Some days
7eAL, 2006
Some days
Some days, I will wake up in the morning with no idea of what I have done. On those days, I am, for a moment, the same lost little boy I was nearly fifty years ago, tormented by hate and jealousy and injustice.
I am still sealed in my own personal hell, doing everything I can just to survive each day as it comes. I am still afraid that when I turn over in bed, I will be faced with another sneering, taunting, spiteful face. I am still small, neglected and abused. I am still powerless at the hands of fools bigger and stronger than I am. Stupid, fucking good-for-nothing muggles.
When the moment passes, I remember that I am the greatest wizard to have risen in Britain and all of Europe since Dumbledore and Grindelwald, both of whom were but mere candles to my burning power. I remember that I have personally maimed, tortured and slain everyone who has stood in my way, and that my word and magic are law unto my oh-so-loyal followers. Stupid, fucking good-for-nothing hangers-on wishing for some scrap of my power.
I remember that I am the most powerful wizard alive, that I have been for decades, and that I will be forever more.
And with that thought I rise from my bed, sitting up in the comfortable shade of the room. I might take a moment to scratch my bald head, and I might briefly miss the thick, dark hair I had in my youth. It's a frivolous, unnecessary vanity, of course. It was a lot of trouble keeping my hair in check, so I didn't bother. Now, I don't have any to bother with at all.
Brushing my teeth and showering are not unnecessary expressions of vanity. Smiles both menacing and welcoming require relatively nice teeth, and it so happens I'm rather proud of my handiwork – I performed all of my dental care myself. Furthermore, no self-respecting wizard should smell like an unwashed muggle, or those idiot inbreds that seem to crop up here and there amongst the pureblood lines.
I might call on a house elf – undeserving, sniveling little creature though it is, to make a cup of tea for me, or bring me my morning coffee, or pick up the Daily Prophet. The Malfoys and Notts tend to have too many house elves for their own good anyway, so abusing one or another hardly matters.
I might start with a morning shower – it's all in good hygiene to bathe daily, but of course, when one has this much time on one's hands, the hands of a clock mean nothing. Except perhaps the second hand – that's the most important when it comes to the business end of my wand. There's a reason why athletes always seem to be the quickest to dodge – they're trained to work in seconds, not minutes or hours or days.
From that point onwards, the rest of the day is rather routine. Mostly reading, some spell practice, a little creative rune work, and then a few meetings in the evenings as my people come in after work or after supper or before night shifts or before parties and what-have-you. These routines are rather vague, along the lines of how I spent my time a Hogwarts, perhaps, and how I spent my time researching in the years after. I've developed a much more flexible schedule since leaving that particular castle, though.
I take about half my meals with whoever is in the house at any given moment, whenever it may be that they decide to eat or get together to do so, anyway. Tea every afternoon when it's the Notts and the Zabinis. Free, anytime access to a table loaded with food, when it happens to be the Patils. Everyone together formally at six o'clock, sharp, or at least semi-formally, if it's the Malfoys or the Changs. Feasts late into the night worthy of the Hogwarts house elves now and then when anyone decides to celebrate a birthday or a holiday or a victory amongst my followers.
I like to stay behind closed doors up until my meetings. It cultivates the impression of a mysterious agenda – "What does our magnificent Lord do behind those closed doors, you think?" Raising the dead, perhaps, or performing dark and forbidden magic, or plotting contingencies with unbelievable genius. I could be toying with the blood of magical creatures, or skinning some unfortunate fool alive, maybe. I've been there and done that. All of it.
Not that anybody would dare to ask. Keeping rooms in the dark and quiet cultivates the impression of lurking unknowns, of waiting menace. I might say I just like to keep my blinds closed and the lights dim and put up silencing wards while I keep to myself.
Some days, though, I'm hardly doing anything worth quivering in fear about. A game of chess, maybe, if the pieces are in a sufficiently cooperative mood with each other. A little light reading in the history shelves, and a nap in the afternoon. Classical music, chamber music or something similar, under silencing wards of course. A man picks up certain habits over time, usually for his own amusement. Even bloody Dumbledore had his bloody sweets and bloody color-clashing robes, after all.
Habits and eccentricities are entirely excusable when one reaches a certain level of power and prestige. I crosses that line a long time ago. I could act scenes from Hamlet and Macbeth with the collection of human skulls in my library and nobody would bat an eye even if I'd completely misread my lines. Some day, I just might do that.
And some days, like on those days when I wake up in a cold sweat, lost in memories, I'll do absolutely nothing at all.
Some days, I'll sit in my leather armchair – designed by yours truly, and I'll have my feet on the coffee table, a stack of parchment in my lap and a quill in hand, a cup of tea cooling steadily on the side table beside me. I will sit there in the dark for several hours, hardly moving at all, absolutely silent as the quill hovers over the page. I will sit there until my lips are dry, the tea is unbearably cold, the ink both on the quill and in the inkwell dry as simple black powder, missing a meal, perhaps two, and maybe the evening's meetings as well.
Some days, I will wonder. I always wanted never to be bullied or pushed around or beaten again. I wanted to be loved, just once. I just wanted to be free of all those childhood terrors and inadequacies and have-nots.
Some days, I wonder if I went too far.
Notes: You-Know-Who is a very ambiguous title. Even I don't know who this Dark Lord is.
Disclaimer: The name Harry Potter and related characters and works of fiction are property of J. K. Rowling. This work of fanfiction is in no way related to or endorsed by J.K. Rowling, and no profit is made from it.