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worshipdarklord2012-10-05 08:13 pm
bellariddle.livejournal.com) wrote in worshipdarklord2012-10-05 08:13 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Title: The Fragility of Life
Author:
Main pairing or character: Tom Riddle Jr, Tom Riddle Sr and Riddle parents
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,100
Summary/Prompt: Tom Riddle was always told to live every day like it would be his last. For him, Tom knew that assumption was wrong. He knew tomorrow would always come. He had the power of death in his grasp and he would never die.
Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Death, violence*
A/N: My first fic here. I decided on some general dark Tom thoughts
Humans were vulnerable. Humans had bodies that were not designed to last forever. Humans had skin that could be pierced and blood that could be shed. Humans had organs that could shut down and immune systems that could be conquered by disease like they were the smallest rodent.
Most were aware of this. There were some humans who believed they were invincible, but the majority were conscious of their mortality. For some, they put all their courage and will behind each moment and lived every day like it could be their last.
Tom Riddle knew these ideas. He knew how they worked, he knew who followed them and why they could be persuasive. He was aware of this, but he knew it was not relevant to him. He was not a normal human. Still in the turbulence of his teenage years, he knew he was special. He knew his power was greater than mere mortals. He knew he did not need to live every day like it would be his last, because he knew that tomorrow would always come.
Admittedly, Tom had not known that fact for his entire life. There had been moments when he had even doubted his mortality. Some he did not even remember. While Tom knew his mother had died in childbirth, he did not know how close his mother had also gone to having a miscarriage. Alone, weak and on the streets, if she had given birth without assistance Tom could easily have died as a new born alone and freezing in the slush. Even in the orphanage, it was only the medical experience of the matrons that had saved the life of the infant Tom.
His risk of death had continued.
One of his earliest memories was himself at the age of five. He had been raised in a muggle orphanage, but, more than that, it was a poor muggle orphanage in the working class centre of London. The funding and money the institution had were minimal, especially during the economic crisis that had swept the country. Those on the street who lost their job had no food. The orphanage fared a little better, but not by much.
For a congregation of growing children they only received the bare minimum. The orphanage was always cold because wood to stoke the fires and heaters was expensive, electricity even more so. However, they made do. Tom grew and aged to an impressive height that seemed strange and peculiar considering the less than perfect nutrition in his diet. His weight and slenderness was the only indication.
The other orphans were not so lucky. A basic cold or a childhood illness swept the orphanage on a number of occasions. Medical treatment and medicine was often only minimal and many children did not survive.
Tom did. Tom grew and Tom flourished.
Once he grew old enough to understand he was not surprised. He knew he was special. He knew he could make animals do what he wanted and he knew he had the power to make others hurt. He was superb and he was extraordinary. The other orphans did not have his skills so he looked down at them. They were not worthy of his company and he soon grew used to being alone. He never cared for him and he never cared for anyone. It had been the way his entire life and he knew it made sense.
The dots continued to be connected when he was informed he was a wizard. His power, his magic, did indeed have a logical source. For a few terrifying months he believed that the fact he was just another wizard might mean he was just ordinary, but any doubts were quashed when he arrived at school. His skill was above anyone his own age and flourished.
With a wand in hand, Tom knew he could do anything. As he grew and became more powerful, he knew he could not die. He had the power and he had the ability to decide who could live and who would perish
Tonight was proof that was the case.
A loud crack like a rifle reverberated over the valley as Tom appeared beside a wrought iron fence. Its spokes pointed to the starry sky and its breadth stretched over the aches of velvety green lawn. Tom did not look on either side. He only looked at the most obvious sight; an impressive manor. If he had not already extracted information from his uncle, he would have known this was the place he desired. The house was easily the largest and grandest for miles. It matched the description he had extracted and his boyhood foolish dreams of his father as some famous gentleman with inexhaustible wealth who would save him from the orphanage's grimy walls.
