemort asked.
"Whadda you mean?" asked Craig. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't deny it. You know exactly what I mean," Voldemort answered. "What you did done there was magic. You are a wizard. And you will help me."
Craig couldn't help but laugh. Him, a wizard? No way! "If I was a wizard," he started. "Then why"
"Why would your parents have thrown you away like garbage?" Voldemort finished Craig's sentence.
Craig stared in disbelief.
"How did you know that?" he asked. "What do you know about me and my parents?"
"I know a lot about you," said Voldemort, a small smile forming on his lips. "As I was saying, you are a wizard. An untrained and young one perhaps, but a wizard nonetheless, and one with incredible potential, I believe. That is why I want your help."
"Forget it," Craig said. He walked past Voldemort, towards the fire escape. He didn't want to help anybody.
"I know you hate your parents," Voldemort called out. Craig stopped in his tracks. "I know that they threw you out of the house when you were only seven. I know that you have been wondering the streets, picking up and eating what other people throw away. I know how you scrounged to survive in a world that has all but forgotten you, and that you've lived that way for the past eight years. And I know that you want to get revenge against your parents. I can help you get revenge."
Craig slowly turned around, his mouth slightly open.
"And if you help me get back at my parents," asked Craig. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing but your undying loyalty to me," said Voldemort. "I will help you and train you. But you belong to me."
Craig stared at Voldemort, contemplating the prospect. Craig lowered his head and began to think of his parents; of the fights, the beatings, and how he had been cast away. He remembered the cold nights on the street, the sickness, the pain of watching his friends die of hunger, and fearing what the bleak future would bring next. Here was a way to control that bleak future.
Craig lifted his head to look at Voldemort. Slowly, he nodded his head in assent.
John walked down the dark city streets in unison with his gang, the Serpents. John and his older brother had joined up with the gang when their mother had been killed in a drive-by. Their father had left them years before that. Now the gang was their family- their only family.
"How are you feeling little buddy?" asked John's older brother Michael. Michael was tall, muscular, and would have been handsome, minus the large scar on his chin. He was highly respected in the gang, and had been chosen as their spokesman for the rumble.
"I'm a little nervous," John said, rubbing his hands together in the cold night air.
Michael was worried. John had never been nervous in previous fights, even when he had been younger. For him to be so now was out of character. He put a reassuring hand on his little brother's shoulder.
"Don't worry, Johnny," he said. "It's gonna be just like every other fight. Just stick to the little ones and-"
"It's not that," John interrupted. "I'm not afraid of them. I...I just feel like something bad is gonna happen."
Michael looked John hard in the face. He knew his brother made up for his lack of brawn with brains- and he could have gone far in life under different circumstances. Michael had muscles and good looks, but not much intellect. It was probably due to this that he made such a stupid mistake.
"Here," Michael said, reaching into his back pocket. He drew out a butterfly knife, which had been freshly sharpened, and handed it to John.
John didn't take it; he just stared at it, as though it was some harbinger of doom. As the moments passed and John made no action, Michael became impatient. He reached for John's hand, lifted it up and slapped the sheathed blade onto his outstretched palm. John just stared blankly at it.
"Just don't do anything stupid, okay?" Michael said.
They continued on until they came to the designated meeting place. It was an abandoned basketball court on the disputed border of the two gangs. Each gang claimed the territory for themselves and this rumble was to settle the dispute. It was a public area, so they decided that no weapons were allowed in order to prevent bloodshed. But John had broken the rules. John had a weapon.
John's gang arrived early. They arranged themselves around one side of the court, with Michael in the center, waiting for the opposing gang, the Stingers, to arrive. Fifteen minutes later, the Stingers walked out of the shadows and onto the blacktop of the court. Their leader, a stout teen with a mohawk, walked over and stood in front of Michael. The two stared at each other, waiting for one the other to say something. Finally, Michael spoke.
"Let's get this over with," said Michael. Michael was always simple and straightforward with such things. He threw a punch at the leader of the Stingers and the rumble began.
John did as he was told, he picked out one of the smaller ones and started fighting. His opponent was about his age, a little on the skinny side, and very quick. John spent most of his time blocking and dodging Skinny's jabs and swipes, occasionally throwing in a swing or two. Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see that a Michael and Mohawk were still duking it out. The others stayed out of their way to give them room. Michael was not doing well. John could see blood pouring from Michael's broken nose and split lips. Mohawk lifted up his fists and brought them down together on Michael's head with a sickening thud. Michael crumbled.
