QLFC. Puddlemere United. Chaser 2.

Round 1: Never Have I Ever
Prompts: (main) Write a setting you've never written before; (optional) 2. (setting) thunderstorm, (object) knife, (quote) Imagination is the highest kite that can fly. - Laurel Bacall

Words: 2198

Note: Some of the dialogues are intentionally inaccurate, grammatically speaking. That's just the way I've written the tramp's speech. Also, warning: Minor character's death.

Caved In

Thunder echoed across the ocean, the waves dancing to its tune. In the loud silence that pierced through the wild symphony, light flashed in the sky, creating fresh rips in the velvet of the night, to be healed over and over.

It seemed though, that the storm was not satisfied with keeping to the skies. A bolt of lightning hit the entrance of a cave that stood tall and mighty among the cliffs, previously untouched by the tempest. A few rocks fell off the top of the craggy arch that formed the entrance. No lasting damage was caused to the cave—except for a tiny crevice at the base, where water gurgled as it seeped through and trickled down the floor.

When the weather calmed, water still continued to flow through the crevice to a gradually expanding puddle inside the cave.

(A few centuries later — July 1937 )

The excitement is contagious, Tom admits to himself as he gets off the train. The newly turned ten-year-olds, including Tom, have joined the summer trip for the first time.

There's an occasional crack of lightning in the sky above, but Mrs. Cole thinks the weather would settle down by the morning. Tom doesn't want to spend a whole day sitting inside with the other kids, especially after the long train ride, so he hopes she is right.

The food is horrendous, but Tom gets to eat to his fill, which is a lot better than the orphanage where they have to haggle for it. He cleans up and changes into his pyjamas, the trouser falling few inches short at the ankle. They are then herded to their sleeping quarters, and Tom settles in for the night.

He gets up at the crack of dawn the next morning, and a loud thunder pulls out the last dregs of sleep in his eyes. He runs to the window, kicking Thomas Marvey's arm out of his way, and looks outside. The clouds are thick and the sky is rumbling. It is clear that they won't be going to the sea today.

He turns back to observe the too-full room containing a dozen sleeping bags and feels claustrophobia kicking in.

No, Tom decides, he's not spending the day in here.

-o-

A few hours later, Tom finds himself trudging up the hill, a windcheater stolen from the coat rack in the receiving room of the inn protecting him from the worst of the rain.

He flinches with every loud cackle of the storm. He is tired and soaked to the bone, but he's halfway up the cliff, and he cannot stop.

He does not regret getting out of the inn, but he is definitely having second thoughts on his idea of doing rock climbing, whilst the sky continues to unleash its fury upon the sea.

Tom reaches the top and lets out a huge breath, settling against a boulder that shields him from the rain. The journey up here has been exhausting, but Tom revels in his success—not just that of the climb, but of his ability to harness the power that resides within him to make his hands and feet stick to the rock. Tom knows very well that he would have never made to the top without that power, and he takes pride in the fact that he is special.

Finally catching his breath, Tom looks around.

To his right, beyond the stone he's leaning against, the cliff ends to overlook the raging sea. To his left is a small stream—water gushes at speed now, but Tom thinks that in a calm weather, the stream would be around shin-deep.

There is a cave on the other side of the stream, at a little height to where he is now. The rain is falling heavily now, and Tom would rather spend the afternoon and eat the food that he saved from the morning breakfast in relative dryness.

He wills the power inside of him to make his boots stick to the stones and walks heavily to where the boulders the stream flows over are the largest. Step after careful step, he crosses the stream and makes his way to the cave entrance.

The slow, laboured breathing is the first sign that someone is inside.

Tom enters the cave, cautious. It is easy to spot the occupant—it seems as if the man was unable to make past two steps into the cave. He lays on his side, whimpering and clutching at his stomach, and Tom notices that his fingers are stained with blood.

It takes the man a few moments to figure out he isn't alone anymore. "Kid," he rasps, and Tom can't help but sneer at the pathetic man. "D'ya have water?"

"No."

The man shifts to look better at Tom and pats the stone by his side. Tom turns his nose up in the air, and the man sighs. "How'd you come up here," the man speaks slowly, "without getting hurt?"

"That," Tom replies, removing his bag from his shoulders, "is none of your concern." He stares straight at the man as pulls out his water-bottle and takes a sip.

-o-

The next day, Tom finds himself back at the top of the cliff—it is remarkable how no sign of the storm the day before remains. Accompanying him are Thomas Marvey and his elder sister Alice. Thomas had seen him returning the night before. In exchange for his silence, Tom agreed to show the cave to the Marvey siblings.

Tom stretches—it has been tiring, focusing his special powers to make his companions' climb easier, too. "Are you sure you want to go inside?"

Alice chuckles. "What is in there that has got you all scared, Tommy?"

Tom glares at her. "Suit yourself."

The siblings step inside, and a second later, Tom hears Alice scream. She runs back out and points at him, her mouth moving soundlessly, her face ashen. Regaining her bearings, she says, "Th-there's a man in there."

"You're afraid of a man?" Tom says with a sneer.

"It-it's not that. He-he's d-dead. Maybe."

Tom steps around her and walks into the cave. The man lays at his feet, very clearly dead. "Funny," Tom says, "he was alive yesterday." He looks at the siblings, a smirk on his lips. "Maybe I should have given him some water when he asked."

They stare at him, their faces white and mouths open. "You!" Thomas says, "You let a man d-die!"

