"Avada Kedavra."
The two most poetic words I've ever heard. They roll off of the tongue effortlessly, like a hot knife slicing quickly through warm butter.
These two words are the basis of my existence. Through them, I was able to become what I am today. Without them, I would still be the boy my fucking mother gave up.
These two words contain power; they are my life blood. With them, I wield an unstoppable power – the one exception aside.
These two words are my greatest tool. I use them to destroy the unpleasantness, the things I do not like. Sweeping through my life, I was able to rid myself of those who hurt me, annoyed me, and angered me.
"Avada Kedavra."
To say those two words provide the greatest form of pleasure. The lyrical rhythm provided as they glide out of my mouth brings the desire to say them over and over again.
"Avada Kedavra."
"Avada Kedavra."
"Avada Kedavra."
There exists but a single exception to this, my greatest opus. I spit the name, even when I speak it in my mind: the Boy-Who-Lived. My only failure, and I know not what caused it.
"Avada Kedavra."
The words are perfect in every way. They are not to blame. My enunciation has been perfected over the course of many decades. It was not to blame. My power, which had just taken the life of the woman only a moment before, was not to blame.
The boy is a thorn in my side. His continued existence is maddening; his natural good luck sickening.
One day soon, I will fix the mistake that tainted the words. I cannot use them to fix their mistake. I will need something else. Something I have not yet considered. Something I do not yet know.
I am Lord Voldemort, and I do not fail.
