Lyrics to Father of Mine deleted 2007.
This fic came to me was very demented. I was drawing Tom Riddle when the song came on the radio, and this idea just kind of unfolded. It's about Tom/Voldemort, reminiscing on what small memories he has of his father. Now I know according to the books he ran away the moment his son was born, but bear with me and pretend he waited a bit, hoping his son would not be a wizard...
Warning! I saw 'Unbreakable' when I was starting this, so sorry if any resemblances appear. It was a very kool movie! And the music added to the drama very well. I also saw Gladiator...
Dedicated to Mina, who wrote the best HP fic in the world: FATHER OF MINE about Draco and Lucius. It is the most sickening father/son depressor I have ever read, and I have read them all. So Mina, I thank you and this one is for you! -
Note for all Authors- I review everything I read, so if you have a ficcy about Draco or Lucius, or a father/son thing about them, that I haven't reviewed, tell me and I'll go read it when I have the time. There aren't enough out there...
Corruption
By PikaCheeka
I glanced out the window. It was snowing, as usual. It always snowed up here, not that I would ever tell where this fortress is. I am the Lord Voldemort, the being that hates all and the being all fear and hate. The man behind half the deaths in the world and half the sorrows of the wizarding realm. Only they know I exist, although I believe some muggles are beginning to suspect that some more than supernatural force is killing them, especially because my Death Eaters are not overly concerned if they are seen. It is not normal for a muggle to see a human in a black cloak and hood, wielding a long narrow stick and killing people with the green light that shoots forth.
Rampage.
I love the rampage, the destruction, the fear, the death, and the hatred I bring into this world.
Corruption.
To no great surprise, everyone hates me and wishes me dead. Of only they knew, I am no longer human enough to die to their means. It will take something more, something far more, than a pathetic green-eyed child or a curse to finish me off. Not even the great blade of Salazar Slytherin himself can kill me.
I do, however, have one sickening weakness that I loathe having. It is the lamest, weakest thing in this world. The one that you see every day and the one many give every day.
Love.
For I have never felt it in my life.
My father was a muggle, a worthless muggle. My mother? She was a witch, a witch who died when I was five or so. I do not even remember, my childhood is what I have struggled so long to forget.
I have been unable to. But I have learned to put it behind me and use it as fuel for my hatred. It is a lot easier to hate and to kill if you have a reason.
My reason was that I had a father who cared nothing for me and ran away from me the first chance he got. Why did he run? There is an answer, but I can not quite understand it. I also try to avoid it, for it brings doubt into my work. My work to rid the world of muggles and unworthy wizards.
He ran soon after my birth when he realized I was like my mother. He had known she was a witch for a few months before his departure, and pretended that I would not be like her, and be like him.
The blood of Salazar Slytherin is not that weak.
By the time I was three, I could already work magic. With every nightmare I had, every time I woke up screaming loud enough to wake all Hell, something would appear. It was normally a snake in the darkened corners of the room, watching over the snakechild. My parents never noticed that. They only realized I looked at the corner and stopped.
It was the ravens that finally drove him out.
I could call ravens. Ravens off the streets, still streaked with the blood of the roadkill they had been devouring.
There was also the time when my father took me to the park. It was just past my third birthday, so he was wary of me, wanting to leave.
There had been a dog that had chased me. I still remember how I collapsed, shielding my face with my hands, already ugly with thin, pointed fingers and sharp claws. The hands of someone long dead.
I suppose I was always destined to be the Dark Lord.
After a minute or two of terror, I had flung my arms wide and shouted something. The killing curse? I thought that was what it was, but it couldn't have been.
The dog died, yes, but not normally. It had collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from it's eyes. Then the flesh off of his skull had deteriorated. It continued until he was a skeleton, a twitching skeleton, rolling in blood...
Someone nearby had a camera and began taking pictures for the newspaper. What a sick man. Father had picked me and taken me home, refusing to let the man speak to him. He nor I ever apologized to the dog's owner. I did not care.
Nor did he.
He had taken me home, locked me up in my room, and began to pack. I could hear him speaking to my mother.
He didn't know though. I had known all along that this would be the day he would leave me, and I had taken his wallet. I had burned it.
Served him right, leaving his son behind.
Giving him the only job that allowed. If he had stayed, I might have been different. I may have had bad blood in me, but I may not have been evil.
Maybe.
My mother died two years later. She had died clutching the newspaper article telling the world of young Tom Riddle's first murder.
They, of course, had never said anything about magic. All they said was that the dog was dead. They didn't even say how it died.
I still have the article. It was on the front page. It showed me, a thin child with spiky black hair hanging over my eyes, crouching on the ground. The only things that continue to show perfectly over the years are the eyes. They are narrow, long, green, vivid with hatred.
I suppose I was always destined, doomed, to be the Dark Lord.
But I must have a reason, I must have a purpose. What can possibly come out of being so cruel and cold? Nothing. Death.
As it came to my father.
If it hadn't been for him, Mother may not have died and I would never have been sent to an orphanage.
I didn't kill him until I was sixteen. I plotted it for thirteen years. Thirteen long years of hunting him down and learning how to kill subtly.