"NNNOOOOO!!!!" John screamed. He felt his blood boil as he threw Skinny aside and rushed towards Mohawk. He clenched his teeth and thundered forward to help his brother Reaching into his pocket, John brought out the knife. There was a flash and to Mohawk's amazement, the blade became bathed in flame. Not only that, but it extended from only five inches to almost three feet. The knife now appeared to be a fiery sword. John was unaware of this, his thoughts were only with his brother and Mohawk. He raised the knife and brought it heavily down on Mohawk's left shoulder. Mohawk, utterly shocked, made no move to defend himself as the blade cut threw his chest, burning the flesh along with it. Mohawk fell under the weight of the attack.
Others had noticed the flash and had turned to see. The stared, dumbfounded, as John brought the sword down on Mohawk. No one said a thing.
As soon as it appeared the fiery sword turned back into a simple knife in John's hand. The blade was covered in blood, as was John's hand. The two bodies at his feet were still, and a pool of blood and the stench of charred flesh came from Mohawk. John fell to his knees and lifted Michael's head into his lap. His older brother's eyes were closed and he wasn't breathing. John doubled over and began to sob.
After several minutes, John raised his head and saw that everyone else had left. Getting to his feet, John ran. He didn't think about a destination, he just ran; tears still streamed from his eyes. He did not look to see where he was going and it was quite a shock when he ran into someone.
John fell sprawled on the pavement. Over him stood a tall man wearing a black cloak, a bald head, and a small smile on his face.
"Well," he said. "That was quite a fireworks display."
John scrambled to his feet and tried to turn and flee, but something made his legs refuse to obey him. John stood rooted on the spot, staring at the pale man.
"Well, John," the pale man said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Who are you?" John demanded.
The tight-lipped smile on the man's face grew broader.
"My name is Lord Voldemort," he said. "And I've come to help you."
"Who says I need help?" asked John defiantly.
"Come now," said Voldemort. "Do I really need to answer that? You've just killed someone in an illegal gang fight. You have no one to run to. The police will arrest you for murder, the Stingers will kill you for killing their leader, your own gang will turn against you for using a weapon in the fight, and your whole family is either dead or doesn't care about you."
If tears had not been already coming out of John's eyes, they would have by now. John felt weak in the knees, but the invisible force kept his legs straight. He shut his eyes and turned his head, trying to avoid Voldemort's gaze
"Do you know what you also did?" asked Voldemort. John slowly turned his head. "You used magic. You are a wizard."
John's brow furrowed.
"I know you don't believe me," said Voldemort. "But I promise you it's true. You've been a wizard ever since you were born, but your powers have only recently surfaced. They warned you about this fight. Your power has helped you to avenge your brother. I will train you. I will teach."
John's eyes widened. He saw a glimmer of hope. But a thought occurred to him.
"What do you want in return?" he asked Voldemort, who grinned again.
"I knew you were smart," said Voldemort approvingly. "I want your help and your loyalty. No more, no less." Voldemort stared intently into John's eyes, waiting for his answer. He contemplated his situation and weighed his choices. Voldemort was right. He didn't have a family anymore. What choice did he have?
"OK," he said.
"Very good," said Voldemort, and John felt the pressure around his legs dissipate.
Voldemort walked past John off into the shadows. Waiting a second to think about what he had gotten himself into, John followed after his new master.
It was not until several days later that John wondered how Voldemort had known his name.
Claire held her face in her hands, torrential tears streaming from her eyes. She sat on the ragged bed and listened to the muffled screams from the adjacent room. Her step-dad had found yet another reason to fight with her mother, and they had been arguing for some time now. She hated her step-father, and she hated her mother for marrying him. She could not stand it anymore.
Claire got up and went into the hallway and began to walk towards her parent's bedroom. She faltered when she heard the shattering of glass come from behind the closed door, but continued until she stood in front of the shut doorway. She remained there, trying to calm down, but only succeeded in becoming more enraged. Finally, her emotions burst. She threw open the door and stormed in.
"STOP!!!" Claire bellowed. Her parents froze.
Claire's mother, Susan, sat huddled in the corner, her eyes wide and fearful. Jack, Claire's step-father stood over her, holding a vase in his hands. Claire could see the shards of a shattered lamp around her mother, who know sported several cuts on her face. Blood was beginning to stream from a large gash on her right cheek. It would certainly leave a scar. Jack, recovered from the initial shock, turned his anger upon Claire.
