Through Another's Eyes
Rating: PG-13
The damp, cold early March grass scraped against his body as he moved. He was surprised he had gotten this far, through the forest in which he had once hidden and onto the grounds.
But then, Dumbledore was gone now. Young Malfoy had been properly punished for his failure, and Snape for his idiocy. The man had to have known he was more valuable as a spy, even if it had resulted in that foolish old man's death.
As skilled at magic as Minerva McGonagall was, she was little match for Dumbledore in terms of sheer power and breadth of knowledge, and as such, she could hardly replace him as a leader to the Dark Lord's enemies, though she was certainly capable of replacing him as Headmistress. Not that it mattered particularly. The wards had let him through, for whatever reason, and that was all that mattered. He would find them, and he would kill them as soon as an opportunity arose.
For thirteen years he has shown that he had patience, festering in his hatred and his fear. He would find them, and he would strike, and all that suffering would be worth it. With both Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore out of the way, the era of Lord Voldemort would last forever.
That was why this mission had been trusted to no one else.
The soft sound of laughter drew his attention, and he moved towards it. He tasted the smell of the water, the grass, of young children, taking in the disgusting aroma of their play, their happiness, their carefree attitudes.
He could hear the water now, lapping gently at the shoreline, the lake. Young Malfoy had said they spent quite a lot of time down here, looking over the water, as if their lives were as calm and peaceful as the lake they loved so dearly.
He wondered if the boy would be alone. That would be easier, safer, with a greater chance of success. If there were others, he would probably have to wait. But that was no matter. He had all the time in the world.
After all, even Boys-Who-Lived had to use the toilet alone sometime.
The whiff of lavender caught his attention first, and he knew she was close. And where the jumped up, arrogant little Mudblood was, Potter would not be far away. Even Crabbe and Goyle had been able to identify the great feelings the two had for each other, and those feelings, like they had been for Dumbledore, would be their downfall. Indeed, as he moved towards the scent, the unique odor of the Chosen One came to him, and he tried to flatten himself more into the grass to cover his silent approach.
He wished he could scoff at the idea of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Seventeen-Because-His-Mother-Was-Braver-Than-She-Was-Smart, killing Lord Voldemort, greatest wizard to ever live. Perhaps fortunately, his current situation would not permit it, so he would be making no noise to draw attention to himself.
Then when they came into sight, he reasoned that would not have been as much of a problem as he feared. That really was disgusting, that much physical contact with the Mudblood, even for one as debased and foolhardy as Potter.
He had to admit, she had grown attractive of physical form, and there was no denying her intelligence, yet it was the blood flowing in her veins that made her worthless.
For that matter, even Potter was half a Mudblood, so there was certainly no harm, perhaps, from a bit of dalliance from his perspective. But cuddling her, with her draped all over him, in public…
Disgusting.
But, best of all, they both appeared to be asleep. That would make this far easier. He crawled up onto the rock the two lay on, feeling its sun warmed hardness under his belly. Despite its lack of the ground's softness, it was obvious why the two had chosen the dry heat of the rock slab.
Perhaps he would curl up and watch them die from the relative comfort of the rock before he returned to the cool, wet grass.
The sensual feeling grew within him now, that heady rush of power shooting through his veins, his mind, as he raised his head up, the deadly smile adorning his face as he poised himself to strike…
"HARRY!"
By the blood of his forefather, he hated the Weasleys. "Harry! Hermione! Look out!"
Viperish speed was apparently no match for the Boy-Who-Lived's Quidditch honed reflexes, whose ill-timed sitting up caused the strike to slide off his arm, rather than dig into his chest as planned.
The Mudblood vanished from sight as Potter shot to his feet. If nothing else, the boy's reflexes were excellent, just as his father's had been. They had not saved James Potter, and they would not save his son.
But they had today. Time to make good his escape, as he was discovered, and there would be no chance of success now. "It's her!" he heard the dark-haired boy say as he slipped back into the tall grass, speeding away.
"Don't let her get away!" He could feel the footsteps as they began to run after him. Few would have noticed the vibrations in the ground, but as he was now, they were particularly expressive. They were spreading out, trying to encircle him.
Without magic, in terms of ground speed, he was faster than he was normally, but they were all young. He was outrunning them towards the forest, though not as fast as he would have liked, and a shout and a gout of dirt spraying airborne ahead of him showed the folly of that plan.
A straight line was far too predictable, and it would only take one spell to stop him. He zagged to his left, just in time to avoid another spell, this one cast silently from his left. The Mudblood.
They would be gaining on him now, possibly, as he moved randomly to his right, avoiding a gleaming red spell blast. These children were becoming annoying, as more and more spells began to tear up the ground, around him.
Familiar flashes of light exploded ahead of him, bringing forth something he had been unaware Potter could do.
"Stop her!" he heard Potter command in Parseltongue.
"No," he replied to them, more forcefully than Potter's command, "slow down Potter." They slithered past his longer form, hissing angrily at the wizards pursuing him.
"Good job, Harry!" came the voice of the red head, dripping with sarcasm, before heat rolled up from behind him, no doubt Potter and his Mudblood slut vaporizing the snakes.
That was the when agony shot through him, a slicing hex slashing into his back half. The heat of the blood flowing from the wound warmed the cool grass around him, soaking the ground red as he continued to move. He wanted to scream, but could not. His life was flowing away, draining him of his strength, and he fought it fiercely.
He could feel himself dying, something he had worked so hard against, as he heard Potter's voice. "Good job, 'Mione." The affection he could hear, even more than the pain, made him sick. Love. Nasty stuff that. Unreliable and dangerous. Much better to have a simple, strong hatred. Struggling forward, he kept pushing towards the forest, unwilling to let Potter win so easily, but the wound had weakened him too much. More words, and he felt himself frozen in place as the Full-Body Bind wrapped him in its magical embrace.
Moments later, Harry Potter knelt in front of him as he lay on the ground, his friends standing, flanking him to either side, their wands still leveled. "Well, I would suggest that when you slither back to Master, you tell him that we're coming for him." The Chosen One smiled darkly. "But you're not going to see your Master again, Nagini." The boy stood slowly and leveled him own wand. "You were the hardest one to find, and I was not relishing the thought of taking you and Voldemort in the end. But you've made it easy for us now. Thank you." He saw Potter's eye brighten, and then his wand raised up. "Adeste Fideles." The Mudblood and the Weasley placed their hands on Potter's shoulders, then Potter's arm slashed downward, his wand a blur. "Abscido Voldemort!"
There was blinding pain, shattering, pulling at his body, and he felt himself being ripped free of his snake that he inhabited, that he had possessed for the strike against Potter. But it was not just him, and in that instant, the being known to the Wizarding world as Lord Voldemort knew the truth, knew why he had felt weaker in the past few months. The last thing that he heard, before returning to his own body, hidden away… far away from the magical school in Britain, was "DELENDA EST ALMA!"
Blinding light shot through him, severing the connection to Nagini completely and permanently, shattering his peaceful little world into a million silvers of light, before darkness slammed down and cut off everything.
When he awoke, Tom Riddle was cold. Very cold. And he stank of fear.
The End
Author's Note:
Adeste Fideles - Be present, faithful ones.
Abscido Voldemort - Separate Voldemort.
Delenda est alma - The soul must be destroyed.