Second Lieutenant Tom Riddle and the Dursleys' Girl

Chapter 2 - Beautiful

Thank you for reading! I don't own any of Harry Potter! Please let me know if you enjoy! Updates every Saturday!
—————————————————————

Beaten down, exhausted, starving, and ready for the fighting to end, Tom's troop traipsed their way across barren, mud-splattered fields.

Bombs exploded in the distance.

Shots could be heard from every direction, but the battle-worn men barely flinched at the cacophony.

With his wand still safely inside his glove, Tom continually replenished himself every few hours with a simple nutrition charm, a luxury his men did not have.

The soldiers viewed their leader's unending stamina and robust complexion as further evidence of his power.

Tom pitied the dead and dying muggle soldiers who lay forgotten as his troop tramped past.

The cold, cutting air was as unforgiving as the war itself once night fell.

One particular morning, after hours of shivering through nightmares, Tom's men woke and gathered their supplies.

Each soldier prepared to follow their commander through yet another day of traveling towards London, without food or any guarantee of water.

Tom had just reached for his own pack when one of his men ran to him shouting, "Second Lieutenant Riddle! Second Lieutenant Riddle!"

"Yes?" Tom asked as he looked at his subordinate with narrowed eyes.

"It's Thompson! It's Thompson, sir! He's close to death! Are we supposed to leave him here like this?!" The man asked as he pointed down the hillside to his ailing friend.

Tom narrowed his eyes at the young man who lay on the frozen ground and shook under the meager scrap of salvaged flannel that served as his blanket.

"Are we supposed to leave him here to die alone, sir?!" The man demanded again as his weary face twisted in anguish.

"My men do not die." Tom said in one arrogant growl as he pushed his knapsack roughly into the soldier's arms.

The bewildered private blinked as he watched his leader stomp down the hill towards his suffering comrade.

Private George S. Thompson, a boy even younger than Tom, had been taken from his family far too early by Britain's draft.

After months of brave battle, Thompson finally laid that morning with his head knocking against the tufts of crunchy grass as his body convulsed with the chills brought on by his fever.

"Thompson, my friend...." Tom smiled as he knelt beside the miserable soldier, "Why have you not joined the rest of us?"

Refusing to address his subordinates like other men of his rank, there was an irksome sense of patronization in Tom's tone while he mocked his ill recruit.

Fatigued beyond measure, burdened by starvation with his soul weighed down, Thompson lacked the strength to respond.

As he swallowed thickly and fought against the delirium his fever threatened to impose, he pointed towards his left foot.

"There.......?" Tom asked with a wicked grin as if the dire situation brought him some form of amusement, "Is that where the pain is?"

The young man nodded as a wheezing gasp escaped his throat.

Tom slowly lifted his hand and began to pull the soggy sides of Thompson's ruined boot down.

A shriek of pain issued from Thompson's parched lips.