The Fall of the Lords
Half-blood
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. The words haunt me as I run, pounding in my brain as I run from the house of Asriel. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. They will know it was me. They will know I killed him, yet, perhaps they will not turn me in. Lestrange, Rosier, Nott, Mcnair- these people who have tormented me plotted my downfall in a thousand ways.
No. they will not tell. They will merely watch to see what a 18-year-old boy will do now. I have helped them. I have been useful at last. They came to me as one. "Ohh, is Riddle crying again? Miss your mother again?" then they said something new. "Maybe you'd like to be useful, halfblood. Maybe you'd like to pay us back for all the wonderful freedom you enjoy." I knew I would help them. I am a true Slytherin. I desire only to be the greatest of these boys, and, as I cannot, I will regard them with a blend of admiration and hate. "We don't like Asriel, halfblood. We'd like him to go away". No. They ask to much this time.
And yet, as I sit in Asriel's room, chatting idly of the potions final and what an ass Siddalee made of herself, I say it. "They want me to kill you". He is alert at once. "Who?" It irks me that he takes my confidence for granted. "I could, you know. You aren't armed." He laughs. "Nonsense, Riddle, you would never kill me for personal gain. Only a true Slytherin would kill their friends for personal gain." I am torn between hatred of his arrogance, and a heady delight at the powerful undercurrent of our talk. "You don't think so?" I grab a muggle knife he has been experimenting on, and hold it to his neck. He stares back, calm, confidant.
Suddenly- was it a spell on the knife, or just my own anger that I can never be a true Slytherin, that he will never believe it, that I can never equal his cool, contemptuous air- fury wells within me. I strike. The look in his eyes is one of shock. I will carve my name in his chest, and they will learn to fear me.
But that will endanger me. I hesitate, and think of my nickname, the one Asriel and I always bandied about. I pick up a quill, dip it in Asriel's blood, and begin to write.
Now, as horror seizes me, I flee blindly down the road, and as I run Tom Marvolo Riddle fades as though he has never been.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. They will never call me half-blood again.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. The words haunt me as I run, pounding in my brain as I run from the house of Asriel. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. They will know it was me. They will know I killed him, yet, perhaps they will not turn me in. Lestrange, Rosier, Nott, Mcnair- these people who have tormented me plotted my downfall in a thousand ways.
No. they will not tell. They will merely watch to see what a 18-year-old boy will do now. I have helped them. I have been useful at last. They came to me as one. "Ohh, is Riddle crying again? Miss your mother again?" then they said something new. "Maybe you'd like to be useful, halfblood. Maybe you'd like to pay us back for all the wonderful freedom you enjoy." I knew I would help them. I am a true Slytherin. I desire only to be the greatest of these boys, and, as I cannot, I will regard them with a blend of admiration and hate. "We don't like Asriel, halfblood. We'd like him to go away". No. They ask to much this time.
And yet, as I sit in Asriel's room, chatting idly of the potions final and what an ass Siddalee made of herself, I say it. "They want me to kill you". He is alert at once. "Who?" It irks me that he takes my confidence for granted. "I could, you know. You aren't armed." He laughs. "Nonsense, Riddle, you would never kill me for personal gain. Only a true Slytherin would kill their friends for personal gain." I am torn between hatred of his arrogance, and a heady delight at the powerful undercurrent of our talk. "You don't think so?" I grab a muggle knife he has been experimenting on, and hold it to his neck. He stares back, calm, confidant.
Suddenly- was it a spell on the knife, or just my own anger that I can never be a true Slytherin, that he will never believe it, that I can never equal his cool, contemptuous air- fury wells within me. I strike. The look in his eyes is one of shock. I will carve my name in his chest, and they will learn to fear me.
But that will endanger me. I hesitate, and think of my nickname, the one Asriel and I always bandied about. I pick up a quill, dip it in Asriel's blood, and begin to write.
Now, as horror seizes me, I flee blindly down the road, and as I run Tom Marvolo Riddle fades as though he has never been.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. They will never call me half-blood again.