Now, well past any time when he would consider his father a positive or a point when he needed saving, the grandeur did not impact him. The centuries of tradition and wealth that the house exhumed meant nothing. All that was relevant was what was inside- who was inside.
His pace was swift and unyielding. His long legs walked in smooth moments, casting shadows of his figure from the glowing moon above stretching the image making him appear like a giant. He might as well be. He would destroy the lives of those inside just like the giants in the books the matrons had read to the orphans.
The impressive double doors bordered by stone columns on either side extracted his dark eyes, but he strode past them with disinterest. It was not what he wanted. No, he wanted subtlety.
He continued walking close to the house allowing the shadows from the building to fall onto him. It swallowed him in darkness allowing only his pale flesh to be strangely highlighted and emphasised. It suited him. It suited his mysterious aura and was a useful aspect. It hid him slightly. If he was discovered, he could easily kill whoever dared stop him, but he would prefer to not have to bother with such interruptions.
As he had imagined, there was a door at the back. He did not bother trying the handle. He only lifted his uncle's wand and a blue light fluttered over it, before he pushed open. Inside, the shadows continued. It was late and the kitchen was empty of servants with only a few brass candles lining the walls.
Tom did not pause or show any hesitation or uncertainty. His feet just carried him as he advanced up a set of stairs. The carpet muffled his footsteps and he was able to hear the sounds from above. He immediately moved in that direction his heart racing with nerves based on the fact that he was finally doing what felt like his life's purpose. This had to be done.
He memorised the voices detecting two; one feminine and one masculine, but both filled with perfect Received Pronunciation fitting the home. Before he could help himself a brief image flitted his mind about what would happen if he had been raised here. He would have naturally attained the accent himself rather than one highlighting his low status as a working class orphan. He never would have spent hours trying to mimic the higher class accent of his peers. He would have had all the trapping of wealth and grandeur that he deserved.
His thoughts made him reminisce and were almost pleasant, but he pushed them down. They were pointless. He did not need to think that way. The past was useless. He needed to live in the present to create the future he desired. He had the power in his hands. He would use that power and live in the present to do what needed to be done- kill.
Reaching the landing, the light from the drawing room flitted over the rich crimson carpet. Tom could not help, but muse about how the perfect surface would soon be marred by his deeds as he reached the room and stepped inside.
For one moment, no one noticed his silent entrance. His assumptions about the voices were incorrect- there were three figures in attendance. A woman well into her sixties perched upon the chaise. Her elaborate evening gown fell down her body in silk and all the fineries of her status. Lace and a diamond necklace covered her throat. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her figure perhaps a little plump, but she was still an attractive matriarch.
Tom marked her as his grandmother as he looked to the next figure. His grandfather stood over the fireplace with silver covering his hair and his thin moustache that gave him a distinguished air. His suit was crisp and perfectly pressed littered with golden buttons and chains. He commanded the presence of the room and spoke clearly and concisely to his wife on the chaise.
It was better to stare at his grandparents. He did not intend for them to be there. They did not need to die, but he supposed their presence was not a negative. They were after all filthy muggles and they must have supported their son's outrageous behaviour.
He was the third person in the room.
Sitting in a chesterfield armchair with a high back he was the first to look to the doorway and find a man standing there who looked remarkably like him. For a moment neither father nor son could say anything. They could only stare as if they were in a trance.
Tom had never felt quite as ill as the shock drew over him- he looked like him.
He was his muggle father's twin.
Their hair was the same inky black shade with the same softness and only a slight altered style.
Their faces were pale and covered in the same high cheekbones, long thin nose and strong jaw.
Their eyes were the same shade of dark blue that was almost black and bordered by thick lashes and distinct eyebrows.
If there was not nearly twenty years between them they would be identical.
"Who are you?" His older twin demanded his voice slightly husky as if he had not spoken for a long time. His eyes were wide and he could not take his eyes off Tom.
Tom did not reply. His uncle's wand was pointed at the floor and for a moment he was quiet, frozen and uncertain. One glance at the man he had sworn to hate yet looked so similar to had seemingly sapped his power.
