Lord Voldemort. King of all that is dark and evil in the magic world. Bain
of magicing and muggle folk alike, and me.
Especially me, his son.
Lord Voldemort's dark prince, Legion. Legion Azazel Abaddon Riddle. A fitting name I think for a dark prince. All fallen angels and demons. Legion, the unclean spirit. Azazel, the strong belligerent one of God., and Abaddon the destroyer. Oh yes and dare I forget the last name, Riddle. That's the one that everybody remembers, the one that torments me the most.
I know what your thinking, "Lord Voldemort has a son. Oh, this is just grand! Now there's a bad apple I'm sure." Well if that's what you want to think then think it.
Who am I to care if you're just another of the six million other people in the world who are ready to judge without any knowledge about me? Really go ahead, but at least hear my story before you make your judgment.
Ok, now where to start. Maybe I should start with my first memory. (It's the only good one I have so far as memories go.)
It's of my mother you see, when I was probably three or four. I remember her face, heart shaped with large blue almond shaped eyes. Quite unlike mine. Her hair was a long silky blonde. I think she part veela, maybe even a full veela.
I remember her voice and the sweet smell of her when she leaned in to kiss me goodnight. But what I remember most was the lullaby she sang to me when she tucked me in, a song forever instilled in my mind.
The only thing that eludes my memory of her is her name.
Now here is where my memories go bad. I can recall the very day I found out what sorrow and cruelty were.
It was the day my father found us., my mother and I. I was seven, and still retained some measure of innocence.
At that age I had no idea who my father was or that I even had a father. Up until then I had thought he had died in an accident of some kind.
So you can imagine my surprise at opening the door to our home and have some man claiming to be my father step in.
But remember I told you I found out what sorrow and cruelty were... her screams still echo in my head... the lullaby she whispered to me in her last seconds... the green light erupting from her bloodied body. The weight of my father's hand on my shoulder on for the first time.
The pain of her loss struck me hard, but my father enjoys pain. He reveled in my tears, and laughed as I doubled over in grief.
Well what else can you expect from Lord Voldemort. My father the Dark Lord. And dark he was.
It wasn't long before he apparated me to a new home, one where I was to learn just how cruel life could be.
It was there I was given lessons in speech, edict, history of magic, and magic lessons themselves. I was brought up like every other rich kid in a dark arts family should be, I just started four years earlier than most on my magic lessons.
By my eighth birthday, my father had me doing things most second years at Hogwarts never dreamed of doing.
I had learned every basic magic spell there was, and practiced my unforgivibles on whatever poor, deluded Deatheater dog my father picked that day.
I took lessons in fencing, hand-to-hand combat, archery, knife throwing, and just about every other kind of fighting you can think of every day for at least three hours.
Hmph, One year he made me learn how to ride a horse and then do all kinds of tricks, he said, so I could fight and ride all while being graceful.
And I was so pissed the day I mastered it too because then he made me do everything I'd learned on the horse on a broomstick.
It's funny though, because it never really mattered how hard I tried, things were never perfect enough for him. But it didn't stop me, I still tried to do my best, strive for that small bit of approval.
I see now I did it for attention, but I didn't see that when I was 8, and 9, and 10. I only cared about making him happy. It was what I lived for. His approval.
Now here's the really funny part (It's so ironic).
The one time I actually got what I'd strived for, since I'd met my father, turned out to be the one thing I hated most.
Avada Kedavra.
Oh how he loved to watch me kill. His eyes would take on this preternatural gleam, and he would beam with pride while he watched me work. Then he would tip back his head and laugh for joy. (Can you imagine Lord Voldemort's joyful laugh?)
My eyes would tear up and something in me died just as I killed. And when I finished, I always felt hollow, and empty. Alone...
I think it may have been the guilt I felt for killing something or someone who was as innocent as I had once been.
Now when I kill, and I mean absolutely have to, I still tear up, still feel the emptiness, but now I've found a way to control it.
At the time, though, I was only 10 and I had no way of controlling anything.
I lived in a house so large you could lose yourself if you weren't paying attention. It was filled with echoing stone walls, tortured screams, dark shadows, and evil costumed parodies.
The only safe haven I had in the entire house was the only unused room there; the nursery.
My safe haven was right above my room, thank god for that. All I had to do to get there was pull down the twisted metal stair and walk up.
I don't think anyone knew about the room. I only found it on accident. (I was practicing spells and accidentally hit the lock that holds the stair up with bad aim) When the stairs are up they look like a very intricately made piece of metal artwork inlaid into the ceiling. And as such, for rich people, was instantly wrote off as just that.
Then of course we have a kitchen, a dining room, eight or nine bathrooms, an office, a study, a parlor, and what not.
The two most unusual rooms would have to be my father's throneroom and the dungeons. Both of which are extremely large, and for the most part impregnable.
