Ordinary People

Prologue

The function of wisdom is to discriminate between good and evil. –Cicero

She was here. He could smell it.

His eyes flashed dangerously as he spun around. Her stench was everywhere, eluding the sense of roses and some expensive men’s cologne she had stolen from some muggle store. Indeed, she was the only girl he’d ever met who would steal something, not for amusement or need, but for the reasons to save time. He felt himself grow weary even thinking about her. His heart, blackened from age and time, beat rapidly at the sudden false hope that he might see her turn the corner, grinning mischievously with a piece of candy she’d swiped from Honeydukes. Yet, the euphoria that had swept him up for an instance, disappeared as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t until he saw the familiar sweeping movement of blonde hair under his right shoulder that he remember someone was with him.

“My Lord,” Lucius Malfoy whispered cautiously. “Is there something wrong?”

“Of course not, Malfoy. Are you questioning my sanity?” he snapped irritably.

“No sir. I was merely--” he said anxiously, wringing his hands and keeping his eyes plastered firmly on his boots.

“Shut up,” Voldemort hissed. “I’m going to my quarters now.”

With that, he swept out of the room, not bothering to look back at Malfoy.

That smell... it was fading now. Perhaps he had imagined it. He had been thinking about her a lot lately, ever since he had regained his body. Though he had his advantages of being fully mortal again, the weaknesses that only a human could possess had returned back to him. He longed for warm touch, but not in the only way he could get it. His minions didn’t love him, they worshiped him. Then again, he wasn’t sure if he had ever loved anyone. But, someone had loved him once. Someone had given their soul to him willingly, even though he could not give his to her. He was unable to do such a thing: trust. Yet here he was, letting a bunch of idiots do his dirty work, as he decided to dominate the wizarding world, and get rid of all those mudbloods who had made his life hell.

She had made his life hell.

She was to blame for all the wrongs in his life.

SHE had been impure, and that was why he hated them.

“Fuck!” he hissed under his breath as he pushed the door open and stormed into his study.

The room was large, and upholstered into the finest green velvet and silver lining. What would you expect from the heir of Slytherin? In the center of the room was a gorgeous, cherry wood desk that had been painted black. He slumped into the leather chair under the desk, drumming his long, white fingers against the arm rest. His lame attempts to distract himself were few, and far between. He nibbled his finger, and unfortunately let his mind escape to think about that he had worked so undeniably hard to forget.        

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? He’d tried everything. Memory charms, Dark spells, and almost every potion he could imagine that might let him forget about it. Yet, here she was. A bloody stain on a beautiful tapestry, tainting his mind. He prayed she would give him one minute of peace, but as the days went on, his brain wandered back into those days...

But he couldn’t remember everything. He couldn’t figure out why she’d left, or ever how. Hell, she could be somewhere waiting for him, but he felt he was doing the inevitable. He reminded himself the plans that needed to be done. Potter and Dumbledore had to die. He still needed to recruit more Death Eaters. But here he was, pining over something that happened fifty years ago.

His scarlet eyes roamed to the small armoire in the corner. He could sense what lay behind the door to it. He could almost hear her voice, but what was she saying? Curiosity was eating his flesh as he fought a losing battle with his common sense.

He’d hidden that thing for a reason. He’d hidden those thoughts so they would never bother him again.

But they still bother you, even though you won’t admit it. Jesus Christ, you almost showed weakness in front of Malfoy when you smelt men’s cologne.

He should just start getting to work. Send Wormtail on duty. Do something worthwhile.

Just a peak won’t kill ya. You’ll probably feel better.

He had worked so diligently to forget those ridiculous years with Dumbledore and those other mediocre minds.

“But I have to know,” he whispered softly, eyes still glued to the armoire.

All the confusion that had been built up seemed to evaporate. He stood up haughtily and crossed the room in fierce strides. His hands fumbled over the lock, as millions of doubts ran through his mind. Perspiration began to trickle down his forehead as he finally thrust the door of the armoire open.

He stared hopefully at the silvery mist below him.

“This is a mistake,” he thought to himself, but that didn’t seem to phase him.