His son's speech had drawn his grandfather's attention. Turning his head to the door, his eyes narrowed. If he noticed any similarities in Tom's appearance to his son's, he did not say anything, but only glowered in angry.
"We did not invite you here," he hissed stepping forward slightly. "If one of the servants invited you upstairs they were mistaken. We do not take guests at this hour."
It was easier to confront a man who dared to attack and insult him. It was a simple way to emphasise his purpose.
"I showed myself is," he spoke his voice soft and cold as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
"Then leave," his grandfather hissed. "It is outrageous behaviour and-"
"No!" Tom's voice had not risen, but there was a harsh snap that made all three other occupants of the room stare at him with surprise. "You have pushed me under the rug for too long. You attempted to pretend I did not exist, but you have made a fatal error which must be punished."
His grandmother let out a slight sob and sunk further into the chaise. His father continued to stare without a word, but his grandfather stepped forward even further. "How dare you threaten us? How dare you? Get out!"
The smallest smirk slid over Tom's features and he let out a low chuckle that would make the hairs on the back of anyone's neck stand on end. "No, I think not. Crucio."
It was the first time he had lifted the wand in their presence, but it was highly amusing to watch the shock on all of their features. He noted his father looked scared as the curse hit his grandfather who collapsed to the ground. His limbs withered and shrieked as his body bucked. He screamed his voice reverberating around the room. There was no attempt to stop the torture as his wife joined in the sound pleading for her husband as his father only stood with his hand shacking.
It was only after Tom was satisfied that he lifted his wand.
"That was not my intention," he murmured coolly but without any remorse. "It went against my plan, but I assure you the rest will. You can watch these proceedings and you too, dear grandmother."
"Grandmother?" Her voice was quiet and feminine, like how the ladies were all taught to speak. Tom did not answer. Raising his wand, two sets of rope escaped; one at his grandmother and grandfather. They wrapped tightly around each pulling their limbs close to their side. His grandmother toppled to the floor letting out a shrill shriek and his grandfather could only muffle an outrageous growl into the lush carpet.
Satisfied, Tom watched the two for a moment before he flicked his eyes over his true target. He was standing frozen. He did not move, but his eyes were dark, his hand clenched at his side.
"You," Tom hissed his eyes matching his father in intensity and anger. "Do you at least know who I am?"
"No," he whispered," I have no idea why you are here and-"
Tom growled and sent out another Cruciatus Curse. His father screamed and writhed. Tom's smile widened as he watched in satisfaction. Joy filled his veins at observing his father suffer in pain. He deserved it. It was so hard to lift his wand, but he knew he had to as he stood over him.
"Then you are a fool." Kicking him in the ribs, he twisted him over so he was facing up at Tom. "I'm your son."
He did not seem at all surprised. "You? You are from th- that witch. Where is she?"
"She is dead." His voice was without care. "She died giving birth to me. I spent my life in an orphanage alone and left as unimportant when all this time you were alive."
Tom cursed him again. Watching him suffer, he lifted his wand.
"You abandoned her. You abandoned me. You do not understand the opportunity you lost, but you will not go unpunished for your sins. Your crimes have been outrageous and, as a filthy muggle you have no reason to live."
As Tom lifted his wand, he wondered if his father had known it would be his last day on Earth speaking to his son and clone. He would not have. He did not have that power, but Tom did. Tom had the power. He had decided his father would die and he would. He would be the first human to suffer directly from his wand.
Tom ensured his hand did not shake. He made sure his aim was true right between his father's eyes. He heard whimpers behind him from his grandparents, but he focused on his father. He focused on his sins and he focused on why he must die.
"Avada Kedavra!" There was cold roar fury as a bright blinding burst of emerald light escaped his wand. It slammed into his father. He did not utter another sound; he only froze with wide eyes. Tom stretched out his foot pressing against his father's chest. He did not breathe.