He had gone to live with his parents. He had lied to them and said that he had gotten divorced and all that. He never told them he was afraid of his son. Afraid of his son who once loved him.
I cringe at that now, but it is true. I once did, as much as a toddler could. He was my idol, as all fathers are. I tried to be normal for a time. But I gave up. It was impossible. My blood showed through as clearly as it does in my skin.
Those thirteen years after you left were the worst of my life. Mother fell into a state of depression until she died.
I was then sent to an orphanage, where I stuck out very obviously. The other muggle kids knew right away I was not normal, and they hated me for it. It seemed my power positively glowed. For everywhere I went, people scowled, cringed, or pointed and laughed. I was the freak, the reject. They hated me because I was different.
Muggles are so shallow.
They hated me because I was smart, because I went to a strange school and came back with scary clothes on. I purposely wore my robes sometimes, once I realized I would never fit in.
Even at school I didn't fit in.
It seemed the human race in general was cruel.
They turned my mind corrupt.
I remember how once you sent me a birthday card. Nestled within the two side of the flimsy cardboard was a five-dollar-bill.
You might as well have sent me a penny.
I had no need, no desire, for anything muggle. I did not need to buy the food at the orphanage. Besides, if you had money at the orphanage you got beaten up. I was always getting beaten up anyhow. Every time I walked outside, left my dorm, someone would jump me and start punching me.
They even had the nerve to steal my wand a few times.
Those were the times I lost it and really tried to hurt someone. But it seemed the workers at the orphanage had their eyes on me all the time, because whenever I hurt someone, I would get beaten and punished. They always got away with everything they did to me.
Those damned muggle children.
They were worse by far than my father ever was. But he was the one behind it all. If he had never left, I would never be at the ugly stone building full of cruelty. I would only be locked away in my own stone building of a heart with all my own cruelty.
I took up drawing. I drew vivid deaths of everyone around me. The called me daft, drawing black winged horses with bloodied hooves and white dragons with wings made of thin human bones.
They didn't believe these creatures existed.
They called me daft, stupid, lame, over-imaginative, evil, demonic, disturbed, disturbing, demented, twisted, cruel, corrupted...the list went on.
Pity. They were all true.
When my father left, all he left behind was his name. Me. I was his name. I was an idiotic little child to him. Just someone who could brag about his wonderful namesake.
Tom Marvelo Riddle.
I hated that name. I loathed it, despised it, dreaded hearing it.
People called me Tommy, Tomo, Marvel, Riddler. All of those on top of 'freak'.
As soon as I had the power to survive on my own, I left. I hunted down my father and killed him. I spat like a snake does on his body and strode off.
When I was far away, I stopped. Realization dawned on me...
I was not Tom Riddle anymore.
I was the great Lord Voldemort.
All I had to do was make people believe in that title, bow down to me, die for me, die to me.
You abandoned me 'Father'. You didn't even deserve death. You didn't deserve me.
I find it sickening. I pity myself, that I carry your blood in my veins. The blood of an arrogant muggle. One who abandons his child, leaves him behind, allows him to grow into a corrupted man. One who beats his wife, verbally, emotionally, and physically.
I saw you. You realized she was a witch, realized I was one.
And you hated that. You feared it. You feared her, you feared me. And yet, you tormented us.
I dread the fact that I ever looked up to you.
And yet...You.
You can not even light a candle to me.
I am now the Dark Lord. The entire wizarding world knows my name, fears it, hates it. As you hated me and as I hated you. Pity you can not see me now. You would wish you never left me, never hurt me like that.
I began to recruit people a while back, mostly younger people. I remember one child in specific. I made him kill his abusive father when he was seventeen. I then pretended I was his father for a time, for he needed one. I never had one, and I couldn't let someone go through that again.
But he was already ruined. He told me after that the moment his father died, something came over him and he learned to hate. I acted proud, but I wasn't.
It was my fault that Lucius was an orphan.
As it was your fault I was an orphan.
The world would have been safe, I would have been safe, from this terror called Lord Voldemort. If you had never left.
But you risked it all. Don't you see??? You are risking the planet just because you didn't want to raise a son that wasn't like you.
You created me, bought me into this world. And now, I have bought terror, hatred, evil, and death into this world.
I am daft, stupid, lame, over-imaginative, evil, demonic, disturbed, disturbing, demented, twisted, cruel, corrupted...
And I do care.
I do. I care that I am evil. I know that I am wrong. But I try to avoid, I try to forget that. I try to remember you. But even that hurts me. The mere mention of your name, of my name, hurts me deep inside.
I have grown so that I can not let one know the pain.
I do not believe anyone would care anyway. Everyone hates me, so why would they care how I truly feel? They wouldn't.
For I do not care how they feel.
Emotion is a weakness. I am learning to cast it aside forever. For I am the Dark lord. I will one day rule this planet.
And I vow to kill all muggles.
For you, father. You were a muggle. And I vow to destroy all traces of you from this planet.
And that is an honest vow.
It is a vow of corruption, of corruption returned.
Lord Voldemort never lies.