In which Voldemort reminisces in this space between nothing and wholeness.
He was powerful, once.
He was respected and feared, at the peak of his career as Conqueror of the World.
One task, one task: kill a child, and he couldn't do it.
The all-powerful Dark Lord, defeated by a child.
.
It would grow up without loving parents, like he had, and that was some comfort.
They were very similar, him and the boy.
The children of Muggle-loving purebloods and a Muggle. Half-bloods.
But his parents had left him, and the boy's parents had died for him - what made the child so special? What made Harry Potter better than him?
.
But he knew the answer. He was the child of forced love. His mother had ruined his chances before he was even conceived.
Marvolo should never have let her leave the house. Ogden should not have meddled. The Muggle had deserved it.
.
The world had spit in his face since before he had breathed, and he had only ever returned the favor.
And now it had made the last move, and he was forevermore condemned to drift with the breeze - a soul without a body, a being without life, left with his thoughts for all of eternity.
He had wished for immortality, and fate had a sense of humor.
.
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Also for the Quotes Challenge: "Humor is reason gone mad."― Groucho Marx. And for the Character Challenge with Harry, and Bob Ogden.