Tom's smile was manic and gleeful. There was no reluctance or regret. There was only joy. He had killed someone. He had not needed to rely on a basilisk, but he had raised a wand and caused another death. It was power. Pure power. Now the filth that had dared been his father was dead.
"You need not worry," he said softly to his grandmother who was crying and looking at him in terror. "You will see your son soon. Avada Kedavra!"
There was a whoosh and another jet of light and his grandmother stopped moving. Her face froze and Tom smiled before he turned to his grandfather. He did not say anything to him, but he merely sent out another Killing Curse at his turned back. It connected and his body stopped moving.
Tom could not help himself, but he laughed. His body was shacking in mirth and pleasure. The power was infectious. He wanted to run out declare his victory and kill every muggle in sight. They all deserved to feel his power. It was tempting, but that was not Tom. He would not succumb to his desires. Others did not deserve the honour of dying by his wand. It was not right. No, he would control himself. Others would die, but not now.
Vanishing the ropes from his grandparents, he turned and left the room. He had the power to cause death and that made him continue to smile as he made his way back to the orphanage. Nothing could spoil his merriment except reminding himself of how he looked like his filthy father.
)o(
Technically speaking, Tom knew he had the power of death in his hand. He knew he could kill anyone. He knew he had that raw power. He knew he was great and powerful and he knew he could defeat others, but, in the back of his mind, he knew he was not invincible. He knew that if a Killing Curse struck his body from a fluke shot he could die like a mortal man. That could never be allowed to happen. He knew ways to ensure it would not.
Standing alone in the hidden room that he had found because no one's intelligence could compare to his own, he raised his wand. His arm shook for the first time as he pointed it at the simple leather diary in front of him. It was laughable that such an object would ever be worthy for his soul, but in his mind his plan was flawless. Such a minor objects would be granted power it did not deserve.
Tom knew it was the final step. He had studied every text on horcruxes and he knew reversal was nearly impossible for he did not see how he could regret murdering his father. He knew that but he did not hesitate. This was the correct course of action.
From this point on he could live life as a he chose. He did not need to live every day like it would be his last, because it would not be. He would live forever.
He would never die.
Author:
Main pairing or character: Tom Riddle Jr, Tom Riddle Sr and Riddle parents
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,100
Summary/Prompt: Tom Riddle was always told to live every day like it would be his last. For him, Tom knew that assumption was wrong. He knew tomorrow would always come. He had the power of death in his grasp and he would never die.
Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Death, violence*
A/N: My first fic here. I decided on some general dark Tom thoughts
Humans were vulnerable. Humans had bodies that were not designed to last forever. Humans had skin that could be pierced and blood that could be shed. Humans had organs that could shut down and immune systems that could be conquered by disease like they were the smallest rodent.
Most were aware of this. There were some humans who believed they were invincible, but the majority were conscious of their mortality. For some, they put all their courage and will behind each moment and lived every day like it could be their last.
Tom Riddle knew these ideas. He knew how they worked, he knew who followed them and why they could be persuasive. He was aware of this, but he knew it was not relevant to him. He was not a normal human. Still in the turbulence of his teenage years, he knew he was special. He knew his power was greater than mere mortals. He knew he did not need to live every day like it would be his last, because he knew that tomorrow would always come.
Admittedly, Tom had not known that fact for his entire life. There had been moments when he had even doubted his mortality. Some he did not even remember. While Tom knew his mother had died in childbirth, he did not know how close his mother had also gone to having a miscarriage. Alone, weak and on the streets, if she had given birth without assistance Tom could easily have died as a new born alone and freezing in the slush. Even in the orphanage, it was only the medical experience of the matrons that had saved the life of the infant Tom.
His risk of death had continued.
One of his earliest memories was himself at the age of five. He had been raised in a muggle orphanage, but, more than that, it was a poor muggle orphanage in the working class centre of London. The funding and money the institution had were minimal, especially during the economic crisis that had swept the country. Those on the street who lost their job had no food. The orphanage fared a little better, but not by much.
