I have always hated the wizarding world.
No—that is not precise. Precision matters. I do not hate all of it. I hate what it became. I hate the cowards who cling to outdated traditions, the fools who bleat about blood purity as though heritage is the measure of strength. And above all, I hate one man.
Albus Dumbledore.
The name is a curse upon my tongue.
He sits atop his ivory tower, feigning wisdom, a master manipulator who pulls the strings of this pitiful society. And the world calls him good. They kneel at his feet, blinded by his honeyed words, believing his hand to be gentle when I know it for what it is: the grip of a serpent, strangling the future. He is the architect of my downfall. The warden of the prison in which I was forced to play their role for me: the Dark Lord.
I never wished to become this.
The title sits ill upon me, like armor too heavy to move within. I wanted power, yes. Strength, always. I wanted to be Minister of Magic, the only position from which real change could be forged. But fate—if such a thing exists—has shackled me to a throne of ash.
The voices return.
They scratch at the back of my skull, whispers without language, suggestions without form. They tell me to destroy, to kill, to conquer. They have been with me for years now. Sometimes I think they were born the night I split my soul the first time. Sometimes I fear they were always there, waiting. I resist them, though often it feels less like resistance and more like drowning in an endless tide.
I shift upon my chair—a throne, or the mockery of one. My legs cross, my fingers tap against the carved armrest. The Gaunt Manor is silent, save for the low groan of timbers under winter's chill. The house of my ancestors is little more than ruins dressed in shadow, but it serves. The old stones listen. They remember blood.
A shiver runs across my spine. My breath comes uneven, sharp with effort. I press my thumb to the temple, shutting my eyes against the pressure of those damned voices. Burn this cursed world, kill the blood-traitors. Rage war, become the Dark Lord and destroy the Wizarding World!
Always the same. Always wanting the same damn thing, this damn voice seemingly controlling me my entire damn life.
I do not know how many regrets I have amassed. Too many. The war spiraled beyond me. The masks and rituals, the killing, the endless slaughter—none of it was my original design. I sought to lead, to purge weakness, to reshape. Yet here I am: a monster, a terror spoken of to children in bedtime tales. A cautionary shadow.
The sudden crack of apparition pulls me from reverie. The air shudders, and I sense it immediately: one of mine, arriving within the wards. The hurried cadence of footsteps down the hall tells me he rushes. Few dare disturb me unless with reason.
A knock comes at the library doors.
"Enter," I commanded, my voice level, smooth as glass.
The great doors creak open, and Severus Snape enters. His dark robes trail behind him like spilled ink, his head bowed. He smells faintly of potions and damp stone, as he always does. He moves with the wariness of one accustomed to walking along the edge of a blade.
"Severus," I drawl. "You come in haste. Speak."
He bows, stiffly, and the faintest quiver betrays nerves. "My Lord," he begins, his voice oily, careful, "I bring news… of a prophecy."
A prophecy. The word chills me, though I do not show it. Prophecies are treacherous things, dangerous threads that bind the future in ways even I cannot control. My eyes narrow.
"Go on," I say.
He swallows, then recites with deliberate clarity:
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."
The words linger in the air like smoke.
I drum my fingers against the wood, thoughtful. Prophecies twist truth with riddles. They do not lie, but they do not reveal the whole. Which child? Which family? Whose defiance? My mind turns sharply.
I snap my fingers. The sound echoes through the chamber, and another apparition crack splits the silence. Lucius Malfoy appears, elegant as ever, though even his poise bends beneath my call. He bows low.
"My Lord."
"Lucius," I say, my voice calm but edged with steel. "Tell me: which of my enemies has thrice refused my summons?"
He hesitates, then answers: "Frank and Alice Longbottom, my Lord. They have defied you on three occasions. As have James Potter and his wife—the Mud blood, Lily Potter."
Snape stiffens at the name. I do not miss it.
I turn my gaze upon him, lingering, letting the silence sharpen into a blade. He clears his throat, uneasy. Then, carefully, he speaks: "My Lord… I beg only for this. If you must choose… spare her. Spare Lily."
Ah. So there it is.
The breath in the room tightens. Malfoy shifts uncomfortably, though he dares not speak. I regard Snape coolly. Inside, a dozen calculations ignite. His plea is born not of loyalty to me, but of personal attachment. Love. Pathetic, dangerous love. Yet useful, perhaps. A man who begs can be bound.
I let the silence stretch until he trembles faintly beneath my gaze.
"You presume much," I say at last, voice low and cold. "To beg favors of me."
He bows deeper, nearly crumpling. "My Lord… I live to serve. Only this I ask."
I wave a hand, dismissive, though my mind churns as I realize I have but a mere two months before the seventh month ends. "Leave me, when a child is born, notify me."
Both bow, retreating with measured haste. The doors close, and once more I am alone.
The firelight dances across the walls, shadows stretching long. I lean back in my chair, hands steepled. The prophecy echoes again in memory: born as the seventh month dies… mark him as his equal. Equal. The word strikes me like venom. I have no equal.
And yet…
The voices stir once more. Find the child of the prophecy and kill them, kill the blood-traitors!