"What the hell are you doing outta bed?!" he yelled.
"Leave her alone." Claire retorted, weakly.
"Who do you think you are, you-" Jack started.
"SHUT UP!" Claire screamed. " I HATE YOU!! I ALWAYS HAVE HATED YOU AND I WANT YOU GONE!!"
"Why you little-" Jack never finished this sentence.
The vase in Jack's hand flew out in front of him, pausing in mid-air before coming back to shatter in his face. He yelled out in pain, and threw his hands to his face to cover the scrapes and cuts. It was then that Claire began to feel something, like an electrical charge, flowing through the room. The charge increased until it became a visible stream of energy coursing through the room. Finally, when it seemed most unstable, it plunged into Jack's body. Lighting coursed through him, crackling through his hair and along his fingers. The display lasted several seconds before it suddenly ended. Jack stood in the center of the room for a few seconds before falling face down on the floor. His skin was charred and blackened and a horrible stench filled the room. Both Claire and Susan were silent, completely stunned by what they had just seen. Then Susan began to scream.
Claire ran over to try and calm her mother down, but to no avail. Susan shoved Claire away, jumped up, and ran out of the house, leaving her behind. She stood in silence, not fully realizing what had just happened. Her first thought was whether her mother would be safe out on the streets at night. Then the full realization of what had happened hit her full force. She panicked and ran to her room to pack a bag. When she was packing, she heard a soft knock at the door. Claire spun around and stared at the intruder.
He was tall and thin, and was garbed in a black robe. His head was bald and his face was smooth and taut. He wore a small grin on his lips and he was leaning on the doorway in a leisurely fashion.
"So, how did it feel?" he asked. He began to walk slowly into the room. Claire's hand shot out and grabbed a letter opener on her desk. She held it in front of her like a dagger. The man lifted his arms in mock surrender and halted. "Are you going to kill me without answering my question? That's very rude."
"Who are you?" Claire demanded.
"Someone to be feared," the man said.
"What's your name?" Claire asked.
"Voldemort," he said.
"Voldemort?"
"Voldemort."
"And what are you doing in my house?" Claire asked.
"My, aren't we full of questions," said Voldemort. He raised a long smooth stick in his right hand and gave it a flick. Immediately, the letter opener flew across the room and lodged itself deeply into the wall. "Ahh, that's better. As I was saying, my name is Lord Voldemort. I am here to help you. But first, answer my question. How did it feel?"
"How did what feel?" Claire asked innocently.
"Oh, don't play the fool," Voldemort said. "How did feel to kill the man you hate?"
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I didn't kill him. It was just some freak accident."
"Oh, that was no accident," he said. "That was you. You did it. It was entirely your fault."
"How could I have done that?" she asked.
"How about you answer one of my questions for a change?" Voldemort asked impatiently
Claire considered the possibility. If it was her fault, she didn't feel bad about it. In fact she was almost happy. That horrible man was out of her life now and it was for the best.
"I'm happy," Claire said.
"That's not what I asked," said Voldemort. "I asked how you felt, not how you feel. How did it feel to kill your father."
"He wasn't my father," Claire said. Voldemort said nothing. Claire thought of the scene, the feel of the energy flowing though the room, crackle of the lightning, watching the vase shatter in Jack's face. Finally, Claire whispered an answer, barely audible.
"What was that?" inquired Voldemort.
"I SAID IT FELT GOOD TO KILL HIM!!!!" Claire screamed.
There was a long pause. It was Voldemort who broke the silence.
"That's what I thought," he said, smiling to himself "I'm going to make you an offer. Either you come with me, and I help teach how to use the power you just displayed, or you stay here and…deal with this."
Claire considered the options before answering. "If I help you, what do you want in return?"
"What I wanted from the others," said Voldemort. "I want your loyalty and your help."
"What others?" she asked.
Voldemort didn't answer her question. They stood, looking at each other. It was Voldemort who broke the silence. When he spoke, it was almost more to himself than to Claire.
"You're going to help me conquer the world," he said.
Claire laughed at this. What an absurd idea! If he was going to take over the world, why would he need my help? she thought to herself.
"Because you're more powerful than you can possibly imagine," Voldemort answered. Claire's stared at him with slack-jawed amazement.
