Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Voldemort

Tom was absorbed in French.

He liked French. He liked it a great deal. It was smooth, and interesting, and flowed beautifully when put together.

Magic would be la magie and Hogwarts, literally, would be porc verrues. The thought amused him.

Literal French was amusing, in general. He was combing through old French textbooks, reading, reading, reading..

Flight. Vol.

From. De.

Death. Mort.

Death. Death was bad. Death was what had left him in this hovel of a place, where people hated him and he could never escape except in the blessed school months, but even those flew by too quickly. His parents had died and left him, here in this ridiculous place – more of a shack than anything else.

Flight, however, was good. Flight meant broomsticks, soaring into the sky, leaving all of everything behind – troubles and worries and everything.

Flight from death, of course, was the best.

Voldemort.

The word sounded faintly like his own – Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Tom frowned faintly and began quickly jotting notes down. I, Voldemort – a, m..

I am Lord Voldemort.

"Tom! Mrs. Cole WANTS you!"

Tom turned slowly and looked at the girl standing behind him, Kit Lace. He smiled in the way that sent people running.

"It's Voldemort."


I dunno about this. It's slightly odd. It was originally a drabble from my drabble story, but I thought it'd fit better on its own. Whaddaya think?