Reviewers:

Maizeysugah, I am thrilled that you reviewed my story, and liked it. I absolutely adore your fics!

'Mes, Thank you for reviewing again. I shall endeavor to keep you entertained.

The Wolf of Were, I apologize for frightening you with this story. I am unclear if you've found anything positive, or redeeming about it, but I hope you did.

Lethaweapons, Thank your for your kind regards. I hope that my writing will find continued favor in your eyes.

Oedipean Revolution

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The path we followed wrapped upon itself as a many-coiled serpent, its course at once circuitous and labyrinthine.

~Grandia II

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Am I evil? I don't feel particularly evil, if truth be told. I am sure there are those who would gladly point the pedantic, moralistic finger and decry me as the very incarnation of everything corrupt in this world. I remain fairly certain that Dumbledore does not do this for the simple reason that he believes me led astray by the craving for power. After all, everyone seems to be redeemable in his knowing eyes.

However, even he, slayer of my successor, Grindelwald, does not fully conceive the reason behind my pragmatic actions. The End that I seek is not Aristotle's Happiness. It is not even power or immortality, contrary to popular and erroneous belief.

I desire evolution.

Human beings have reached evolutionary stagnation. We have defied natural selection and so have fallen from the natural order of all things. However, muggles have managed to circumvent this quandary through their technological advancements. Though their genetics remain, for the most part, constant, their ingenuity bounds forward and spawns legions of new inventions.

This was not always the case, though. The Dark Age, as the muggles call it, saw those without magic slavishly dependent upon those with it. Then a witch or a wizard was respected, most of the times feared as well. We did not need to hide ourselves away like some dirty, unmentionable secret, the proverbial unwanted child.

Yet, during this time, the Wizarding world was experiencing its last Golden Age. Due to the demands of the Dark Age muggles, wizard ingenuity and resourcefulness achieved levels of truly inspiring greatness that have not been seen since. New, groundbreaking spells were invented. Wizards made their dreams into reality and turned reality into dreams. It was a time of mind numbing innovation and creativity.

And all because muggles depended upon us for solutions to their problems. Like societies dependent upon slave labor, the muggles had no need to develop their own methods of performing tasks by non-magical means. They were the ones sitting complacently in the rut of advancement. They were the ones declining through their own sloth and dependence.

Things changed—for the worst in my humble opinion—when the great wizard Merlin, in all his unbounded wisdom, decided that muggles should seek answers with their own intelligence. They would have to rely upon their own cleverness. Slowly, yet surely they did. And the Wizarding world sat back on its collective posterior and watched the muggles with smiles of proud benevolence.

Oh, we're so generous, so kind! Now let us sit here and marvel at our own magnanimity!

Ironically, while we were so busy congratulating ourselves, the muggles entered successive eras of technological revolutions. Non-magical innovations spilled from their working minds like a never-ending fount. And the Wizarding world continued to smile graciously and do nothing!

It still does nothing.

We have are so buried in our own generous refuse—our very sedentary existence strangling us—that we cannot move forward. The only way for us to break free of our ignorantly self-imposed chains is for there to be a great conflict.

Evolution in the natural world is the result of stress and adaptation. An organism finds itself in a stressful environment and it adapts to overcome that which proved to be harmful.

The greatest muggle wars brought about a wave of advancements. New weapons were developed. New medical advances helped soldiers on the battlefield. And when the wars were over, the self-same technology found practical applications during peace.

So I shall tear this world down about us all, and I will force, through the power of my will alone if needs be, our culture, our very views, to evolve. My followers, no doubt, obey me out of the dream of power. To them power is the End. I let them think this. I am, after all, pragmatic in a way that can only be catalogued as cruel. A tool is there to be used. It is discarded when no longer useful. So too are my followers employed and abandoned.

Even if I am defeated, though I have no intention of letting that happen, I will have revolutionized this pathetic world. Whether the 'other side' admits it or not, I am tearing them from their complacent, sedentary existence. I challenge them to greater feats of the mind.

I am the irresistible winds of change. And none shall stand before me.

*          *          *

"You are to watch him for the two days in which I am gone," my Lord tells me coldly. "You will make sure he eats right and attends to all hygienic matters."

"Yes, my lord." I nod my head over and over. I must please him. Angering the Master is stupid, so very, very stupid. And painful. Yes, quite, quite painful. A person might think he knows the meaning of pain, but Master's displeasure will quickly prove that everything before was heaven and everything after will never compare—until He is angered again. Fear! Fear His anger! You ungrateful, sniveling, worthless…Sorry, sorry.  Sorry!

"You are not to touch him." A million suns blaze so brightly in His dark eyes. Those eyes can see deep into me. They twist me into little pieces of used paper and sprinkle me everywhere.

"Yes, my Lord. I understand, my Lord." I bow and scrape all to avoid the pain. Mustn't touch the child. My Lord is very, very possessive of the pretty little boy. Pretty pretty with green-green eyes, Lily's eyes. In James' face. Both their faces watching me from behind his face.

And His eyes tunnel down into me and prod about my soft, squishy insides.

Can't touch the lovely. Touching is bad, bad, bad. Don't you dare touch that, you little—! Sorry, sorry. Sorry!

My Lord nods and is gone in all his terror. Gone. Magic. Almost like childhood.

And I find myself all alone in His huge mansion. Shadows breed in the corners and vaulted ceiling of the entry hall. There are many dark wood doors rooted in the walls. The front doors are like two great bird's wings folded for the night. And the others lead to great secrets, or the kitchen.