"How did you know what I was thinking?" she demanded.
"Magic," Voldemort said simply. "Come with me and I'll instruct you in its ways, for what you just did was magic. Come with me and you can attain vengeance against the world that shuns you and against everyone you hate." He waited a few moments "How does that sound to you?"
Claire stood silently, pondering the possibilities. Finally, she made a decision.
"Do you mind if I finish packing first?" she asked quietly. Voldemort smiled and shook his head. He walked silently towards the door of her room and waited for her. Claire turned around and continued packing. She was almost finish when she heard Voldemort whisper something to himself.
"Prepare yourself, Dumbledore."
Recruiting
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Which is better? To be a slave in Heaven, or a king in Hell?
Playing God
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Craig turned down a dark alley in an attempt to throw off his pursuers, who had been chasing him for several blocks now. Craig still didn't know the exact reason why they had singled him out of the crowd. His pursuers were a small local gang. They didn't play a large part in the scheme of gang warfare. But they were much bigger than Craig, and that was enough reason for him to run.
They alley was cold and drab. Craig spun around several times to see whether they were still chasing him. When he saw no one turn down the alleyway, he let out a sigh of relief. He turned around...
And came face-to-face with the entire gang.
"You're on our territory, punk," said their leader. He was the tallest and had a shaved head. He had a multitude of scars from many fights. This was not a person to take lightly.
"I didn't see any signs," Craig said defiantly.
The leader reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small and black switchblade. He pressed a button on it and a small shiny blade appeared on the end.
"Here's your sign," said the leader, waving the blade in front of Craig's face. He began to walk towards Craig. Craig remained still until the leader was upon him. Craig could hear his heart beating and his pulse racing. The leader towered over him, and gave him a toothy grin.
"Got anything to say?" the leader asked.
Craig lifted his foot and kicked the leader in a very vulnerable area. The leader crumbled, dropped the knife, and began to groan. Behind him, several of the other members drew out knives and brass knuckles.
"Not really," said Craig simply, wishing he was as calm as his voice.
The gang circled him. The yelled taunts and jeers at him. Craig was breathing hard and fast. He had no earthly idea of what to do.
Suddenly, the gang stopped circling him.
"GET 'IM!" yelled one of them.
The gang leapt at Craig, just as he shut his eyes and raised his arms over his head to shield himself from the blows...
Then there was a blinding flash of light. Craig slowly opened his eyes. He looked around and saw that he was on a fire escape. Looking down, he could see that he was now several stories up. The gang members all lay in some stage of injury. Many of them had burn wounds, several were nursing broken limbs, and one of the more severely burned ones lay very still. The whole gang had been tossed back several feet.
Craig slowly raised himself and began to climb the fire escape to the roof of the building, leaving the injured down below. He reached the top and began to walk across the rooftop towards his shelter.
"Well I must say I'm impressed," said a cold voice behind him.
Craig spun around. There stood a dark and ominous figure. He was cloaked in black robes, and all that was visible of him was his pale head, which was bald. His eyes were tight slits, and they had a slight red tinge to them. Craig felt himself falter underneath those eyes. He made a move to flee.
"Oh, I don't think so," said the man. He waved a small stick at his side that Craig had not seen before.
When Craig turned to run and immediately stopped. In front of him stood a tall brick wall, which he had not seen before, now blocking his path. He whirled around to face the dark man.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Craig asked frantically.
The dark man began to walk slowly towards Craig.
"I am Lord Voldemort," he said with a slight hiss in his chilling voice.
"What kinda stupid name is that?" Craig asked.
"You would be wise to mind your tongue," Voldemort answered. "And to answer your other question, I want your help."
Craig stared intently at him.
"What are you talking about?" Craig asked.
"Do you remember what you did down there on the street?" Voldemort asked.
"Whadda you mean?" asked Craig. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't deny it. You know exactly what I mean," Voldemort answered. "What you did done there was magic. You are a wizard. And you will help me."
Craig couldn't help but laugh. Him, a wizard? No way! "If I was a wizard," he started. "Then why"
"Why would your parents have thrown you away like garbage?" Voldemort finished Craig's sentence.
Craig stared in disbelief.
"How did you know that?" he asked. "What do you know about me and my parents?"
"I know a lot about you," said Voldemort, a small smile forming on his lips. "As I was saying, you are a wizard. An untrained and young one perhaps, but a wizard nonetheless, and one with incredible potential, I believe. That is why I want your help."
