The Little One with Green Eyes

49: His Son Part II

-December 8, 1991-
Once, only a few months after Voldemort had brought his son home, Little One had fallen from the oak tree in his bedroom. He had been working on some paperwork when he heard a startled scream and loud thump. He recalled the way his heart had dropped to his stomach and the way he raced into the room, his eyes wide with terror. The noise was the first sound Little One had made since Voldemort brought him home.

Voldemort could remember the way his palms had sweat as he burst into Little One's bedroom, his eyes darting around expecting some enemy trying to kill his precious child, only to fall on Little One's crying figure under the large oak tree. With no sign of imminent danger, Voldemort had carefully walked up to his crying toddler and scooped him up in his arms, and pressed kisses to his face until he stopped crying.

He could remember with perfect clarity, the way Little One had whined and buried his face in Voldemort's shoulder, and softly spoke to him for the first time since he became an inferius.

"Fell Papa," he had whispered into his robes. "Pretty lights."

Little One, ever the curious child, had climbed up the giant oak tree to look at the floating lights Voldemort had spelled on to it. He must have lost his grip or something because he fell through the branches and landed hard on his arm. The bone had snapped, but Little One wasn't crying from the pain---his pain receptors didn't work the same way they did when he was alive. He still felt things, obviously, but the pain of breaking his arm would have felt like getting a scrape on the knee to him---he was crying from the shock of falling.

Voldemort, on the other hand, felt the adrenaline crashing in his body when he realized that his son was in no real danger. He could recall the way his hands had trembled slightly as he healed Little One's bones.

That was the second time Voldemort had failed to protect his precious treasure. The first being the incident in which the muggle killed his son, the second being a wake-up call. Voldemort could remember the way he had cradled Little One's body in his arms for the rest of the day, paying no mind to the way his arms ached after a few hours.

Voldemort vowed that day, holding his child tight in his arms, that he would always protect Little One from the dangers that awaited him, even if those dangers were from Little One himself.

Voldemort could remember the way he felt that day in perfect clarity because that's exactly how he feels right now.

Voldemort couldn't breathe as he stared at Larry the duck. The duckling was sitting on the desk in front of him, his disfigured beak opening and closing with loud quacks as he undoubtedly called for Little One.

Voldemort couldn't breathe right, and he sucked in more and more air, and though he could feel the air filling his lungs, he felt like he was drowning.

What was this feeling? What was it? Voldemort clawed at the desk as he struggled to pull in more air. Why wasn't he breathing?

"You are breathing, My Dear," came a soft, agonized whisper. Voldemort grit his teeth, refusing to look at the being who was sitting by the fireplace. Voldemort had lit it when he stormed into his office, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. Despite the roaring flame, though, Voldemort just couldn't seem to get warm. "You are breathing, you're just in shock."

"I am not in shock," Voldemort snarled, slamming his fists onto the desk and startling the duckling. Voldemort let out a sharp breath of air and dragged his fingers through his hair before he tenderly scooped the duckling---his son's little duckling---into his hands. "I am not in shock," he repeated softly. "I am focusing. I need to bring him back quickly."