Title: Dust to Dust
Author: Unspoken Tragedy
Spoilers: Just the First, Really
Disclaimer: Please. I am the ruler of the world. (If you believe the aforementioned: seek help. Immediately.)
Summery: 'Lord Voldemort stood on the crumbling terrace, praying that once it fell- he'd go with it.' A war with a different winner.
Series: None, yet...
A/N: I've been MIA for quite some time now (military terms .). Sorry 'bout that. What with the dreaded senior year and RL forcing upon me its troubles, I haven't had as much time to write.
He stood silently on the crumbling terrace, his dark robes graying in the dust; the floor beneath him shaking as if even it trembled before him. He was quite certain that the stone would not hold up for much longer, but death was beyond him at this point.
He had gone so very far to get here.
He wondered what they would think if they realized he could still cry. That some nights the crimson tears snaked their way down his terrible face as he watched his people go about their droll lives.
He had done so very much to gain this.
They were vapid- all of them! They went about their daily routines, like a hive of tiny bees, unknowing of how they'd gotten there and uncaring of what had been sacrificed for them. He loathed them.
They were his prize, his reward for living for them and dying for them and returning for them. He was sure that the gods still laughed at his predicament.
His life's work. It lay out before him like a moving road map, ebbing and flowing with the whims of his people. He hated that this was what he'd wasted his entire life on.
It was astounding how once the muggles had been disposed of how quickly the wizarding world grew. Their hold reached to the bounds of the earth, extending to where the Muggle Empire once had. It had taken several generations, of course.
He'd been so... elated when the resistance fell before him- when every last witch or wizard that opposed him died or bowed before him. It was a great victory. After that it was incredibly easy ridding the world of its muggle influence. He'd even used their own technology against them.
He ascended to his throne in pride. Those that remained desired no rebellion. For they realized that he'd given them the world. The race of man had always been stunningly vain.
At first, he'd laughed at them- delighted in watching their shallow games and knowing that he owned them. As they stretched his empire he'd grin, excited for the new prospect before him.
They still bowed to him; revered him. They waited anxiously for his instruction and swooned when he deemed them worthy a visit. They stared at his crumbling ivory castle in awe, knowing that somewhere inside of it was their master.
He was perfect since they could not remember his crimes. History taught that he was a hero, sometimes even an angel. He'd given them freedom. The muggle race was extinct- and squibs were killed. With a frighteningly cheerful smile, mothers would drown their own children and boast to others of their deed.
He hated them. He'd always thought... That is was only the muggles that could hurt their children in such ways and not care. He thought that by tossing out the bad fruit he could save the rest. He just didn't realize that there was nothing to save.
He'd ruled over them generations before the realization came. With it was bitter disappointment. He'd wasted his life on them.
He had remained in his ivory castle for some time now- their beautiful Lord. He wanted nothing more to do with them.
Lord Voldemort stood on the crumbling terrace, praying that once it fell- he'd go with it.
A/N: I wrote this thinking, "What if Voldemort won? Would he be happy with what he'd gained?"
This is the brainchild of that.
BTW: I have notgiven up onany of my stories. They will be updated.