"Forget it," Craig said. He walked past Voldemort, towards the fire escape. He didn't want to help anybody.
"I know you hate your parents," Voldemort called out. Craig stopped in his tracks. "I know that they threw you out of the house when you were only seven. I know that you have been wondering the streets, picking up and eating what other people throw away. I know how you scrounged to survive in a world that has all but forgotten you, and that you've lived that way for the past eight years. And I know that you want to get revenge against your parents. I can help you get revenge."
Craig slowly turned around, his mouth slightly open.
"And if you help me get back at my parents," asked Craig. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing but your undying loyalty to me," said Voldemort. "I will help you and train you. But you belong to me."
Craig stared at Voldemort, contemplating the prospect. Craig lowered his head and began to think of his parents; of the fights, the beatings, and how he had been cast away. He remembered the cold nights on the street, the sickness, the pain of watching his friends die of hunger, and fearing what the bleak future would bring next. Here was a way to control that bleak future.
Craig lifted his head to look at Voldemort. Slowly, he nodded his head in assent.
John walked down the dark city streets in unison with his gang, the Serpents. John and his older brother had joined up with the gang when their mother had been killed in a drive-by. Their father had left them years before that. Now the gang was their family- their only family.
"How are you feeling little buddy?" asked John's older brother Michael. Michael was tall, muscular, and would have been handsome, minus the large scar on his chin. He was highly respected in the gang, and had been chosen as their spokesman for the rumble.
"I'm a little nervous," John said, rubbing his hands together in the cold night air.
Michael was worried. John had never been nervous in previous fights, even when he had been younger. For him to be so now was out of character. He put a reassuring hand on his little brother's shoulder.
"Don't worry, Johnny," he said. "It's gonna be just like every other fight. Just stick to the little ones and-"
"It's not that," John interrupted. "I'm not afraid of them. I...I just feel like something bad is gonna happen."
Michael looked John hard in the face. He knew his brother made up for his lack of brawn with brains- and he could have gone far in life under different circumstances. Michael had muscles and good looks, but not much intellect. It was probably due to this that he made such a stupid mistake.
"Here," Michael said, reaching into his back pocket. He drew out a butterfly knife, which had been freshly sharpened, and handed it to John.
John didn't take it; he just stared at it, as though it was some harbinger of doom. As the moments passed and John made no action, Michael became impatient. He reached for John's hand, lifted it up and slapped the sheathed blade onto his outstretched palm. John just stared blankly at it.
"Just don't do anything stupid, okay?" Michael said.
They continued on until they came to the designated meeting place. It was an abandoned basketball court on the disputed border of the two gangs. Each gang claimed the territory for themselves and this rumble was to settle the dispute. It was a public area, so they decided that no weapons were allowed in order to prevent bloodshed. But John had broken the rules. John had a weapon.
John's gang arrived early. They arranged themselves around one side of the court, with Michael in the center, waiting for the opposing gang, the Stingers, to arrive. Fifteen minutes later, the Stingers walked out of the shadows and onto the blacktop of the court. Their leader, a stout teen with a mohawk, walked over and stood in front of Michael. The two stared at each other, waiting for one the other to say something. Finally, Michael spoke.
"Let's get this over with," said Michael. Michael was always simple and straightforward with such things. He threw a punch at the leader of the Stingers and the rumble began.
John did as he was told, he picked out one of the smaller ones and started fighting. His opponent was about his age, a little on the skinny side, and very quick. John spent most of his time blocking and dodging Skinny's jabs and swipes, occasionally throwing in a swing or two. Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see that a Michael and Mohawk were still duking it out. The others stayed out of their way to give them room. Michael was not doing well. John could see blood pouring from Michael's broken nose and split lips. Mohawk lifted up his fists and brought them down together on Michael's head with a sickening thud. Michael crumbled.
"NNNOOOOO!!!!" John screamed. He felt his blood boil as he threw Skinny aside and rushed towards Mohawk. He clenched his teeth and thundered forward to help his brother Reaching into his pocket, John brought out the knife. There was a flash and to Mohawk's amazement, the blade became bathed in flame. Not only that, but it extended from only five inches to almost three feet. The knife now appeared to be a fiery sword. John was unaware of this, his thoughts were only with his brother and Mohawk. He raised the knife and brought it heavily down on Mohawk's left shoulder. Mohawk, utterly shocked, made no move to defend himself as the blade cut threw his chest, burning the flesh along with it. Mohawk fell under the weight of the attack.
