Title: Victorious

Author: Unspoken Tragedy

Rating: PG-13 for death themes

Spoilers: Chamber of Secrets

Disclaimer: I do not own Tom Riddle, Voldemort, or anything else you recognize, maybe even the plot. –Shrugs-

Summery: And here I am standing, at the end of the final battle. I am not the victor as I had always imagined. For the first time ever, my father has won: Tom Riddle's thoughts as he kills his father.

Series: On the Other Side- First in a series of vignettes of certain significant events in some of the darker characters' lives.

A/N: Yes, I know. I promised not to start anymore stories. And I'm not, well not really anyways. This series is just a way to keep my ideas flowing while not getting bored with my other stories. I definitely will put my other stories in priority over this series!!

Anyways, I'm pretty much trying here to write other characters other than my norm (Severus). I always had a soft spot for Tom, even though I really don't like Voldemort. I don't know if I do him justice, so tell me what you think!!! ThanX!!


He just crumbled to the ground.

There were no screams, no helpless pleas, no shaky gasps of 'why'. He just crumbled to the ground, silent and accepting. I thought that it would be satisfying to see him die.

Maybe it would have been so had he not gone so silently.

I hated him. Oh, how I hated him. I loathed the man, really. For years I had been forced to endure his drunken taunts, his angry blows. For years I had been forced to be his victim, his play toy. He loved to see how many hits I could take before I would scream. I think the ultimate score was thirty-two.

He'd killed my mother. My beautiful, caring mother. She had done nothing less than serve him in the 18 years they'd been together, and how did he reward her? He murdered her. He'd been so bloody triumphant that night. That was the night when my hatred was borne.

Every night I spent under his roof I'd imagine a million different ways I could kill him. Poisons, curses, a sharp blow to the head, stab wounds, the list went on and on. I think that may be the only way I had survived those years unscathed.

But that only depends on your definition of unscathed, I suppose. I still had the scars, those tiny little white lines snaking their way across my body and heart. Perhaps it was those scars, the ones hidden deep inside, that drove me to act. Perhaps it was merely an act of vengeance- a repayment for the murder of my mother.

In any event, here I am, and there he is, lying on the floor in his ungraceful little heap. I'd always imagined this moment to be more, well glorious. I'd stand victorious, the winner in the end. I'd stand tall and confront him, telling him how much I hated him and that he had not broken me.

It wasn't like that at all. I'd had this whole speech prepared. I did not speak a word of it. To the end, I was still terrified of him. My filthy Muggle father. I was so much stronger than him, even as a thirteen year old. Yet my legs still shook when I faced him, my breath quaking with fear.

He had taken everything from me. I despised him. And yet, standing there, my mother's wand poised at his chest, I was scared.

He was defenseless; no weapon he could wield would combat the power of Dark Magic. He didn't speak a word. He just watched me silently, his eyes telling me what he was too lazy to put into words. You'll never do it. You're afraid. You don't have the guts.

"Avada Kedavra." The words echoed between us.

His eyes widened slightly as the green light illuminated the dark room. And he just collapsed to the ground. There was no glory to be had in that.

It was then that I had realized: he had won.

How many times had our roles been reversed? How many times had it been I who'd fallen, whist he watched in amusement? Each time I did not utter a sound, did not say a word.

I had been the winner then, for I had not let him break me, I had not let him destroy me.

Now? The winner lay silently on the worn carpet, cold and dead. He had not made a sound, even when faced with death, simply falling to the floor.

My mother's death has been repaid. Tom Riddle Sr. is dead.

As is, I suppose, his son. The one who held so strong, despite the tough life he'd been given. Yes, Tom Marvolo Riddle is dead also.

And here I am still standing, at the end of the final battle. I am not the victor as I had always imagined. For the first time ever, my father has won. He destroyed Tom Riddle Jr. forever. And standing in Tom's place?

A monster. A killer. My fate is sealed now, though I did not know it coming here tonight.

Tom Marvolo Riddle has departed. Perhaps he will be buried with his mother.

I suppose not, for his death had left no body.

And who took the life of our poor Tom?

Why, me of course.

I am Lord Voldemort. Soon to be the most powerful and feared wizard in the entire world.

You'd do well to remember my name. You'll be hearing of me later, before you too collapse to the ground in a flash of green light.



A/N: Ah and there it is! My first Tom story!! Comments are very welcome, so tell me what you think!

Oh and just a bit of explaining before you go and tell me that I'm not following the canon stories:

-Tom was not convicted of his father's death simply because there was no proof that Tom had killed him. Tom used his mother's wand, so when the authorities checked his own the curse would not be found. (Of course they wouldn't expect him to have used his mother's wand.)

- The events, times and such may not be completely accurate, but do not go against canon because Rowling wrote very little about Tom's past.

-Tom was a powerful wizard. He hated his father and no doubt wanted him dead, so I believe even at thirteen he was able to cast the Unforgivables.