Author: YamiPaladinofChaos PM
[Voldemort centric] Immortals are the truest cowards.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Words: 1,254 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 11 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-01-04 - Status: Complete - id: 2154568
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter.
Death is an inescapable, unbeatable, unrelenting force of the universe.
As the most brilliant student to grace Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I have long since known that this was the accepted, unspoken, feared fact of life.
As the most magically gifted student to grace Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry since Dumbledore himself, I sought to avert that fate with my power.
As the most ambitious student to grace Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's halls, I have the drive and the determination to do so.
I will not die. I will never die. I refuse to.
But why, do you ask, does such a brilliant and gifted wizard devote his time to the seemingly futile search to defy death? Nicholas Flamel has defied it, so I can as well. But the Philosopher's Stone and, more specifically, the Elixir it produces, makes one dependent on it. The wizard must drink the Elixir constantly. Should it be absconded by my foes, I would assuredly die.
No, I sought the true immortality. I sought to be a god. To be an unchanging force in the universe, just as Death was.
Ambitious, is it not? One might even call it... a divine quest. On par with the legendary exploits for the Holy Grail, for Atlantis, for any treasure. All of it, for immortality. Maybe not in the literal sense, but to be remembered is to be immortal. But I seek to always survive, to always live, to be an eternal force in the universe. In short, to be a god.
Pretentious of me, to presume I can become a god, you say? That my quest for immortality has damned me to Hell?
Perhaps. But I will never see Hell if I do not die.
But why, you ask again? Why do you insist on becoming immortal?
I hypothesize it was the day I murdered my father.
He had it coming, of course. Leaving me as an orphan, as a bastard son. I hated my father, hated the people who 'raised' me in the orphanage. And when I learned of my true heritage, of the true ancestor of my line, the noble Salazar Slytherin, I knew that it was my destiny to cleanse the world of muggles and mudbloods.
But how to accomplish this? Slytherin only left me a basilisk and a secret chamber to rid Hogwarts of these filth, these infidels. How could I, in one lifetime, accomplish such a task.
It was impossible, I knew. Dumbledore would resist me as long as possible, and in a one on one confrontation, the victory is uncertain.
I shall not let that old fool defeat me.
But how to defeat him?
The Dark Arts.
Not truly Dark, per say. Nothing is Dark, nothing is Light. There is only power. Power is what makes things happen. Power is what makes change, what drives the world.
Until I had true, absolute, unmatchable power, I could change nothing.
So I began my delve into the Darkness. It took me a long, long time to complete the task, to gather materials, to gather knowledge, but it was worth it. My body changed, and I grew in power day by day. Slowly but surely, I was becoming immortal.
But then it was stripped away from me. By Potter.
The sound of his name, that heretic child, that infidel, that filth, that... god-killing child, brings a cold fury to my veins. He dared to defy me, dared to strip me of my nigh immortal body?
Enough dwelling on that. I have spent fourteen long years dwelling on that.
But I had learned in that time. What does not kill you, makes you stronger.
My body was destroyed by my own Killing Curse, but my soul remained intact. I was truly immortal, it seemed. But the agony... the suffering I was put through. All my power, lost.
I desired my body back. I would settle for my original power, and work my way back to godhood.
After all, something is not real until you suffer for it.
I have begun rambling once more. I am reminded, though quite annoyingly, of Dumbledore's nonsensical ramblings.
Really, the old fool is supposed to be a powerful sorcerer? He's a senile old fool.
Potter is someone I must watch. Prophecy states he has power to match me. I'll admit, it takes much more than luck to evade Lord Voldemort four times, much less repulse me from their body when I posses them.
Truly, he is a foe worth matching, once he comes into his full power. But I cannot allow that.
I have often wondered... if I become immortal and rid the world in a righteous, divine crusade against mudbloods and muggles, what then? What would happen to Lord Voldemort then?
Perhaps I would regret killing Potter so soon, and not allowing myself the indulgence of a worthy foe, just once.
Or perhaps another would come to face me.
It does not matter, truly. I am still rambling.
Back to my father. When I killed him, and my grandfather and grandmother, I found that his eyes... haunted me. They mocked me in death, telling me of my fate.
To die, just like my filthy muggle father.
I would never be like him. I refused to then, I refuse to now. I rejected my father's filthy name, I will reject his fate as well.
I will not succumb to death, but triumph over it, defeat it.
That is my answer to fact. That I would defy it, transcend death, defeat death itself. That fact would become false in the face of my power, my ambition, and my mind.
And there are those who find that I am weak because of it, that I am a monster for seeking it at any means necessary. Dumbledore, of course, is the prime example.
Is that so wrong, to want to do so? Religions of the world promise it. Why should I not go one step further, and achieve it? Am I not doing what all men do? All people have run from death since the beginning of time. Even animals know to. My very name reminds me of what all things do when faced with death.
But I reach beyond what any animal, man, woman, child has ever dreamed of. I reach for that immorality harder and longer than any other. I do not do it out of learning, like Flamel.
I do it because I am afraid.
Inside, something in me repulses, recoils. Lord Voldemort? Afraid?
But indeed, it is a natural, innate fact. All things fear the eternal embrace of death. We run, we squeal, we hide, we fight, it does not matter how we struggle against Death. All that matters is that seemingly doomed, futile struggle to defeat death. Death has bowed even the strongest wizard and the weakest muggle.
I refuse to bow to death. Death will bow to me one day. Fear is an incredible motivator. Fear will drive me to fly from Death, until I am free of this foe forever.
As with all my foes, Death itself will one day perish, and end its struggle against me. I will kill Death.
And yet, when I envision my triumph over Death and my foes, all I can see is my father's dead eyes, mocking me in their lifeless manner.