I try to stay out of both as often as possible. Most of the time, when I'm not in the nursery, I could be found in the lessons and practice room (almost like a large oversized magic gym/classroom) or the library.
That was where I was the day my father told me I was going to Durmstrang, the library reading about curses.
He walked in trailed by his little lackies and his right hand man Malfoy, and sat down across the table from me.
The perfect picture of arrogance, confidence, and power.
Malfoy stood at his side, groveling as always, never once daring to contradict my father or I in anything.
The room was silent when he spoke, and when he said what he came to say he left me.
"I'm sending you to school...Durmstrang. I want you packed tonight, Malfoy wiil apparate you in the morning. When you arrive, you will not tell any of the students you are my son. When you are there your last name is Rosier, a decedent of Evan Rosier. Your parents both died in a magic accident, and you are staying with Malfoy until you are of age. If some of the other children ask you why you do not go to Hogwarts with Malfoy's son, Draco, you will tell them you wanted to follow your parent's last arrangements. And go to the school of their choice."
It was a demand, with no room for contradictions. Not that I ever had contradicted my father, but every word he spoke screamed do as I say.
So without a backward glance I packed my things and was sent off to Durmstrang with a new wardrobe, a new life, and another fallen angel in my name.
My first year at school passed in a blur.
I made friends with those I was allowed to, following my father's laws to a T.
But I always felt as if I were wronging them by telling them things when they asked personal questions.
School work at Durmstrang seemed to simplistic for me, so most of the time I breezed through it all.
Then during the summer I was made to stay at the Malfoy's to keep up appearances. (Although I made frequent trips to my father)
Draco and I, however really became friends. He was too arrogant and vain, and he never stopped prattling about Hogwarts. It was from him that I first learned about Harry Potter.
It happened on a rainy summer night while Draco and I had been left to our own devices, he was complaining about his Headmaster Dumbledore and his pet Potter. Which at first didn't catch my attention because I was doing my best to ignore the prat.
It was only an hour later that I began paying attention, when Draco mentioned Harry being stronger than my father magically or something.
This was the first time I'd ever heard of Harry Potter, and I had no idea what to think of him. A boy who could withstand Avada Kedavra from anyone, and almost kill my father at the same time.
It was amazing. I pictured a giant of a kid, with the IQ of a genius, but I realized how sorely wrong my picture was four years later.
This brings me to my sixth year at school, and my father had just had me transferred to Hogwarts. He planned on making me his very own spy/assassin.
I was supposed to kill Harry Potter...
Especially me, his son.
Lord Voldemort's dark prince, Legion. Legion Azazel Abaddon Riddle. A fitting name I think for a dark prince. All fallen angels and demons. Legion, the unclean spirit. Azazel, the strong belligerent one of God., and Abaddon the destroyer. Oh yes and dare I forget the last name, Riddle. That's the one that everybody remembers, the one that torments me the most.
I know what your thinking, "Lord Voldemort has a son. Oh, this is just grand! Now there's a bad apple I'm sure." Well if that's what you want to think then think it.
Who am I to care if you're just another of the six million other people in the world who are ready to judge without any knowledge about me? Really go ahead, but at least hear my story before you make your judgment.
Ok, now where to start. Maybe I should start with my first memory. (It's the only good one I have so far as memories go.)
It's of my mother you see, when I was probably three or four. I remember her face, heart shaped with large blue almond shaped eyes. Quite unlike mine. Her hair was a long silky blonde. I think she part veela, maybe even a full veela.
I remember her voice and the sweet smell of her when she leaned in to kiss me goodnight. But what I remember most was the lullaby she sang to me when she tucked me in, a song forever instilled in my mind.
The only thing that eludes my memory of her is her name.
Now here is where my memories go bad. I can recall the very day I found out what sorrow and cruelty were.
It was the day my father found us., my mother and I. I was seven, and still retained some measure of innocence.
At that age I had no idea who my father was or that I even had a father. Up until then I had thought he had died in an accident of some kind.
So you can imagine my surprise at opening the door to our home and have some man claiming to be my father step in.
But remember I told you I found out what sorrow and cruelty were... her screams still echo in my head... the lullaby she whispered to me in her last seconds... the green light erupting from her bloodied body. The weight of my father's hand on my shoulder on for the first time.
The pain of her loss struck me hard, but my father enjoys pain. He reveled in my tears, and laughed as I doubled over in grief.
Well what else can you expect from Lord Voldemort. My father the Dark Lord. And dark he was.
It wasn't long before he apparated me to a new home, one where I was to learn just how cruel life could be.
It was there I was given lessons in speech, edict, history of magic, and magic lessons themselves. I was brought up like every other rich kid in a dark arts family should be, I just started four years earlier than most on my magic lessons.
By my eighth birthday, my father had me doing things most second years at Hogwarts never dreamed of doing.