For a congregation of growing children they only received the bare minimum. The orphanage was always cold because wood to stoke the fires and heaters was expensive, electricity even more so. However, they made do. Tom grew and aged to an impressive height that seemed strange and peculiar considering the less than perfect nutrition in his diet. His weight and slenderness was the only indication.
The other orphans were not so lucky. A basic cold or a childhood illness swept the orphanage on a number of occasions. Medical treatment and medicine was often only minimal and many children did not survive.
Tom did. Tom grew and Tom flourished.
Once he grew old enough to understand he was not surprised. He knew he was special. He knew he could make animals do what he wanted and he knew he had the power to make others hurt. He was superb and he was extraordinary. The other orphans did not have his skills so he looked down at them. They were not worthy of his company and he soon grew used to being alone. He never cared for him and he never cared for anyone. It had been the way his entire life and he knew it made sense.
The dots continued to be connected when he was informed he was a wizard. His power, his magic, did indeed have a logical source. For a few terrifying months he believed that the fact he was just another wizard might mean he was just ordinary, but any doubts were quashed when he arrived at school. His skill was above anyone his own age and flourished.
With a wand in hand, Tom knew he could do anything. As he grew and became more powerful, he knew he could not die. He had the power and he had the ability to decide who could live and who would perish
Tonight was proof that was the case.
A loud crack like a rifle reverberated over the valley as Tom appeared beside a wrought iron fence. Its spokes pointed to the starry sky and its breadth stretched over the aches of velvety green lawn. Tom did not look on either side. He only looked at the most obvious sight; an impressive manor. If he had not already extracted information from his uncle, he would have known this was the place he desired. The house was easily the largest and grandest for miles. It matched the description he had extracted and his boyhood foolish dreams of his father as some famous gentleman with inexhaustible wealth who would save him from the orphanage's grimy walls.
Now, well past any time when he would consider his father a positive or a point when he needed saving, the grandeur did not impact him. The centuries of tradition and wealth that the house exhumed meant nothing. All that was relevant was what was inside- who was inside.
His pace was swift and unyielding. His long legs walked in smooth moments, casting shadows of his figure from the glowing moon above stretching the image making him appear like a giant. He might as well be. He would destroy the lives of those inside just like the giants in the books the matrons had read to the orphans.
The impressive double doors bordered by stone columns on either side extracted his dark eyes, but he strode past them with disinterest. It was not what he wanted. No, he wanted subtlety.
He continued walking close to the house allowing the shadows from the building to fall onto him. It swallowed him in darkness allowing only his pale flesh to be strangely highlighted and emphasised. It suited him. It suited his mysterious aura and was a useful aspect. It hid him slightly. If he was discovered, he could easily kill whoever dared stop him, but he would prefer to not have to bother with such interruptions.
As he had imagined, there was a door at the back. He did not bother trying the handle. He only lifted his uncle's wand and a blue light fluttered over it, before he pushed open. Inside, the shadows continued. It was late and the kitchen was empty of servants with only a few brass candles lining the walls.
Tom did not pause or show any hesitation or uncertainty. His feet just carried him as he advanced up a set of stairs. The carpet muffled his footsteps and he was able to hear the sounds from above. He immediately moved in that direction his heart racing with nerves based on the fact that he was finally doing what felt like his life's purpose. This had to be done.
He memorised the voices detecting two; one feminine and one masculine, but both filled with perfect Received Pronunciation fitting the home. Before he could help himself a brief image flitted his mind about what would happen if he had been raised here. He would have naturally attained the accent himself rather than one highlighting his low status as a working class orphan. He never would have spent hours trying to mimic the higher class accent of his peers. He would have had all the trapping of wealth and grandeur that he deserved.
His thoughts made him reminisce and were almost pleasant, but he pushed them down. They were pointless. He did not need to think that way. The past was useless. He needed to live in the present to create the future he desired. He had the power in his hands. He would use that power and live in the present to do what needed to be done- kill.