And up the sweeping staircase is the second floor, also lined with so many doors. And on the second floor, behind a door like all the others, is a hallway lined with candles. At the end of the hallway are two more doors facing each other. One is of lighter wood. The other is black.

Stupid! Mustn't think of those doors. One is Master's, all dark and crawling like Him. The other is…

No! Not allowed. Don't have permission. He said no. He told me, quite clearly, no. Well…he said not to touch…

And I'm at the top of the staircase. The shadows are laughing and dancing and pointing. Look at him! Pathetic looser! Where are your friends now? Where are—Please don't! Sorry, sorry! Sorry!

Ah!

The first door opens without a sound. The tingle of magic passes over me with recognition. A stranger, an intruder would become so much dust, if they even made it to the front door. But not me. I'm not a stranger. I faithfully serve my Lord. I did everything he said. I even—!

Down the hallway lined with gently dying candles I creep. He said not to touch, but He never said I couldn't look. Just a little peek. A small glance. I'll be good. See? See?

Oh-so carefully I open the light wood door a crack. A thin band of light slices through the room. It falls across deep blue carpet and a bed of pale green sheets. Among the sheets a small figure is curled on one side. My stomach quivers inside its wet prison. The little pretty pretty is there. My Lord's greatest treasure. The child is precious. The child of—!

A closer look won't hurt anyone. He'll never know. Just a quick glance at that head of black hair. Across the carpet I go. And he looks the same: pale, pale skin like the petals of a white rose, lips like a bloody cupid's bow.

The more I stare, the more I see them. Maybe…Maybe they didn't die. I didn't kill them.

And I find my hand on his cheek. How did that get there? I'm not allowed to touch, but his skin is so soft and…and since I've already done this…

"Daddy?" The child's voice rises up like a lost soul. My hand stills on his throat. I feel the little pulse beating steadily.

Eyes like final death open, her eyes, her eyes!

But you died! I saw you! Killed! Dead! No! You can't be here. You're dead. I killed you. Stay dead, dammit!

"Stop it, Uncle—!" That pretty little throat convulses under my hand. Small hands scrabble frantically at my arms.

But I can't kill her again. I can't. I love her. And him, too. And they're both here, watching me out of a face of a child. I can see them there. James and Lily staring at me with such…horror? Why?

No, please don't look at me like that. Lily/James. I'm so sorry. I didn't…I just wanted…Please. Smile for me. James? Lily? Oh, lovely mine, so sorry. You aren't really gone are you? I-I just…Please. Smile! Why won't you smile for me?

"Stop!"

I'm so sorry. Please, please. I didn't want to, but they/you/he/she made me. Ah, lovely lovely. Ah, pretty pretty.

A small body wriggles against me. I grip it tighter. Somewhere a child is screaming, but I ignore it. I have my James/Lily back. Gently, lovingly I kiss his/her lips. I seek entrance with my tongue, but he/she is too shy. It doesn't matter. He/She is back. He/She didn't die. I didn't kill—!

Thin cotton rips beneath my hands and smooth young skin burns me. It tears into me and gnaws greedily upon my heart.

James, I didn't mean for this to happen. Please, listen to me. I love you.

Lily, why don't you love me?

"Please! Uncle Peter!"

Such delicious, quivering young flesh. And they're here in this boy to redeem me, to love me. And I pay homage to them with kisses of adoration. I beg forgiveness as I lovingly, tenderly (Not so rough, you idiot!) stroke the limp length of flesh between straining thighs. Yes, they love me through the child.

But they're not smiling. Why won't you smile, still? I love you! Isn't that enough!

"No! Daddy!"

Why won't you smile? Please!

"Wormtail!"

Pain slices through me. It's my Master. I'm not supposed to touch! But I did. I did!

Such horrible pain. Everything is being shredded inside. He's crushed my soft, squishy insides with his will. He's ripping them out through the pores of my skin.

Ah! Ah! Ah!

And He killed them! I killed them!

Ah! Ah!

Sorry! I'm so sorry! Please!

Green eyes stare into mine.

Lily…why are you crying?

James…why won't you smile?

"You have failed this test, my rat. There will be no others."

*          *          *

"Daddy!" Harry screams and then throws himself into my arms. I gather the bundle of adolescent limbs to my chest and stare down at the weeping wreck of a man. It appears his madness was further along than I had anticipated. That disconcerts me. I very rarely misjudge another. Perhaps I have been afflicted by some sort of passing delirium.

"There, there, lovely."

"The bad man…h-he…" The child falls into a fit of incoherent sobs interspersed with violent hiccups. Tenderly I stroke his back and murmur soothing words.

"My lord?" Severus stands in the doorway. His dark eyes flicker between the disobedient rat and myself.

"Take him away. He has proven unfit for further use." My austere follower nods and strides into the room.

"So sorry…Killed you…Lovely mine, so pretty. I didn't want…Just…Smile?" A quick silencing spell cuts off the wretched creature's babbling. The ensuing quiet feels like a gift from heaven.

"I think I shall have to administer his reprimand at a later date." The elephant clock on the child's dresser announces that it is past time when I should have been at the meeting site. The ones I am negotiating with do not like to be kept waiting.

"Yes, my lord."

"You will watch over him now that Peter is indisposed."

"Yes, my lord."

" And, really, no touching."

*          *          *

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Choice is manifestly a voluntary act. But the two terms are not synonymous, the latter being the wider. Children and the lower animals as well as men are capable of voluntary action, but not of choice.

~Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle

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