A/N: I had the idea for this fic a few days ago, and it was just calling me. I think it's
a really original idea, and I hope you agree with me. Who knows, if I get motivated, it might
be the first in a series of monologues by various under-represented characters. Inspired by
the question "What do we really know?"
Disclaimer: Madam Pince, Harry Potter, and all related ideas and "things" are the property of
JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, Scholastic Publishing, and a bunch of other companies. Don't
sue me, because the only thing I would have to give you would be my precious books.
These walls are like a prison to me.
Everyday I wake up, and come here, to these four walls. Everyday I do the same mundane tasks.
Everyday of my miserable pathetic life.
To some this place is a refuge. A haven, if you will, from the fast-paced Hogwarts life.
Students come here for a bit of quiet. Once they cross the threshold of this sacred place,
they enter the Kingdom of Solitude. They feel safe, surrounded by silence. And by books.
They stand on the shelves in a dignified way. Somehow just being around them can make a student
feel more intelligent. True, the books can be intimidating. Large, leather volumes peek at you,
eyes seeming to watch from their dusty pages. The knowledge they hold is more than any person
could learn in a lifetime. And still, they try to read them all. I have seen many in the past,
who come as if to their home. And in a way it is their home, it is where they feel comfortable.
The students with the books. Books will always be there, and they always try to read them all.
But I have yet to see one succeed. There have been two or three close calls, yes, but not one
has completed the task.
I used to be one such student. I used to be a great lover of books. I could come here, to my
sanctuary, everyday, and look forward to opening the moldy and decaying books, the novels and
encyclopedias. It was all in my thirst for knowledge. I had the dream that knowledge would lead
to power.
That was a long time ago.
Now I hate books. They are a sign of the life a lead, of this prison I am trapped in. For I am
the ruler of this Kingdom of Solitude. But not willingly, not in the least bit. I had the crown
forced upon my head, with my pleas taken for as much worth as a grain of salt. These books used
to be my friends. But now they laugh at me, from their tall shelves, spanning wall to wall and
floor to ceiling. They are a reminder of how I am trapped. I am trapped in my own Azkaban.
But why am I here? What a silly question. I am here for one reason: I am dangerous.
Dangerous? Me? I knew you wouldn't believe me. What danger could an old, decrepit librarian
hold? What danger could she put the people of the wizarding and muggle world in?
I could destroy them all, if I wished. I could have the world flattened, and put the remaining
pieces in the palm of my hand, and scatter them to the fickle winds. I could enslave the human
race, and together with my King of Darkness we would rule over the land. All spirits would be
crushed, all fragile minds bent to do my bidding. It would be paradise. With my knowledge, I
would have a power over them. And with my power, I could be happy.
Of course, that is if they would let me have a wand, if they would let me do magic. They
condemn me to this room, and they deny me the use of the power I was born with. They try to
crush my spirit, but I cannot be swayed. They don't allow me to have a wand, because they are
afraid of what I would do with it. That's why all students are severely instructed not to leave
their wands lying about, incase it fell into the hands of this feeble old woman. I wouldn't
be so feeble anymore.
What gives me such ideas? What makes me have such murderous and malignant ideas?
When I was a student, someone told me something I would never forget. "There is no such thing
as good and evil," he had said. "There is only power, and those to weak to seek it."
He was right, naturally. I didn't understand at first, but he helped me to see. He helped me,
because he loved me. I was the only girl he had ever loved, and I had loved him back, with a
strength and a passion that had almost frightened the both of us.
He helped me develop my talents, so I was nearly as powerful as him. It was amazing to see what
I things I could do, what goals I could achieve. And when we graduated school, we began making
our plans. Plans that took decades to form. Eighteen years ago, we began to set these words
and ideas into a reality. We started our own group, a society who had ideals like us. Wizards
and witches who wanted to clean the world of the mudblood and half-blood filth. People who
still recognized the value of being a pureblood wizard.
But two years after we had started, something happened. An accident. He was struck down by a
child, a baby no less. A raven-haired, emerald-eyed child who had no idea what power he
possessed, nor how he would change the lives of millions the world over. This infant nearly
killed my love. I wasn't with him when it happened, but I was captured shortly after the attack.
Aurors had been sent to find me, and they used Veritaserum to weasel the information out of me.
I tried to resist, I truly did. But the potion was too powerful. They found out everything about
the plan.
They were going to send me to Azkaban, but they decided they wanted me under the observant eye
of Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard with talent enough to detain me from associating with my
former people. So they placed me here, as a librarian, to ward off suspicion. And they gave me
the name I bear now. Madam Pince. It is a nasty, common name. A name undeserving to be used when
referring to myself. If my love hears of me, he will not know it is I. I hope one day he will
realize who I truly am, and he will come and rescue me, and we can continue our plan of world
domination.
But until then, I cling to hope. The hope that one day he will find me. And everyday, I write
my true name down, so I will never forget who I really am.
I am Mrs. Tom Marvolo Riddle, Mrs. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. Madam Pince. But not Madam Pince, just
Mrs. Castalina Riddle.
I sit here, dusting shelves, sorting volumes, checking out books to the snobby, ill-mannered
students who come to this school.
One is approaching the check-out counter. A boy with raven hair, and eyes that sparkle like the
emeralds in the ring my love once gave me. I smile as I stamp the card inside his book. He
thinks I am smiling because I am glad to see him, and he smiles back.
I know I smile because I am dreaming of the pleasure I would get from killing him, this boy who
destroyed my love. My husband and myself will come, one day, for this boy, and we will torture
and kill him.
