All his life, they called him selfish. He did nothing to correct them. Truth be told, he enjoyed it. It masked his true intentions. Those that followed him, admired his selfishness. Those that stood against him, detested and condemned it.
He wasn't selfish. Not as much as they believed him to be, anyway. Most of the time, he was simply scared. No one saw past the skin of the feared and respected Dark Lord, to reveal the little petrified child who had been abandoned at an orphanage. The young boy, who was afraid of being left behind again, of being forgotten the way his parents had forgotten him, who craved attention the way one would crave air, because it was the only thing that made him feel safe enough.
When the war came, he was assured of winning, but terrified of the alternative. The alternative that did come true, in the end. The alternative that ensured his dreams of being remembered forever would be shattered.
He had only wanted one thing. He had spent his entire life, trying to achieve it. Harry Potter snatched it away from him, just as it was within his grasp.
Tom Riddle, the freak, boy wonder, Hogwarts Prefect, the Dark Lord, Voldemort, would never overcome the shadows of evanescence.
