[Intro] Before they called me monster, they called me remarkable. Adults always notice first when a room produces something superior. [Verse 1] Wool’s smelled of bleach-water, damp cloth, boiled potatoes. Gray halls. Gray beds. Gray children taught survival in whispers. Then there was me. Quiet boy. Strange accidents. Rabbit from the rafters. Cupboard doors locking themselves. Children learning quickly not to say my name too loudly. They called it cruelty. No. Cruelty requires emotion. Most superior acts require only conclusion. Even then I understood hierarchy instinctively: some people shape the structure— the rest spend life trapped beneath it. [Verse 2] Hogwarts opened like inheritance fulfilled. Ancient stone. Ancient magic. Ancient arrogance. Perfect. Professors admired restraint dressed as brilliance. Students mistake beauty for goodness every single time. I let them. Tom Riddle: measured posture, polished diction, immaculate grades. A gifted boy carrying a name too small for him. Meanwhile— serpents answered my voice before grown men dared to. The Chamber opened beneath the school like memory returning. Even death looked negotiable from where I stood. Tell me— what was I meant to conclude from that? That I was ordinary? Absurd. [Hook] I was never built for obedience. Never intended for burial soil and softened endings. Every room reorganized itself eventually— through intellect, through fear, through inevitability. History remembers one thing consistently: the unavoidable. And I— have always been unavoidable. [Verse 3] Names matter. Tom Marvolo Riddle sounded inherited. Mortal. Temporary. So I dismantled it carefully, syllable by syllable, and rebuilt myself into prophecy. Lord Voldemort. Even the sound refuses weakness. By then the soul itself had become architecture: split precisely, preserved deliberately, protected beyond nature. People misunderstand immortality. It was never fear. It was insult. Why should an exceptional mind submit to an ending designed for ordinary blood? The logic collapses immediately. Ministries folded inward under pressure. Families vanished overnight. Even Dumbledore spent years reacting to plans I had already perfected. Snape positioned exactly where required. The Ministry infiltrated. Hogwarts poisoned from inside its own traditions. True mastery is convincing people their destruction was their own decision. [Bridge] And then— the anomaly. A child. Half-blood. Untidy. Emotional. Painfully average in every visible category. And yet— my curse shattered. My body collapsed. My name became superstition. Because of love? Pathetic explanation. Human beings romanticize what they fail to understand. Still— he survived me. Again. Again. Again. Do you understand the humiliation of that? [Verse 4] But I returned. Bone of the father. Blood of the enemy. Flesh rebuilt beneath stormlight and kneeling followers. This time they feared me correctly. The Ministry collapsed almost elegantly afterward. Fear entered schools, laws, bloodlines. Even silence became political. Dumbledore dead. The Elder Wand nearly mine. The castle breaking beneath my reach. I stood closer to permanent dominion than any wizard in recorded history. And Potter still walked toward death without bargaining first. No preservation instinct. No reverence for power. I never decided whether that made him brave— or defective. [Outro] They will reduce me to smaller words. Monster. Tyrant. Madman. Vocabulary built for frightened people. The truth is simpler. I looked at mortality— at the fragile architecture of human limitation— and refused it. Entirely. [End] AVADA KEDAVRA!