Reaching the landing, the light from the drawing room flitted over the rich crimson carpet. Tom could not help, but muse about how the perfect surface would soon be marred by his deeds as he reached the room and stepped inside.
For one moment, no one noticed his silent entrance. His assumptions about the voices were incorrect- there were three figures in attendance. A woman well into her sixties perched upon the chaise. Her elaborate evening gown fell down her body in silk and all the fineries of her status. Lace and a diamond necklace covered her throat. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her figure perhaps a little plump, but she was still an attractive matriarch.
Tom marked her as his grandmother as he looked to the next figure. His grandfather stood over the fireplace with silver covering his hair and his thin moustache that gave him a distinguished air. His suit was crisp and perfectly pressed littered with golden buttons and chains. He commanded the presence of the room and spoke clearly and concisely to his wife on the chaise.
It was better to stare at his grandparents. He did not intend for them to be there. They did not need to die, but he supposed their presence was not a negative. They were after all filthy muggles and they must have supported their son's outrageous behaviour.
He was the third person in the room.
Sitting in a chesterfield armchair with a high back he was the first to look to the doorway and find a man standing there who looked remarkably like him. For a moment neither father nor son could say anything. They could only stare as if they were in a trance.
Tom had never felt quite as ill as the shock drew over him- he looked like him.
He was his muggle father's twin.
Their hair was the same inky black shade with the same softness and only a slight altered style.
Their faces were pale and covered in the same high cheekbones, long thin nose and strong jaw.
Their eyes were the same shade of dark blue that was almost black and bordered by thick lashes and distinct eyebrows.
If there was not nearly twenty years between them they would be identical.
"Who are you?" His older twin demanded his voice slightly husky as if he had not spoken for a long time. His eyes were wide and he could not take his eyes off Tom.
Tom did not reply. His uncle's wand was pointed at the floor and for a moment he was quiet, frozen and uncertain. One glance at the man he had sworn to hate yet looked so similar to had seemingly sapped his power.
His son's speech had drawn his grandfather's attention. Turning his head to the door, his eyes narrowed. If he noticed any similarities in Tom's appearance to his son's, he did not say anything, but only glowered in angry.
"We did not invite you here," he hissed stepping forward slightly. "If one of the servants invited you upstairs they were mistaken. We do not take guests at this hour."
It was easier to confront a man who dared to attack and insult him. It was a simple way to emphasise his purpose.
"I showed myself is," he spoke his voice soft and cold as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
"Then leave," his grandfather hissed. "It is outrageous behaviour and-"
"No!" Tom's voice had not risen, but there was a harsh snap that made all three other occupants of the room stare at him with surprise. "You have pushed me under the rug for too long. You attempted to pretend I did not exist, but you have made a fatal error which must be punished."
His grandmother let out a slight sob and sunk further into the chaise. His father continued to stare without a word, but his grandfather stepped forward even further. "How dare you threaten us? How dare you? Get out!"
The smallest smirk slid over Tom's features and he let out a low chuckle that would make the hairs on the back of anyone's neck stand on end. "No, I think not. Crucio."
It was the first time he had lifted the wand in their presence, but it was highly amusing to watch the shock on all of their features. He noted his father looked scared as the curse hit his grandfather who collapsed to the ground. His limbs withered and shrieked as his body bucked. He screamed his voice reverberating around the room. There was no attempt to stop the torture as his wife joined in the sound pleading for her husband as his father only stood with his hand shacking.
It was only after Tom was satisfied that he lifted his wand.
"That was not my intention," he murmured coolly but without any remorse. "It went against my plan, but I assure you the rest will. You can watch these proceedings and you too, dear grandmother."
"Grandmother?" Her voice was quiet and feminine, like how the ladies were all taught to speak. Tom did not answer. Raising his wand, two sets of rope escaped; one at his grandmother and grandfather. They wrapped tightly around each pulling their limbs close to their side. His grandmother toppled to the floor letting out a shrill shriek and his grandfather could only muffle an outrageous growl into the lush carpet.
