Genre: HP slash, dark
Disclaimer: These characters are the sole property of JK Rowling and I make no claim to them.
Word Count: 1,425
Author's Note: Dedicated to krissielee. I’m not sure if this is the right order events for book four so if it’s not, just...know that it’s not, okay? It's also unbeta'd and written in a rush.
As a sidenote, I'm not really into friending anyone new at the moment so please don't ask.
“Come on, Tom!” cried one of the other children in the orphanage. “Come play with us!”
Tom scuffed his shoe against the bottom of one of the railings. “No, thanks,” he said quietly. He was only ten, but he could already feel that kicking around a round and somewhat flat ball was not his destiny.
The girl did not let up. Tom admired her for trying; most of the other kids left him alone by now, claiming that he was stuck up. Tom overheard some of the boys talking at night when they were supposed to be getting ready for bed; whispering about how Tom always stared at a person for much longer than was necessary. Tom was spooky - it was best to stay away.
And yet this girl - Tom forgot her name - did not relent. “It’ll be fun!”
Tom let her tug on his shirt, urging him to join the rest of the kids, who eyed him warily. They kicked the ball around for a while, some boys obviously trying to hurt Tom in the process. They aimed for his head over and over, claiming that they hadn’t meant to do it on purpose. The girl began shouting at them, her hair shining despite the cold, gray sky above. Tom watched as she asserted her power, making the boys almost cower in response; she was a terror.
Tom felt two hits - one towards the back of his head; the other on his side. He crumpled to the ground, unsure as to what had happened. The girl came running over, her somewhat scraggly skirt fluffing in the breeze. Rain began to fall.
“Tom? Tom?” she cried, shaking him worriedly.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled. She cradled his head and brought it to her chest, wrapping him with her warmth, protecting him from the rain. Tom grew aware of the laughter and the various “sissy” and “ninny” insults coming from the corner. He looked and he knew; he knew who had thrown the ball.
Lightning struck, blinding. Two forms fell to the ground. Caretakers rushed onto the playground, screaming. The boys were dead.
The girl’s breath quickened against Tom’s cheek. “Did you see that?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied without emotion.
She looked down at him, her bright pink lips matching the pink of her cheeks. Tom wanted to reach up and touch her face, to see if she was as warm as he imagined. “Did you do that?”
Tom looked over at the two children. He sneered.
The girl looked at him in horror. He looked away. She dropped his head softly to the ground, disentangling her body from his. Tom lay out in the rain, untended - the caretakers must have not noticed his clothing, which blended in with the pavement.
That was the last time he agreed to play with the other kids.
“What?” snapped Voldemort. He sat in swaddling clothes at the edge of the room near a huge bookcase, filled with different ways to kill other human beings. He’d read them all through twice already and found that his own curses were much more useful; more effective.
“Sorry,” said the offending Death Eater, bowing low.
“Why did you disturb me?” he asked in his high voice.
The man stood. “Harry Potter is completing the final part of the Triwizard tournament. We should leave soon.”
“Come here,” said Voldemort impatiently. The man stepped forward quickly, fear written on his face. He had already angered Voldemort with his stupid flaw about the prophecy - the weapon he would use against Harry Potter. He had punished the man severely; this would be another such occasion.
He looked into the man’s eyes, seeing his thoughts - his revulsion at his form. He forced one particularly painful memory to surface; the man winced. Voldemort said nothing, simply choosing to prolong the moment. After a while, he relented.
“Is...is that all, then?” asked the man.
“Bring me my wand.”
“Are you able to...hold....”
“Bring it to me,” hissed Voldemort, growing steadily more impatient with his one servant. Soon, he knew, he would restore his former army. For now, he had to retain the services of this rat-like creature.
Voldemort struggled to keep the wand in his hand. He cast the spell on himself, watching. It was as if he were in the tournament itself. He could see Harry Potter struggling to find the cup - he knew that he would want to prove himself, to be number one yet again. But there was another contender...another one of pure heart.
Voldemort flinched. He focused on this new participant. He conjured the name before him.
“Cedric Diggory,” he said quietly.
“What’s that, my lord?” asked the quivering man in the corner.
“Yes, my lord.”
Voldemort tuned out the whimpers of the other man and focused once again on the tournament. He watched as a wizard with a burlier stature and darker hair attacked the man with fair hair - a pretty boy. Voldemort shifted slightly. The man was beautiful. His cheeks were getting redder as he ran through the race, trying to win victory for his own house; Voldemort almost had to admire him for wanting to beat Harry Potter so badly. He almost wished that he could have the boy win instead; but that would be contrary to his plans.
He watched nonetheless. The boy’s lips were a bright hue just a shade lighter than what he would term red. He saw - almost tasted - the sweat running down the fair neck. He longed to reach out and to touch it, it was just so beautiful....
“You take it,” said Harry irritably.
Voldemort watched as the older boy - this Cedric - refused the honour, like one of Dumbledore’s usual oafs. Voldemort could almost forgive him that. Those eyes...and lips...they reminded him of something earlier...something just as wonderful....
“My lord?” quivered the voice.
“Very well, Wormtail. Let us go.”
“Kill the spare.”
He could not have any other witnesses. Wormtail did as he was told and Voldemort relished in the green light he saw jet out of the wand’s end; he heard the soft cry of the extra body and was content.
Voldemort laughed as he exited from the cauldron. After all of Dumbledore’s attempts to keep him from coming back, he’d managed to find another way to beat death. And now, finally, he would rid the world of Harry Potter. His eyes gleamed as he watched Harry struggling to keep awake, to fight Voldemort’s power, which was ridiculous. He knew he would rule the world - would be in charge of everything. He would be feared; all those who did not fear him would be punished.
Voldemort’s eyes lingered on the other body that had appeared with Harry’s: it was Cedric; the boy from the maze. Voldemort walked over, black robes swishing. Cedric lay face down; Voldemort knew he was dead. Wormtail was busy clutching at his stump of a hand, crying out into the night where no one was listening.
Voldemort turned the young man on his side. He watched Cedric’s face, masked in horror. Voldemort had never seen anyone die with a different expression; not that he took the time to look usually. It was just in the way they begged for their lives, screaming as the curse hit them. Cedric’s look was quiet, shocked; but horrified. Voldemort let his finger, cold and white, stream down Cedric’s face. He felt Cedric’s soft cheeks; they were warm. His mind, momentarily allowed free reign, recalled a day and a girl. A beautiful girl with eyes and lips just like Cedric’s. He bent down, rubbing his own cheek against Cedric’s, relishing in the last few moments of warmth. He allowed his lips to rest vaguely on Cedric’s, delighting in the softness of the boy’s mouth.
He pulled back. A dulled feeling of surprise filled him; Cedric’s face was normal. If Voldemort hadn’t known that the boy was dead, he would’ve said Cedric was only sleeping. He gazed one last time, the face of his past floating before him, before letting go. Cedric’s body landed face-down as before.
And that was it. Voldemort lost another bit of his youth; said goodbye to it. He wanted no such memories or feelings; he was not sad that Cedric was dead. It needed to be.
He looked around for Wormtail, pushing up the robes of the sleeve and pressing down.
Emotion had died. Destiny had begun.