Title: "How It Should Be"

Author: Shaitanah

Rating: PG

Timeline: Tom at Hogwarts.

Summary: Tom finds a new name for himself. A powerful and a beautiful one. Please R&R!

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

A/N: I'm not good at making anagrams. Anagrams are courtesy of wordsmith . org

HOW IT SHOULD BE

The very worst part of you is me.

Linkin Park. 'Lying From You'

A droplet of ink falls off the tip of my quill and hits the dry page of the diary. I never really considered keeping a journal before but this could be interesting.

I don't know what to write. So I just practice my signature like a thousand times before when I was bored in class. I have no idea what the hell I might need this for. But I love the accurate curves of my handwriting, all the beautiful sharp 'r', 'l', the rounded 'v' and the pointed edges of the 'M', tiny dot over the 'i'… They say everything about me is perfect including my handwriting.

I remember I used to take different long words, mess them up completely and make anagrams out of them. I glance at the clock. It's half an hour till the end of the lesson. Slughorn has indulged in pleasant memories of his acquaintance with some student's older family member, he won't shut up until he realizes it is already too late (i.e. the time to give homework assignments). Malfoy scribbles something in his parchment. I want to throw a crumpled note at him to get his attention but it's too risky. Well, he's not really a wordsmith, anyway.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

I hiss quietly at the name. Salazar is my witness, I loathe it. I should come up with something more catching, something captivating. Something that would make my enemies quiver with fear. Something I should be able to howl into the stormy night that would make heavens scream back in rage and despair.

Not an easy thing to come up with.

ART MOLD DO LOVER MI

Nonsense.

ART DOLL DOOM RE VIM

More nonsense. I swallow laughter. Half an hour to invent a brilliant alias, now isn't that a challenge? I wish Slughorn would stop reminiscing, it's kind of annoying really.

ROAD DROVE TILL MOM

At least it has some sense in it. Though it's hardly a name. Anything scribbled down in my diary right now can hardly be considered a name.

I growl quietly. I must not lose my patience but I hate it when something so easy like a word-play refuses to work. It's just a fruitless waste of energy. I pull my hand away from the paper when I realized I have been highlighting the word 'mom' for the past two minutes. I turn the page irritably.

A DEVIL DORM MOLT OR

That's better. Though it's still a meaningless number of words. But then again, what is my own Muggle name if not a number of words that have no connection to each other save for the person they represent on paper.

'Dorm'… 'Mord'… 'Mord-red'… 'Mor-dread'… 'More-dread'…

Too bad the name's already been taken a long time ago! With all my pride and egocentrism, I should have probably settled for Merlin himself.

A DEVIL LORD MOM ROT

With a sigh, I'm ready to put my diary away when a word catches my eye. 'Lord'… I purse my lips. That should be interesting. My name should not be a plebian one. A title like a lord would go well with it.

'Lord Rot'… 'Mort'…

The teacher claps his hands and bursts into delighted laughter. "Oh-oh, wonderful! Wonderful!" he cries, overjoyed. Excruciating anger revolves over me. I've already had this magnificent idea and I let it slip away because I got distracted by Slughorn.

Avery eyes me suspiciously. I look away, hiding my dismay, but I really want to hurl a book in his head. All heads present in this classroom.

When it's over, I slip away quietly. I don't feel talkative at the moment. But then again, whenever do I?

I sit down by the old tree on the lake shore and open my diary again. The book lies on my knees, the stupid notes unnaturally bright against the yellowish surface of the paper. I lean into it to smell the ink still fresh, to feel the roughness of the page touch my cheek. I could put it to better use. It's a fine book.

Many evenings afterwards I pour my entire life into the pages of the diary. Sometimes Malfoy sits noiselessly by my side, watching me, sometimes he even reads over my shoulder, and I let him because it brings warm feelings to my heart to know that someone is so interested in my improvised biography. Their interest is a key ingredient of my success so I'll always have to do something extraordinary to keep the commoners intrigued.

I never return to the first pages where my unhappy anagrams stay put.

Malfoy is smoking by the window. It's drizzling outside, and my dorm smells of approaching storm and that awful smoke cloying my nostrils. I toss the book to him. I miss. I'm just glad it didn't go out the window. Abraxas picks it up from the floor and throws it up, catches it and flings it in the air again, hits it with his knees as if playing football. I stand by the window and cast a silent charm to summon my broomstick. I'm bored as hell. I mount it and fly out in the strengthening rain. It beats me in the face, it's chilly and it feels like needles stinging my skin. Malfoy thrusts himself out of the window and imitates a wolf's howl.

"Hear the death flit through the clouds!" he shouts, laughing.

I halt by the window, fling myself inside the room and grab the diary, a bit tattered because of Abraxas's games.

'Mort'… 'Death'… 'Flit'… 'Fly'… 'Flight'…

"Lord Vol-de-mort", I whisper.

Malfoy cocks his head. Drops of rain still stream down my face that suddenly brightens into a shy smile.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

Remember my name.

January 24, 2007