Satisfied, Tom watched the two for a moment before he flicked his eyes over his true target. He was standing frozen. He did not move, but his eyes were dark, his hand clenched at his side.
"You," Tom hissed his eyes matching his father in intensity and anger. "Do you at least know who I am?"
"No," he whispered," I have no idea why you are here and-"
Tom growled and sent out another Cruciatus Curse. His father screamed and writhed. Tom's smile widened as he watched in satisfaction. Joy filled his veins at observing his father suffer in pain. He deserved it. It was so hard to lift his wand, but he knew he had to as he stood over him.
"Then you are a fool." Kicking him in the ribs, he twisted him over so he was facing up at Tom. "I'm your son."
He did not seem at all surprised. "You? You are from th- that witch. Where is she?"
"She is dead." His voice was without care. "She died giving birth to me. I spent my life in an orphanage alone and left as unimportant when all this time you were alive."
Tom cursed him again. Watching him suffer, he lifted his wand.
"You abandoned her. You abandoned me. You do not understand the opportunity you lost, but you will not go unpunished for your sins. Your crimes have been outrageous and, as a filthy muggle you have no reason to live."
As Tom lifted his wand, he wondered if his father had known it would be his last day on Earth speaking to his son and clone. He would not have. He did not have that power, but Tom did. Tom had the power. He had decided his father would die and he would. He would be the first human to suffer directly from his wand.
Tom ensured his hand did not shake. He made sure his aim was true right between his father's eyes. He heard whimpers behind him from his grandparents, but he focused on his father. He focused on his sins and he focused on why he must die.
"Avada Kedavra!" There was cold roar fury as a bright blinding burst of emerald light escaped his wand. It slammed into his father. He did not utter another sound; he only froze with wide eyes. Tom stretched out his foot pressing against his father's chest. He did not breathe.
Tom's smile was manic and gleeful. There was no reluctance or regret. There was only joy. He had killed someone. He had not needed to rely on a basilisk, but he had raised a wand and caused another death. It was power. Pure power. Now the filth that had dared been his father was dead.
"You need not worry," he said softly to his grandmother who was crying and looking at him in terror. "You will see your son soon. Avada Kedavra!"
There was a whoosh and another jet of light and his grandmother stopped moving. Her face froze and Tom smiled before he turned to his grandfather. He did not say anything to him, but he merely sent out another Killing Curse at his turned back. It connected and his body stopped moving.
Tom could not help himself, but he laughed. His body was shacking in mirth and pleasure. The power was infectious. He wanted to run out declare his victory and kill every muggle in sight. They all deserved to feel his power. It was tempting, but that was not Tom. He would not succumb to his desires. Others did not deserve the honour of dying by his wand. It was not right. No, he would control himself. Others would die, but not now.
Vanishing the ropes from his grandparents, he turned and left the room. He had the power to cause death and that made him continue to smile as he made his way back to the orphanage. Nothing could spoil his merriment except reminding himself of how he looked like his filthy father.
Technically speaking, Tom knew he had the power of death in his hand. He knew he could kill anyone. He knew he had that raw power. He knew he was great and powerful and he knew he could defeat others, but, in the back of his mind, he knew he was not invincible. He knew that if a Killing Curse struck his body from a fluke shot he could die like a mortal man. That could never be allowed to happen. He knew ways to ensure it would not.
Standing alone in the hidden room that he had found because no one's intelligence could compare to his own, he raised his wand. His arm shook for the first time as he pointed it at the simple leather diary in front of him. It was laughable that such an object would ever be worthy for his soul, but in his mind his plan was flawless. Such a minor objects would be granted power it did not deserve.
Tom knew it was the final step. He had studied every text on horcruxes and he knew reversal was nearly impossible for he did not see how he could regret murdering his father. He knew that but he did not hesitate. This was the correct course of action.
From this point on he could live life as a he chose. He did not need to live every day like it would be his last, because it would not be. He would live forever.
He would never die.
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