Others had noticed the flash and had turned to see. The stared, dumbfounded, as John brought the sword down on Mohawk. No one said a thing.
As soon as it appeared the fiery sword turned back into a simple knife in John's hand. The blade was covered in blood, as was John's hand. The two bodies at his feet were still, and a pool of blood and the stench of charred flesh came from Mohawk. John fell to his knees and lifted Michael's head into his lap. His older brother's eyes were closed and he wasn't breathing. John doubled over and began to sob.
After several minutes, John raised his head and saw that everyone else had left. Getting to his feet, John ran. He didn't think about a destination, he just ran; tears still streamed from his eyes. He did not look to see where he was going and it was quite a shock when he ran into someone.
John fell sprawled on the pavement. Over him stood a tall man wearing a black cloak, a bald head, and a small smile on his face.
"Well," he said. "That was quite a fireworks display."
John scrambled to his feet and tried to turn and flee, but something made his legs refuse to obey him. John stood rooted on the spot, staring at the pale man.
"Well, John," the pale man said. "What are you going to do now?"
"Who are you?" John demanded.
The tight-lipped smile on the man's face grew broader.
"My name is Lord Voldemort," he said. "And I've come to help you."
"Who says I need help?" asked John defiantly.
"Come now," said Voldemort. "Do I really need to answer that? You've just killed someone in an illegal gang fight. You have no one to run to. The police will arrest you for murder, the Stingers will kill you for killing their leader, your own gang will turn against you for using a weapon in the fight, and your whole family is either dead or doesn't care about you."
If tears had not been already coming out of John's eyes, they would have by now. John felt weak in the knees, but the invisible force kept his legs straight. He shut his eyes and turned his head, trying to avoid Voldemort's gaze
"Do you know what you also did?" asked Voldemort. John slowly turned his head. "You used magic. You are a wizard."
John's brow furrowed.
"I know you don't believe me," said Voldemort. "But I promise you it's true. You've been a wizard ever since you were born, but your powers have only recently surfaced. They warned you about this fight. Your power has helped you to avenge your brother. I will train you. I will teach."
John's eyes widened. He saw a glimmer of hope. But a thought occurred to him.
"What do you want in return?" he asked Voldemort, who grinned again.
"I knew you were smart," said Voldemort approvingly. "I want your help and your loyalty. No more, no less." Voldemort stared intently into John's eyes, waiting for his answer. He contemplated his situation and weighed his choices. Voldemort was right. He didn't have a family anymore. What choice did he have?
"OK," he said.
"Very good," said Voldemort, and John felt the pressure around his legs dissipate.
Voldemort walked past John off into the shadows. Waiting a second to think about what he had gotten himself into, John followed after his new master.
It was not until several days later that John wondered how Voldemort had known his name.
Claire held her face in her hands, torrential tears streaming from her eyes. She sat on the ragged bed and listened to the muffled screams from the adjacent room. Her step-dad had found yet another reason to fight with her mother, and they had been arguing for some time now. She hated her step-father, and she hated her mother for marrying him. She could not stand it anymore.
Claire got up and went into the hallway and began to walk towards her parent's bedroom. She faltered when she heard the shattering of glass come from behind the closed door, but continued until she stood in front of the shut doorway. She remained there, trying to calm down, but only succeeded in becoming more enraged. Finally, her emotions burst. She threw open the door and stormed in.
"STOP!!!" Claire bellowed. Her parents froze.
Claire's mother, Susan, sat huddled in the corner, her eyes wide and fearful. Jack, Claire's step-father stood over her, holding a vase in his hands. Claire could see the shards of a shattered lamp around her mother, who know sported several cuts on her face. Blood was beginning to stream from a large gash on her right cheek. It would certainly leave a scar. Jack, recovered from the initial shock, turned his anger upon Claire.
"What the hell are you doing outta bed?!" he yelled.
"Leave her alone." Claire retorted, weakly.
"Who do you think you are, you-" Jack started.
"SHUT UP!" Claire screamed. " I HATE YOU!! I ALWAYS HAVE HATED YOU AND I WANT YOU GONE!!"
"Why you little-" Jack never finished this sentence.