But until then, I sit and smile, stamping his books and plotting his demise.
a really original idea, and I hope you agree with me. Who knows, if I get motivated, it might
be the first in a series of monologues by various under-represented characters. Inspired by
the question "What do we really know?"
Disclaimer: Madam Pince, Harry Potter, and all related ideas and "things" are the property of
JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, Scholastic Publishing, and a bunch of other companies. Don't
sue me, because the only thing I would have to give you would be my precious books.
These walls are like a prison to me.
Everyday I wake up, and come here, to these four walls. Everyday I do the same mundane tasks.
Everyday of my miserable pathetic life.
To some this place is a refuge. A haven, if you will, from the fast-paced Hogwarts life.
Students come here for a bit of quiet. Once they cross the threshold of this sacred place,
they enter the Kingdom of Solitude. They feel safe, surrounded by silence. And by books.
They stand on the shelves in a dignified way. Somehow just being around them can make a student
feel more intelligent. True, the books can be intimidating. Large, leather volumes peek at you,
eyes seeming to watch from their dusty pages. The knowledge they hold is more than any person
could learn in a lifetime. And still, they try to read them all. I have seen many in the past,
who come as if to their home. And in a way it is their home, it is where they feel comfortable.
The students with the books. Books will always be there, and they always try to read them all.
But I have yet to see one succeed. There have been two or three close calls, yes, but not one
has completed the task.
I used to be one such student. I used to be a great lover of books. I could come here, to my
sanctuary, everyday, and look forward to opening the moldy and decaying books, the novels and
encyclopedias. It was all in my thirst for knowledge. I had the dream that knowledge would lead
to power.
That was a long time ago.
Now I hate books. They are a sign of the life a lead, of this prison I am trapped in. For I am
the ruler of this Kingdom of Solitude. But not willingly, not in the least bit. I had the crown
forced upon my head, with my pleas taken for as much worth as a grain of salt. These books used
to be my friends. But now they laugh at me, from their tall shelves, spanning wall to wall and
floor to ceiling. They are a reminder of how I am trapped. I am trapped in my own Azkaban.
But why am I here? What a silly question. I am here for one reason: I am dangerous.
Dangerous? Me? I knew you wouldn't believe me. What danger could an old, decrepit librarian
hold? What danger could she put the people of the wizarding and muggle world in?
I could destroy them all, if I wished. I could have the world flattened, and put the remaining
pieces in the palm of my hand, and scatter them to the fickle winds. I could enslave the human
race, and together with my King of Darkness we would rule over the land. All spirits would be
crushed, all fragile minds bent to do my bidding. It would be paradise. With my knowledge, I
would have a power over them. And with my power, I could be happy.
Of course, that is if they would let me have a wand, if they would let me do magic. They
condemn me to this room, and they deny me the use of the power I was born with. They try to
crush my spirit, but I cannot be swayed. They don't allow me to have a wand, because they are
afraid of what I would do with it. That's why all students are severely instructed not to leave
their wands lying about, incase it fell into the hands of this feeble old woman. I wouldn't
be so feeble anymore.
What gives me such ideas? What makes me have such murderous and malignant ideas?
When I was a student, someone told me something I would never forget. "There is no such thing
as good and evil," he had said. "There is only power, and those to weak to seek it."
He was right, naturally. I didn't understand at first, but he helped me to see. He helped me,
because he loved me. I was the only girl he had ever loved, and I had loved him back, with a
strength and a passion that had almost frightened the both of us.
He helped me develop my talents, so I was nearly as powerful as him. It was amazing to see what
I things I could do, what goals I could achieve. And when we graduated school, we began making
our plans. Plans that took decades to form. Eighteen years ago, we began to set these words
and ideas into a reality. We started our own group, a society who had ideals like us. Wizards
and witches who wanted to clean the world of the mudblood and half-blood filth. People who
still recognized the value of being a pureblood wizard.
But two years after we had started, something happened. An accident. He was struck down by a
child, a baby no less. A raven-haired, emerald-eyed child who had no idea what power he
possessed, nor how he would change the lives of millions the world over. This infant nearly
killed my love. I wasn't with him when it happened, but I was captured shortly after the attack.
Aurors had been sent to find me, and they used Veritaserum to weasel the information out of me.
I tried to resist, I truly did. But the potion was too powerful. They found out everything about
the plan.
They were going to send me to Azkaban, but they decided they wanted me under the observant eye
of Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard with talent enough to detain me from associating with my
former people. So they placed me here, as a librarian, to ward off suspicion. And they gave me
the name I bear now. Madam Pince. It is a nasty, common name. A name undeserving to be used when
referring to myself. If my love hears of me, he will not know it is I. I hope one day he will
realize who I truly am, and he will come and rescue me, and we can continue our plan of world
domination.
But until then, I cling to hope. The hope that one day he will find me. And everyday, I write
my true name down, so I will never forget who I really am.
I am Mrs. Tom Marvolo Riddle, Mrs. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. Madam Pince. But not Madam Pince, just
Mrs. Castalina Riddle.
I sit here, dusting shelves, sorting volumes, checking out books to the snobby, ill-mannered
students who come to this school.
One is approaching the check-out counter. A boy with raven hair, and eyes that sparkle like the
emeralds in the ring my love once gave me. I smile as I stamp the card inside his book. He
thinks I am smiling because I am glad to see him, and he smiles back.
I know I smile because I am dreaming of the pleasure I would get from killing him, this boy who
destroyed my love. My husband and myself will come, one day, for this boy, and we will torture
and kill him.
But until then, I sit and smile, stamping his books and plotting his demise.
