[The copyrights are the usual. Characters © JK Rowling and blahblahblah. The only original character is Snow, who is © me. Go I. ^^]
I wanted to be your saviour.
I wanted to be so much more than what I am turning out to be.
Pain is so swift to claim its hold over me. But who am I to decline it? There is proof, then, that I am worthy of something other than your disgust, your menace. This pain makes me stronger; and in the end, I will overcome these threats, and these insults, that you so skillfully toss my way.
I wrote that when I was fourteen.
The mind of a child is a silly thing, to be sure. Yet, I must never underestimate it. Words spoken in foolishness do not lack the emotion of an adult's voice. They may be pained over something so little compared to greater hurts, yet it does not make the pain less.
But I ramble. I will still ramble, but over something a little more… meaningful. To me. This is my journal. I will write what I wish.
Life was harsh, as a child. Yet, like the lifetimes of most, my happiest moments took place during the stages when I was in my innocence, unblemished – and sometimes even during the days of corruption, those wild years at school.
Despite bad times, I still managed to find peace with myself. At the orphanage, as a toddler, I was almost continuously suffering from a mild depression, which was often erased by my playmates.
They were sad children, too. So we stuck together.
One of the worst times of my life, however, was when I was eleven years old, and I woke up with an envelope on my pillow. For I had received every orphan's dream, it seems.
I was a wizard. I was something. I would grow up, and become great. I could escape the meager life that I currently lived, this sad ramshackle building and these sad little children.
I did not want it.
How could they do this to me? I thought. These people, these… wizards. They are not so great, I believed. If I am so important, if these wizards are so wonderful… why did they leave me to rot among these non-magic folk?
But my mother loved me, and she was a witch. And love killed her in the end, yes, but it was there, and that is something.
The same went for the humans, the people I had been around for the early part of my life. Yes, I hated a fair amount of them, including my father. But some… they were kind, they were… loving, perhaps. And thus I learned the lesson that there is no evil in the world.
And there is no good.
There is power, though. My professor, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, was the one I learned this from. Magnificent, interesting lady, to be sure. Eccentric, perhaps; but all great minds are, in a way.
Professor Snow, she was called; her bloodline settled deep with the noble family of Winter, where power lurked to those brave enough to call upon it. She was cast out, though, as a child. However, this ultimately failed to dent her spirit, her confidence, and her poise. Always did she persevere, despite the threat of the ever present Albus Dumbledore lurking about her shoulder, suspicious and dark.
Ah, Dumbledore. Why are you so beloved? Why do people look at you with awe, and joy? There have been rough spots for you, yes, but how come people are so stupid they cannot see your faults; refuse to even if they are pointed out?
Perhaps they forget.
I do not forget, Dumbledore. My mind is as sharp as it ever was. I can still remember my years at school with clarity, as if they were perfect moving photographs, lifelike and vivid and real. I remember Dumbledore.
I remember that he destroyed me.
Slowly.
Snow corrupted, but Dumbledore destroyed. He laid down the stepping stones to my destruction, to my exile. And still he wants to kill me; still he labels me guilty without any bruised conscience to weigh down his own twisted mind. He believes himself above me, and he believes himself to be the wise mentor, and it was through faults of mine that I went astray.
Nay. Snow was my mentor. It was she that unearthed for me the Unforgivables. It was she who showed me power, and the meaning of it. Snow was the teacher who gave me lights to see my way, and the spells to alter my path to what I saw fit.
Dumbledore destroyed me. Snow took the ashes, and turned them to fire.
Peace. That was what I spoke of before I was carried away, was it not? I knew peace, as a child. Now, in the embittered life of the adult, it is a foreign thing. Knowledge destroyed my peace, but knowledge gave me power. And I wonder… was it a smart exchange?
Did I do this for myself, or for Slytherin? For my own bloodline, long withered to dust? Did I do it to slap Dumbledore in the face?
Late now is the hour, and late is my regret. Things have been done that cannot be erased, and it is too late to look back and wish for something different. For I am pleased with this ending, this creation of myself. Not happy – never happy – but pleased.
I am Lord Voldemort, and it is all I ever wanted. I hold no regret.
[Closing Note: I love Voldie. Gimme a break! XD]