The First Death of the Dark Lord

He wasn’t really thinking about it, even as he walked up the pathway to the house. It was over at this point- the tension had been when he couldn’t find them. This part was simple, thoughtless.

He heard voices inside and he tapped the door with his wand.

There’s one thing that must be understood. That there was no difference, for Lord Voldemort as he went into the Potters’ sanctuary to kill them, between this murder and any other simple and necessary task. That he did not feel stronger, weaker, hesitant, or rushed. He had not had to prep himself before a murder, had not even comprehended his actions or thought much of their consequences since he had killed his father and grandparents. And that was in a past which was vague to him. A past in which he had cried at the thought of leaving Hogwarts, a past in which he had been hard to distinguish from the other well-behaved boys. Certainly, he’d always been climbing towards the same goal, but youth was something foggy in his mind- when he still made silly mistakes, even in his intelligence. Questioning was part of a past which he remembered incredibly little of, for it being so close behind him. A past which flooded back to him only in the presence of Dumbledore. Fear and hesitation and even aching for a kiss- living a hypocrisy in which part of him might’ve longed for what he saw as failure and weakness. Voldemort was beyond those years of hypocrisy now. He no longer felt his soul’s presence, the way most humans are forced to.

It is in this oblivion of confidence and precision that he stepped, laughing, into the hallway of the Potters' house. In this carelessness that he murdered the brave boy in front of him, who would have died a million times over to save his family, but who only got to die once.

He knew it was as good as over once he’d killed the husband. There wouldn’t be much fight left in the girl. He heard her close a door upstairs. Poor thing. He twirled his wand as he stepped over the body and up the stairs. He strode down the hall and opened the door, which he knew the surviving two were behind.

But she wasn’t curled on the floor crying, as he had expected. The baby was on the floor behind her and she was standing as though she were made of steel. She met his eyes.

It startled him.

She had quite fierce eyes, and no one had met his eyes for quite some time.

She was pleading at him.

"No not Harry," or something to that effect- "please, not Harry," etc.

He flicked his wand to the side.

"Stand aside, you silly girl."

"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please- I’ll do anything!"

That made him laugh.

Why in heaven’s name would she do anything for that uncomprehending, fleshy little ball of a human behind her? Didn’t she know her husband was dead? Didn’t she care more for him anyways?

She was still begging- "Kill me instead"-

What?

He threw back his head and laughed. Something pulled in him, but he wasn’t one to notice much what was pulling or twisting or breaking inside him. That was another one of those things that only Dumbledore could do. He looked right at a person’s soul, and it made Voldemort realize its presence, made him need to cover it, but also forced him to look at it.

So whatever the deep recesses of his soul was doing, the vast majority was laughing at this girl’s naivete.

"Stand aside now..." he set his tone to a more gentle level. It was still cold and high-pitched, but somehow it managed to sound ridiculously reasonable, even considerate.

The switch didn’t make Lily Potter hesitate, though, as it did most people. She continued with her begging, she even fell to her knees.

"Stand aside," he repeated. Her eyes were beginning to irritate. "Stand aside, girl."

No, she wouldn’t.

Well, fine.

He let her beg for a couple seconds more, found that it was losing its humor, and killed her.

He felt oddly shaken as he kicked her aside, her bright green eyes blank as any dead animal’s.

There sat his conqueror. A pudgy baby, gazing dumbly at its mother. Voldemort cackled triumphantly. Safe again, he thought as he raised his wand.

The baby turned and met his eyes. Bright green, like his mother’s.

The Dark Lord felt strangely hollow, right as he began to cast the spell. Not exhilarated, not victorious, not powerful. Something about the whole ordeal somehow came back to him, as he went to finish the job.

Was he...?

No.

"Avada Kedavra."

He couldn’t possibly feel guilty.

It wasn’t the best thing to be thinking, right as he cast a killing curse.

The blow was so loud

it was deafening

in the silence

he was torn

and shattered into a million pieces

and thrown across the earth

and the universe.

He thought he was dead,

but he didn’t know how

or why.