I had learned every basic magic spell there was, and practiced my unforgivibles on whatever poor, deluded Deatheater dog my father picked that day.
I took lessons in fencing, hand-to-hand combat, archery, knife throwing, and just about every other kind of fighting you can think of every day for at least three hours.
Hmph, One year he made me learn how to ride a horse and then do all kinds of tricks, he said, so I could fight and ride all while being graceful.
And I was so pissed the day I mastered it too because then he made me do everything I'd learned on the horse on a broomstick.
It's funny though, because it never really mattered how hard I tried, things were never perfect enough for him. But it didn't stop me, I still tried to do my best, strive for that small bit of approval.
I see now I did it for attention, but I didn't see that when I was 8, and 9, and 10. I only cared about making him happy. It was what I lived for. His approval.
Now here's the really funny part (It's so ironic).
The one time I actually got what I'd strived for, since I'd met my father, turned out to be the one thing I hated most.
Avada Kedavra.
Oh how he loved to watch me kill. His eyes would take on this preternatural gleam, and he would beam with pride while he watched me work. Then he would tip back his head and laugh for joy. (Can you imagine Lord Voldemort's joyful laugh?)
My eyes would tear up and something in me died just as I killed. And when I finished, I always felt hollow, and empty. Alone...
I think it may have been the guilt I felt for killing something or someone who was as innocent as I had once been.
Now when I kill, and I mean absolutely have to, I still tear up, still feel the emptiness, but now I've found a way to control it.
At the time, though, I was only 10 and I had no way of controlling anything.
I lived in a house so large you could lose yourself if you weren't paying attention. It was filled with echoing stone walls, tortured screams, dark shadows, and evil costumed parodies.
The only safe haven I had in the entire house was the only unused room there; the nursery.
My safe haven was right above my room, thank god for that. All I had to do to get there was pull down the twisted metal stair and walk up.
I don't think anyone knew about the room. I only found it on accident. (I was practicing spells and accidentally hit the lock that holds the stair up with bad aim) When the stairs are up they look like a very intricately made piece of metal artwork inlaid into the ceiling. And as such, for rich people, was instantly wrote off as just that.
Then of course we have a kitchen, a dining room, eight or nine bathrooms, an office, a study, a parlor, and what not.
The two most unusual rooms would have to be my father's throneroom and the dungeons. Both of which are extremely large, and for the most part impregnable.
I try to stay out of both as often as possible. Most of the time, when I'm not in the nursery, I could be found in the lessons and practice room (almost like a large oversized magic gym/classroom) or the library.
That was where I was the day my father told me I was going to Durmstrang, the library reading about curses.
He walked in trailed by his little lackies and his right hand man Malfoy, and sat down across the table from me.
The perfect picture of arrogance, confidence, and power.
Malfoy stood at his side, groveling as always, never once daring to contradict my father or I in anything.
The room was silent when he spoke, and when he said what he came to say he left me.
"I'm sending you to school...Durmstrang. I want you packed tonight, Malfoy wiil apparate you in the morning. When you arrive, you will not tell any of the students you are my son. When you are there your last name is Rosier, a decedent of Evan Rosier. Your parents both died in a magic accident, and you are staying with Malfoy until you are of age. If some of the other children ask you why you do not go to Hogwarts with Malfoy's son, Draco, you will tell them you wanted to follow your parent's last arrangements. And go to the school of their choice."
It was a demand, with no room for contradictions. Not that I ever had contradicted my father, but every word he spoke screamed do as I say.
So without a backward glance I packed my things and was sent off to Durmstrang with a new wardrobe, a new life, and another fallen angel in my name.
My first year at school passed in a blur.
I made friends with those I was allowed to, following my father's laws to a T.
But I always felt as if I were wronging them by telling them things when they asked personal questions.
School work at Durmstrang seemed to simplistic for me, so most of the time I breezed through it all.
Then during the summer I was made to stay at the Malfoy's to keep up appearances. (Although I made frequent trips to my father)
Draco and I, however really became friends. He was too arrogant and vain, and he never stopped prattling about Hogwarts. It was from him that I first learned about Harry Potter.
It happened on a rainy summer night while Draco and I had been left to our own devices, he was complaining about his Headmaster Dumbledore and his pet Potter. Which at first didn't catch my attention because I was doing my best to ignore the prat.
It was only an hour later that I began paying attention, when Draco mentioned Harry being stronger than my father magically or something.
This was the first time I'd ever heard of Harry Potter, and I had no idea what to think of him. A boy who could withstand Avada Kedavra from anyone, and almost kill my father at the same time.
It was amazing. I pictured a giant of a kid, with the IQ of a genius, but I realized how sorely wrong my picture was four years later.
This brings me to my sixth year at school, and my father had just had me transferred to Hogwarts. He planned on making me his very own spy/assassin.
I was supposed to kill Harry Potter...