I Am a Rock

It is Christmas. That day means nothing to me.

The house that was once my father's is deserted, other than Nagini, Wormtail, and me. I have dismissed that blundering fool that serves me (Wormtail, of course) so that I can bask in my solitude. I do not want him to intrude upon my thoughts; I do not believe he is familiar with the processes of the brain, especially not a complex, tortured one like mine.

No one is on the streets today – it is far too cold to be out and about, and everyone is at home, celebrating Christmas with family. Little Hangleton is enveloped in snow and silence.

The snow encloses my roiling thoughts; the silence echoes them back to me. I brood in my armchair in front of a fire that yields no warmth, in a cold stone grate. It is like my heart, if I have one: a meaningless flame of life wrapped in hard, frozen emotions.

Such poetic, sentimental metaphors amuse me.

I remember: when I was young, I donned a charming mask, a façade of brilliance, readiness of mind, and aptitude. Now I have spells to protect me: powerful spells that prevent my death. I cannot die, because I am not a man. I am much, much more than a man, as I said to that last old Muggle that I killed… I am a mastermind, the chess player of the world. I play neither white nor black, neither good nor evil; I play the red pieces, whatever color they are coupled with. Power, and the blood spilled in seeking it.

Ah, more amusing metaphors.

Other people are my pawns. They are useless for anything else. Either I use them for my purposes, or I kill them, or both. Is this evil? I do not believe in good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it, as I taught Quirrell before I used him and then disposed of him. I hurt others, yes; but I have been hurt myself.

I reflect on my history. The first time I heard the story, it gouged a wound in my soul; the sharp pain has been reduced since then, but still exists somewhere deep inside the hollow cavern that is my being. My mother was a witch of ancient, noble ancestry – the line of Salazar Slytherin himself. My father was a common, lowborn Muggle. She loved him.

This love bound her to him, even though her family disowned and disinherited her for it. But he abandoned her, pregnant with his son, when he found out that she was a witch. She died just after giving birth to me, and lived only long enough to name me. I bear the name of my worthless father: Tom Riddle. But I discarded that name, and the pain it carries.

I am Lord Voldemort: a twisted version of the Tom Marvolo Riddle I once was. Everything about me has been twisted in the transformations I have undergone over the years. The pain of betrayal has turned into burning anger, then into a cold hate for the world that I still bear. The love I once had for the idea of my mother is now a hunger for revenge upon the world that killed her…and a part of me.

I killed my father. It was my first murder: that revenge. But it wasn't enough. I wanted immortality, because I never wanted to die alone and abandoned like my mother. I wanted power, because it had been denied me for so long. But I already had utter immunity to the emotions of humanity. They were my mother's undoing. And I wanted to be above the petty cares of man. No…I am not a man. I am much, much more than a man…

I have always been more intelligent than any other. In my fifth year at Hogwarts School, I created a diary in which my memories, and my spirit, could be preserved forever – a feat that could not be accomplished by any ordinary wizard. No, my mind is the brilliance of the full moon while that of an ordinary wizard is one of billions of stars…rather dim stars.

I am really surpassing myself today with the poetic metaphors.

And surely no one could have attained the power that I did! Thanks to my careful plotting, my deceit, my systematic ruthlessness, I was on the verge of domination of the entire wizarding world! I was feared universally – all trembled at my sign, the skull and the snake, for they meant the killing and ravaging of my Death Eaters. I had power over death! I was the one who dealt it, I was protected from it; in my timeless hands were the spinning wheel, the measuring rod, and the scissors of the Fates! No one dared to speak my name – the twisted name that embodied the death of millions of people, Muggle and wizard alike; the death of my own humanity, my potential for love…the death of life.

And yet, no one could have had that wondrous power dashed away as quickly as did I. Not by a baby boy, "the boy who lived," as so many think; by his mother, who shielded him with her life, which she gave up, and with her love, which has thwarted me to this day…because I have no defense against love – such a defense can only be love itself, which I lost long ago, and do not miss. Love is a weakness. It did not gain me my power, and it will not be what helps me regain that power. It blinded and killed my mother. How odd, though, that among our many similarities, one is that Harry Potter and I were both kept alive by the determination…and, yes, love of our mothers. But it is hate that has sustained me through my years of exile – hate, and desire. Hate has kept me alive, and so I am here today, alone…

And they still fear my name, and they still fear me. They fear the unadulterated evil that they see me as – they with their disillusioned visions of morality. They fear my cold indifference toward killing, and toward causing pain. I relish their fear. Even my servants and allies are terrified of me. That is power, and it is my strength.

I hear Nagini coming up the stairs. She is the embodiment of true beauty: such crushing force contained in such slender coils. "It's that stupid, mewling servant of yours," she says to me. "Should I bar his way so you can be alone to think?"

"No," I respond, stirring from my pensive reverie. "Let Wormtail in – he might have something important to say for once. I believe I have had enough time to think."