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Tom tomalina tommyboy tommy tomtom—
So many names.
Voldemort.
So many insinuations.
It always fascinated him, you know. How one name could make him something (pathetic) so different, that is. Tom was weak – a little boy – a scared orphan and there was never enough warm water in the winter; we tried everything to get out of bathing because we didn't want to die, but we never could escape for long and it was soverycold. Voldemort, on the other hand – well, he was Lord Voldemort. The unkillable. The killer. The hunter, the enforcer, the god.
The God of Death. Lord of the Death Eaters.
And he loved it. A silly little anagram gave him so much power.
What's that? No, it was a bit of a shield, at first. They could hurt him when he was TomTomalinaTommyboyTommyTomtom, but never when he had his wand. When he had his wand, he was Crucio (go insane from the pain youdon'tknow a tithe of it like how the water burnsyounumb and transmutes into slowpainful death) and Imperio (go on stick the knife up her mudblood cunt you blood traitor) and Avada Kedavra (stop existing now the Lord of Death commands it).
He was never defenseless or weak, and that's the crux of it, isn't it? That's what everyone wants.
You still don't get it. Merlin.
Safety, you tosser. Everyone wants safety. Even my love for the Savior, for the Boy-Who-Lived, was all about a childish need to be protected from the big, bad darkness. If I became his Fair Lady, then I couldn't die, because I would be a main character AND DON'T YOU KNOW THE PRINCESS NEVER DIES!
Not like Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon – they just found pieces of them, you know. I remember when Mum was crying one night and I sneaked down to the kitchen to get some water. I found her asleep, hunched over some tear-stained, official-looking documents – and the papers said a lot of things, but mostly it was this: "We can't find your brothers' arms, calves, right feet, spines, etc."
It was an old document – the anniversary – I'm not going to give you reasons. I'm not.
Anyway, it stopped being a shield. Merlin, you have the attention-span of a fruit fly. Voldemort. It stopped being just a name. After a while, of course. He had to cast a lot of Unforgivables before he could build up a sufficient persona, and –
They were the first curses he ever learned. Oh, I know, I know. I heard the spiel from Crouch, Jr., as well.
And he was right.
Think about it for a second.
Or don't. Whatever. You don't need to believe that an eleven year old could hateandfear enough to spend night after night in the bowels of the freezing (burns you numb) dungeons, practicing Unforgivable Curses on rats until he could kill –
It really wasn't that hard.
(Counting my freckles is harder, actually, because they're EVERYWHERE - I do mean everywhere, even on my breasts and - would you like to look? Ha. Of course you wouldn't. I'm crazy Ginny Weasley.)
Think about it for a second.
Never mind. Don't. I don't think you can comprehend it. I don't think you can comprehend the sheer hate, but I can, and let me tell you one more thing before I shut up.
I cast the Killing Curse full-strength on my first try.
This one will be my twenty-eighth, and I'm still going strong.
Oh, don't look so shocked, you ninny. I'm not about to let you live – I just felt like fucking with your head a bit. I really do enjoy the mindless torture, but you can't blame me. I just spent the past five minutes explaining myself to you. Really, and monologuing is so cliché.
Avada Kedavra.
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A/N: Kay, I'm sorry. Naruka, here you go. Probably not what you were expecting, but this is what popped out. I just got out of the hospital today. Feeling kinda boggy-smooth. Gotta be the drugs.
Another one-shot to the first to guess this title's meaning!