A/N: OK. This story does not reflect me as a whole. Everybody has darkness in them. I am drawing on that darkness, OK? I'm not feeling very good today. I didn't take my Paxil last night, and, if you take high doses of Paxil or any other anti-depressant, you know what that means. Withdrawal is not a pretty thing. Please do not read this story if you are looking for sex. This story is not about sex. Sure, I rated it R. Does that really matter???. So if you want sex, go away, OK? I don't need you here. I'm in a bad mood and I do not write erotica, so again, JUST GO AWAY.
Sorry. To anyone who is not reading this solely because of the little R-thing, thank you. Please forgive me for my bad mood. I am usually not like this. Blessings, blessings, blessings, I love you, I am just Paxil-deprived. Again, sorry. Also, I am not saying that anorexics are attention-seekers. For the most part, they aren't. This is just the view of a twisted Harry. Take nothing to heart.
To make things clear: Sure, there is sex in here. It is because I am using it as part of the story, dammit, not one of those Titanic-esque "hey, look, the rating just went up!" scenes. If I meant it to be one, you'd know. For one thing, I'm a lesbian. So let's just leave that matter ALONE.
Disclaimer: The withdrawal belongs to my Paxil. Therefore, the story belongs to my Paxil. Harry Potter and other characters belong to J.K. Rowling, in the form that she has written them. Everything bad about this belongs to me. The name "Avram" belongs to Avram, who may actually be Tom Riddle- Genevieve, you should have kidnapped him for me! Yada yada yada. If you're offended by any of this, I have one thing to say: why didn't the rating warn you away????
Anyway. The story.
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Call me Harry Potter. Call me The Boy Who Lived. The Famous Boy, Potter, whatever. You know, I really don't care what you call me. Because I'm sick of this. Sick of fame, sick of lying. Sick of you gawking idiotic fans, you and your gawking idiotic fan art. Fan fiction. Fan whatever. Sick of it ALL. And that's it.
You know what? I'm going to tell you the truth. The TRUTH. Truth, with blaring trumpets, no matter how badly they're played. You've all been reading those stupid books, haven't you? Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. What shit. What pure, bloody shit. J.K. Rowling, here comes your hero, ready to topple your fame! Look out, people, her fame's gonna fall! KABAM.
I wish. But you aren't really going to believe me, are you? Just another fanfic. Just another story. Well, the denial award goes to you dimwits. Just want to worship your hero. Well, you can go on believing in your stupid mirage of a Harry if you feel like it. I can't stop you. But here's the truth if you want it. Here it is.
Let's begin with my parents. Little Lily and James Potter. True love. Romeo and Juliet. Hah. You want the facts? Truly? Sure they were innocent. Naïve, yes. In love, maybe. You know all that, though. You've read it in those damn books. Did you know how stupid they were? She should have been blond, Lily. Little bouncy anorexic. Anorexic? Attention-seeker. She'd whine and cry and make scenes over eating, sniffling and saying how much was hated her. How we made her do this. "Just be honest! You hate me, don't you?" Sniff, sniff. "I'm fat and ugly, aren't I?" She knew she wasn't. Eventually, she'd be consoled into eating. Brownies were her favorite. She'd have James buy them, and then he'd have to force her into eating them. She'd pretend to hate it, nibbling like a rubber mouse at that thing. "Just one more bite," he'd plead, and after a few sniffles she would, of course. He was okay, I guess. Lacking a few million brain cells- they both cheated all seven years of school- but okay. Blandly okay.
So you'll be wanting to know: why'd I live? If it wasn't my mother's love than saved me, what was it? You tell me. You mean you seriously haven't guessed? Voldemort knew, of course! He knew that I was his child- blood of my mother, blood of my father, but Voldemort's child. I can remember how it happened-
Red hair spilled from her head and down the back of the sofa. Perfectly clipped, of course. Lily was that kind of person. She was transfixed by the images floating before her- a sort of wizard soap opera, I guess you'd call it. Three dimensions and easily transportable. She held the control in her hand, the golden orb reflecting pale skin and neatly rounded nails. Presently, one of those nails, the one decorated with jittery green stars, tapped it, raising the sound a few notches. Tinny laughter filled the room, bouncing off sickly beige walls and gold-plated wall sconces. James, on the other end of the sofa, chuckled too, his voice contrasting oddly with the laugh track. He crept closer to his wife, eyeing her nervously, just as intent on his quarry as she was on the vid. Neither of them noticed the black fire that slithered in through the window, inching closer and close to James as the moments dragged on. With a flash, it crawled up his pant leg.
Meanwhile, James' hand migrated, seemingly of its own accord, to Lily's leg. She didn't notice, and he visibly relaxed. Eyeing her breasts, his hand slunk upward, and finally Lily did notice. Sighing, she let him fondle her, undoing her own buttons without feeling. He slid his hand into that tangle of hair to the skin beneath. Against her will, Lily was aroused, and she shifted closer to her husband, feeling his fingers inside her. She felt something, some dead, uncanny fire, flow from him to her and begin to flame coldly in her womb, but forgot it in a fleeting moment, escaping into the misery of lust, of oblivion.
I don't need to tell what happened next. Eight months and twenty-seven days later, I was born. You aren't supposed to remember your own conception, I know. But I remember far more than I should: not only creaking bedsprings and nibbled brownies, but every moment of those months before my parents were killed. Before Voldemort found me. He didn't need to find Pettigrew to find me; I am his heir, his mind-child. Closer than blood. I am Voldemort. Tom Riddle? He was only a mirage, a mirage written into tangibility. All of that Harry Potter you've read of, all of that Harry you love- that, too, is no more real than a dream. Nothing but a façade, my dear, nothing more than a façade. Heir of Lord Voldemort, I am, not The Boy who Lived as I am called- what do you think, shall I re-arrange those letters to make my new name? Or, really, Harry Potter should be the name I change, Harry Avram Potter. For now you may call me Ashes, for the ashes of your dreams, for the savior I have burnt at the stake- Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Including dreams.
Wait for me, my dears. I am Lord Voldemort. I am Tom Riddle. I will be great. I will be ruthless. You will fear me, you will dread me. Wait for me. Wait for me.
Until we meet again...