If Paths Diverge

Chapter 22

Voldemort idly stroked the adder in his lap. He had found her outside, wounded from two boys who had thought it amusing to injure such a beautiful creature.

Billy Stubbs had been like that, at the orphanage. Tom Riddle had rescued a small grass snake from the cold one autumn evening before curfew and had not thought to hide her well enough. While Tom Riddle had been washing dishes as punishment for another presumed offence— they had never managed to actually catch him doing anything— Stubbs had broken into his room and killed her. Ripped her head off.

He had gotten his revenge, though.

This snake hissed consolingly, sensing his mild agitation.

He put down the parchment that he had been reading, dismissing it as worthless, like all the rest. Germany had been no more fruitful than any of his other destinations. There was certainly enticing magic to absorb, but none of it could hold his attention unless it could trump the boy's status as Master of Death.

It seemed that nothing could. Yet accepting his vulnerability was not something he was prepared to do. He could not return to England with nothing but his faith that Harry would not harm him. Trust was a foolish shield that he had never wielded.

Indeed, the boy's dependability was severely tainted by his insistence on remaining attached to his beloved fiancée.

Ginevra Weasley.

How simple it would be to eliminate her himself. She did not deserve the boy and yet Potter's delusional sense of obligation protected her from abandonment.

Voldemort had never tolerated people touching his possessions. It was ludicrous that there was even a competition. He was the Dark Lord, the most powerful being alive. Harry wanted him, he was sure. He could give the boy more than the weak, slip of a girl ever could.

Enough.

Voldemort gently placed the snake onto his shoulder and stood. If his search for immortality was destined to remain unfulfilled, then he needed to decide on his next steps.

He approached the window and looked out at the early morning sun breaking through the clouds.

He was no coward and would never flee from his rightful home. He would return and take vengeance upon the three souls that had sought to harm him.

Harris would die first, but slowly. He would come to him at home, perhaps while he was making love to his wife, or playing with his dear progeny. He would immobilize her, make her watch his magic peel back her husband's epidermis leisurely, layer by layer. He may even allow her an opportunity to help, let her take it deeper, ripping through the dermis, seeking purple muscle tissue. Watch them share a bloody kiss.

Then I will take that whip to the raw, purple mass and strike him until I reach bone.

Voldemort's fingers were clenched, the vision disturbing in its familiarity. Blood had never unsettled him before, but after his time at the Ministry, his threshold for violence had been greatly reduced. Yet another thing they had taken from him.

They would pay for it. Discomfort at bearing witness would not deter him from collecting what he was owed.

After Harris was dealt with, he would find Walker and make his bones swell inside his corpulent body, crowding within the meat sack that he was, until they began to snap against each other. He would surround him in his magic and squeeze until his organs, adipose tissue, and blood seeped out of his orifices.

Then Voldemort would heal him, right before he perished, and do it again. And again. He would kill them both for as many times as it took until Voldemort no longer dreamed about what had been done to him. Murder them all until he no longer flinched each time metal grated against metal, or feared to be naked, or until he could think about Harry without worrying if the boy still saw him as the victim.