Summary: Voldemort thinks on the term 'innocence' and what it really is.
Warnings: Surprisingly…NONE! No pairings either…so that's prolly why…anyway, T for safety only.
Disclaimer: Me no own.
Voldemort stared out at the pond behind his Manor. In the day, it was disgusting, covered in algae and rotting things. Like him, it seemed. He was ugly during the day as well.
Now, in the moonlight, it looked beautiful. Peaceful and serene as well. He only hoped he looked like that in the moonlight.
The scene before him was one of innocence; the pond, with its willow trees and flowers closed up for the night. The moon high above only added to the innocence of the moment.
Voldemort frowned. Innocence. Innocence. What a strange term, he thought. What was innocence?
Innocence was….well, he didn't really know what innocence was. But he knew what it wasn't.
Innocence wasn't the Dark Arts. Innocence wasn't the way he killed without heed. But innocence was also not the way Dumbledore manipulated people for his needs, or the way the Ministry pocketed most of the cash it took it in.
He had heard it said, when he was a child and loving only in eth muggle world, that innocence was a summer's rain, children's laughter, flowers blooming in spring, and love.
But he, Voldemort, knew that innocence could be none of those things. He knew it, even if he didn't know what exactly innocence was.
It couldn't be in a summer's rain, because the rain made most people sad; it locked them indoors. And wasn't innocence supposed to be happiness?
Innocence was most definitely not found in children's laughter. Children laughed in cruelty more often than not. He himself had often laughed when his pets were in pain, or when someone got hurt. There was no innocence in the joy found from others' pain.
And he knew as he knew both his names, that innocence never resided in the hated term of 'love'. Love killed people, love hurt all the time. He himself had been nearly killed by love, so how could it be innocent?
He shook his head, and a movement in the garden caught his eye. A moth was flying over the pond, its wings glowing silver in the moon light.
It flew toward him, and landed on the window sill, where it rested, wings gently flapping up and down.
He look at the moth, and moved to quickly capture it. He opened his hands, but instead of flying away, the moth stayed.
It was large; its wings were each as big as his hands. It was colored silver, with black patches in seemingly random patterns all across its wings.
He held it, and he continued to ponder innocence.
Maybe the moth was innocent? It, being an insect, could not have committed any grand crimes or even killed anything. It was lovely too, and wasn't that what everyone said innocence was? Beauty?
Voldemort scowled, and slapped his hands together, killing the moth. Innocence, he decided, was a foul thing indeed. Almost as bad as love. He vanished the remains of the moth, and looked back up at the moon.
Who needs innocence, when you have power such as mine? He wondered.
Okay…pointless, yeah? All well. I just saw pictures of a dead butterfly I had taken in the summer, and this popped into my head. Don't know why…anyways, reviews please?