Blindness

Chapter 12: A Yellow Kreacher

Riddle did not understand what had gone wrong.

The plan had seemed so solid; and with the dementors on their own side, flawless. The initial assault had gone as planned; wizards on brooms, the dementors turning upon the auror guards among them at the signal.

But there had been far more guards than Crouch remembered his father speak of; and the aurors that had been called from the interior floos had been prepared and ready in formation to defend with vicious measures.

There had been no simple binding spells and defensive maneuvers, no Hogwarts-grade spells to petrify or stun. The Ministry aurors had aimed to debilitate and kill; and their fire had been burning bright to get their own revenge for their brethren lost during the Tournament.

His Death Eaters had not stood a chance. Riddle had watched them die in droves from his broom; and then saw the auror wands turn upon the prisoners with riotous intent of their own, the bloodlust upon them as dark as any he had seen in his own followers.

Almost, it seemed the aurors were the true Death Eaters, and the witches and wizards who followed himself heedless victims in the face of their fury.

Crouch had quietly read him the list of known casualties, the wizard's voice thick with disbelief.

Of the thirty who had attacked, only seven returned. Of the nearly four dozen imprisoned Death Eaters, only ten had actually been freed from their cells, and they had all been struck down before they could flee the black stone castle.

Tom Riddle was now Lord of only five men and two women. Anyone else who might have joined him if he had succeeded had changed their mind the moment Rufus Scrimgeour had boldly announced the Ministry's overwhelming victory, and the subsequent Daily Prophet articles that had compared all of Riddle's efforts of the last months to the mere yapping of a dying crup; the last baying sounds of a creature nearly dead, a movement nearly vanquished to the annuls of history.

How had he done it in his future? How had Lord Voldemort risen to such heights?

What had he learned that had made him so feared, so respected, so powerful?

And how could he possibly recreate his own self?

"We have had no news about the dementors set on Potter." Crouch finished finally, the black mark on his face moving with each word. "But as nothing was said regarding an attack, we can only assume the Ministry prevented it, as well."

Riddle waved one hand in petulant dismissal. "Who cares about that blasted boy, when the attack on the prison failed? I'll never understand why I wasted everything trying to kill him when I already had all I needed in my grasp! I could have destroyed the Ministry within weeks! I could have taken Hogwarts itself!"

The thought drew him, of having the revered castle under his control. His home, really; and Salazar's Chamber underneath, the perfect throne for an Heir.

Dreams, all lost. All because his older self had tried and failed to kill an infant; and later, insisted on targeting the boy instead of using a more suitable specimen for the resurrection ritual like he himself had done.

Crouch licked his lips nervously.

"My Lord, you were very eager in your pursuit of him. It was... a preoccupation."

More like a rabid addiction, by all accounts. Riddle had begun to wonder if perhaps his future self had delved too deeply in the darker magics and gone insane.

And he would never know.

"Some even whispered that you were aware of the boy's potential to defeat you; that you sought to kill him as an infant instead, but... failed."