Tom continues to smirk. "Perhaps I did. Say one word of this to anyone, and I'll make sure you end the same way as this man."

Alice looks at him in disgust while Thomas continues to stare at the body. Meanwhile, Tom takes note of the blood-stain on the man's clothes—it looks as if he died from blood-loss. That, or hypothermia.

On the way down, Tom mulls over how losing blood weakens a man and can even be fatal, and stores the information away for later.

(December 1959)

"Fight, Tom, fight!"

Lord Voldemort turns on the barstool; cheap beer sloshes in his mug, a few drops falling onto his black cloak. He looks around, trying to find the source of that voice.

He doesn't like hearing the name he has shed off so recently.

It is a moment later that he decides he is being paranoid. No one knows who he is, in this little muggle bar. Even if there were someone who would recognise him, they won't be able to see past the hood that covers his face.

A fight seems to have broken out, and two middle-aged, strongly-built men are wrestling. Majority of the crowd is cheering for the guy called Tom.

Voldemort catches a few glimpse of the fighters and finds that he recognises one of them. He turns back to face the table and continues to sip his drink.

It is a few hours later that Voldemort follows 'Tom' out of the bar, removing his hood on the way, and pushes the stocky man against the wall by the dumpster.

"Thomas Marvey." The other man shivers at the coldness in his tone and Voldemort sneers. The moment passes, and Thomas pushes at his hand, wriggling out of his grip.

"It's Tom," the man says, straightening the cuffs of his bloodied shirt. "And who the hell are you?"

"I am Lord Voldemort. Perhaps you would remember me as Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Recognition slowly enters Thomas' eyes. "Tom Riddle from the orphanage? You? A Lord?" He laughs. "Come for a fight, freak?"

"I was actually having a celebratory drink on my birthday," Voldemort says, nodding towards the dingy bar. "Now I have a perfect birthday present, as well. I don't like you having stolen my old name. Say goodbye, Thomas."

A flash of green, and Thomas Marvey is no more.

Lord Voldemort stares at the dead body in front of him. Those muscles would be a waste six feet under the ground, but he has always been creative.

He grabs ahold of the corpse and Apparates to the cave that he has been preparing to hold an anchor to his soul. He conjures a knife and makes a shallow cut on the corpse's hand, letting the blood fall onto the hidden stone entrance. Thunder echoes outside, lightning flashes, and for a split second, the stone shines crimson.

(February 1968)

The body reanimates as Voldemort finishes the chant and walks towards the lake. As soon as it touches the water, the other inferi drag it in.

Voldemort smiles. He really is proud of what he has created inside the cave. He had once read, imagination is the highest kite that can fly. It has always been true for him—his real power is his creative thinking and the way he uses magic to achieve what he imagines.

With one last glance at the powerful, green, shimmering potion that sits in its crystal bowl in the centre of the lake, Lord Voldemort turns around.

(July 1972)

Lord Voldemort Apparates in a seemingly deserted street near his destination. Before he can start to walk to his contact's house, a raspy voice speaks out: "Well I be damned, seems more of you there! Sorcery in daylight and ain't nobody to believe me!"

Voldemort curiously observes the man in rags, Avada Kedavra on the tip of his tongue in case the man finally catches up to the fact that he should be terrified and tries to run away. He doesn't.

"Which other wizard have you seen before, Muggle?"

The tramp raises an eyebrow at the word 'wizard' and crosses his arms. "Those brother and sis, 'course! Seen them with a stick like yous, yes I have!" A pause, and then he whispers: "They's bad. They hurt others."

The Carrow twins sound promising, Voldemort muses, after taking a peek in the tramp's head. What astonishes him is that this man doesn't seem afraid of them in the slightest.

"You don't fear magic."

"Why should I?" asks the tramp. He fishes out a knife from inside of his waistband and waves it. "You got a wood stick. Me? I got a knife. Made it myself, I did! This seen blood, laddie. Stabby, stab, stab!"

Voldemort can't help but laugh. "You are the first Muggle to stand and talk back to me in a long time," he says. "Had you had magic, I would have wanted your wand at my command. Alas, you were not deemed worthy of it and shall be of no use to me alive."

There is a flicker of fear in the man's eyes but the knife in his hand stands poised. Voldemort aims his wand at the man. "You will die an honourable death. You will die for me."

The killing curse hits the tramp in his chest, and he falls to the pavement. Pocketing his wand, Lord Voldemort pulls out the necklace of Slytherin from under his robes and begins the ritual.

-o-

It is a few hours later that Lord Voldemort stands outside the cave that now safeguards a piece of his soul. He stares at the raging storm outside from within, untouched because of the layers upon layers of protection around the cave.

It is more than his magic that protects his anchor. He admires his handiwork, and a feeling of pride surges through him as he observes the brilliance of each protection. His imagination is, and has always been, his greatest strength.

Lord Voldemort took his last breath in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

Miles away, the sky churned and the sea frothed. A cave stood tall and mighty among the cliffs, previously untouched by the thunderstorm, until the very moment Voldemort's lifeless body hit the stone floor, seemingly just another casualty in the war he had caused.

With a crack, the protections around the cave fell, and it was left open to be beat by the tempest. A sharp bolt of lightning struck the cave in the middle. The smallest of rocks were incinerated and large boulders crumbled. As the cave collapsed, the water that had accumulated inside so long ago gushed out from every crack and flowed down, as if it couldn't wait to reconcile with the sea.

— x —