The vase in Jack's hand flew out in front of him, pausing in mid-air before coming back to shatter in his face. He yelled out in pain, and threw his hands to his face to cover the scrapes and cuts. It was then that Claire began to feel something, like an electrical charge, flowing through the room. The charge increased until it became a visible stream of energy coursing through the room. Finally, when it seemed most unstable, it plunged into Jack's body. Lighting coursed through him, crackling through his hair and along his fingers. The display lasted several seconds before it suddenly ended. Jack stood in the center of the room for a few seconds before falling face down on the floor. His skin was charred and blackened and a horrible stench filled the room. Both Claire and Susan were silent, completely stunned by what they had just seen. Then Susan began to scream.
Claire ran over to try and calm her mother down, but to no avail. Susan shoved Claire away, jumped up, and ran out of the house, leaving her behind. She stood in silence, not fully realizing what had just happened. Her first thought was whether her mother would be safe out on the streets at night. Then the full realization of what had happened hit her full force. She panicked and ran to her room to pack a bag. When she was packing, she heard a soft knock at the door. Claire spun around and stared at the intruder.
He was tall and thin, and was garbed in a black robe. His head was bald and his face was smooth and taut. He wore a small grin on his lips and he was leaning on the doorway in a leisurely fashion.
"So, how did it feel?" he asked. He began to walk slowly into the room. Claire's hand shot out and grabbed a letter opener on her desk. She held it in front of her like a dagger. The man lifted his arms in mock surrender and halted. "Are you going to kill me without answering my question? That's very rude."
"Who are you?" Claire demanded.
"Someone to be feared," the man said.
"What's your name?" Claire asked.
"Voldemort," he said.
"Voldemort?"
"Voldemort."
"And what are you doing in my house?" Claire asked.
"My, aren't we full of questions," said Voldemort. He raised a long smooth stick in his right hand and gave it a flick. Immediately, the letter opener flew across the room and lodged itself deeply into the wall. "Ahh, that's better. As I was saying, my name is Lord Voldemort. I am here to help you. But first, answer my question. How did it feel?"
"How did what feel?" Claire asked innocently.
"Oh, don't play the fool," Voldemort said. "How did feel to kill the man you hate?"
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I didn't kill him. It was just some freak accident."
"Oh, that was no accident," he said. "That was you. You did it. It was entirely your fault."
"How could I have done that?" she asked.
"How about you answer one of my questions for a change?" Voldemort asked impatiently
Claire considered the possibility. If it was her fault, she didn't feel bad about it. In fact she was almost happy. That horrible man was out of her life now and it was for the best.
"I'm happy," Claire said.
"That's not what I asked," said Voldemort. "I asked how you felt, not how you feel. How did it feel to kill your father."
"He wasn't my father," Claire said. Voldemort said nothing. Claire thought of the scene, the feel of the energy flowing though the room, crackle of the lightning, watching the vase shatter in Jack's face. Finally, Claire whispered an answer, barely audible.
"What was that?" inquired Voldemort.
"I SAID IT FELT GOOD TO KILL HIM!!!!" Claire screamed.
There was a long pause. It was Voldemort who broke the silence.
"That's what I thought," he said, smiling to himself "I'm going to make you an offer. Either you come with me, and I help teach how to use the power you just displayed, or you stay here and…deal with this."
Claire considered the options before answering. "If I help you, what do you want in return?"
"What I wanted from the others," said Voldemort. "I want your loyalty and your help."
"What others?" she asked.
Voldemort didn't answer her question. They stood, looking at each other. It was Voldemort who broke the silence. When he spoke, it was almost more to himself than to Claire.
"You're going to help me conquer the world," he said.
Claire laughed at this. What an absurd idea! If he was going to take over the world, why would he need my help? she thought to herself.
"Because you're more powerful than you can possibly imagine," Voldemort answered. Claire's stared at him with slack-jawed amazement.
"How did you know what I was thinking?" she demanded.
"Magic," Voldemort said simply. "Come with me and I'll instruct you in its ways, for what you just did was magic. Come with me and you can attain vengeance against the world that shuns you and against everyone you hate." He waited a few moments "How does that sound to you?"
Claire stood silently, pondering the possibilities. Finally, she made a decision.
"Do you mind if I finish packing first?" she asked quietly. Voldemort smiled and shook his head. He walked silently towards the door of her room and waited for her. Claire turned around and continued packing. She was almost finish when she heard Voldemort whisper something to himself.
"Prepare yourself, Dumbledore."