Original Sin - Voldemort's Other Side

Original Sin

~ Voldemort's Other Side ~

Oh, it's carnival Night

The stars are out in force tonight. Blazing like a thousand tiny lights far above, they are spectral forms of the waxing moon. She shall soon come to her full power, and light our face with her silvery-blue glow.

And they're stringing the lights around you

But one face in particular stands out to me. Ah, my dear, have you come back to me once more? Can you at last submit to the Chanson?

I have yearned so much for your return, like an impatient child who longs for his playmate to come home. Your resistance is much like the thrill of the hunt. I have watched you struggle against it, nursing the wounds that the Chanson left in your heart and mind. You wept when you realised that the wounds had healed, but not out of happiness. You were grieved by the absence of this music, and you sought to reclaim it. You gave me quite a turn for a while, darling one, until I knew you were ready to give in.

Hanging paper angels

Oh, you are angelic to me in this wonderful darkness! Your face glows under the wan moonlight, but you seem troubled. Your eyes are sunken and hollow. You are troubled, and I can always tell why. Nobody can ever lie to Lord Voldemort, and you are no exception.

You are incomplete, my dark and beautiful one.

Painting little devils on the roof

You heed the Chanson; your whole body trembled to its sombre, heavy tones from the moment you beheld its dark splendour. And now your body trembles again, almost as if you are recovering from a Night of passion and are fighting sleep, or perhaps you are like one who waits with much anticipation, and not a little trepidation, for your lover to come over and ease your yearning for each other.

Oh, how naughty these notions are! I would see a blush paint your cheeks if not for this blessed darkness. I will spare you my wicked thoughts for now, dearest.

Oh the furnace wind

The wind is rising and plucking the first notes of the Chanson.

Can you hear it?

Can you feel it in your very bones?

Is a flickering of wings about your face

You are truly angelic to me, darling one. I cannot describe how much I want to change your bright purity into the sanctity of the Night. Clad in midnight black silk, your brows studded with the stars, and your eyes shimmering with unshod tears of combined sorrow and euphoria.

In a cloud of incense

Can you smell the Night now? It is so cold, so crisp and so perfectly rendered to set your whole skin shivering. In temples, synagogues, and in churches and even in graveyards, incense is burned to bless the sacred spaces.

No incense could ever be suitable to burn on this Night. The aroma of flesh, nature and Night combined is the most excruciating, exquisite and exciting one you can ever encounter.

In winter, you can smell the Night in all its intensity, carrying the heavy scent of sleep and damp earth, leaves and wood with it. In summer, it is stained with the dizzying scent of the sea and of flowers. But now, it is perfect, and the ultimate celebration of the New Year.

Yeah, it smells like Heaven in this place

Sniff now, like a poised cat hunting for food beneath the silvery orb - delicately, delicately - and catch the rising scent. On silent paws you step forward, and the light of the moon envelops your body, starting with your dainty bare feet, sliding inexorably up your smooth legs, covering your hips and circling your waist, finally caressing your breast and throat to touch at last upon your face, this face that I so love.

For you to now visit Paradise, my angelic one, you must suffer. Through suffering are the subjects of the Christian God accepted into his realm, and through the trials of the Chanson would you be deemed as worthy or unworthy.

We do not like to hurt you, dearest, and we do not do the hurting...but it is necessary for you to accept the Chanson. It is merely the clutch of the music at your heart that makes you cry out so. It is but the merging of your soul with the Night that causes your grief.

Do not cry. Soon, you shall be just like us all here. We have never hated darkness, despair or death. We love them all, despite the anguish they cause for the lovers of the sun. Still, we fear them, for they are our masters and we cannot resist them. They always come, regardless of how much you fight it. Fear, coupled with love, makes the most volatile kind of coupling known to humans.

I can't eat, can't sleep

Your sleep is not restful, your food has no savour, and your thirst is incessant. The sun scorches your soul as if you are captive, still living, in a funeral pyre. Tormenting you, its flames lick along your pale skin like an intrusive presence that sickens you. Has the moon ever caused that hateful thing called cancer? Have the stars ever scorched your skin to the point of death? Never. Never, never, never have they done so. They are kind to your flesh, which they love so.

Can you accept the gaudy yellow sun? Or will you reject it for the milky softness of the Night that touches the most intimate parts of your body and soul like silk?

Still I hunger for you when you look at me

Oh, how can you helpless, pretty mortals know how much I want you? How could you ever comprehend how I want to hold you all close to me, reforming you all in the eyes of the Night and pressing my lips against your brows, your necks, your own hot mouths?

Has anyone ever felt such passion for the entire human race?

Even those who worship the sun, I adore. I cannot understand their love for her yellow face and hurtful rays, but I love them still. I want to possess those that cannot understand the Night, to own them and to subdue them into submission.

Am I too cruel? Or am I simply overly zealous in my task to do what is right for the world?

That face, those eyes

Hush, now, my tragic darling. You are completing before my very eyes. Your own eyes look more human, and less like the gaunt spectacle they were earlier this Night.

Why do you weep all of these tears upon your beautiful face, beloved one? Soon you will see that all of your fears will pass away! Safe in the embrace of the Chanson, you are being accepted into our fold.

Are you willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve our aims? To wound, to harm, to be merciless and sometimes cruel so that our message will sink in, to pillage and destroy in order to restructure and rebuild the undeserving world, and even to control and murder so that we will get our own way?

All the sinful pleasures deep inside

Do you resist still? Ah...the Muggle slayings.

I love them too, my darling, I feel for them the same aching ardour that I feel for you.

I love them because they too love the Night. Despite my professed hatred for them all, I read their poetry. One of their best Muggle poets is called Robert Frost. He penned a verse called "Acquainted With The Night". I read this poem aloud to my Death Eaters, and even though they enjoyed its imagery and phrasing, they were enraged by its inaccuracy.

As I have said before, how can pitiful words hope to describe the Night?

Tell me how; you know now, the ways and means of getting in

I kill Muggles because of their imperfect understanding. They catch the faintest notes of the Chanson de nuit if they strain their hopelessly mortal ears, but they can only hear it all if they possess magical blood. They are like ignorant beasts, trying to be like humans and failing miserably. This is why many Muggles go insane when they are enamoured with the Night. They cannot understand the frustration every time they look at the constellations, nor can they comprehend the heaving of repressed sobs in their breasts when the moon illuminates their naked skin.

This is the source of my hatred for them, this and this alone. I crave only perfection, and they will never attain it. Can they be allowed to live? They are hopeless beings, toiling away in their busy little desk jobs, driving their standard, family-class vehicles and the only pleasure they know being the end of the day, and relaxing in their favourite armchair?

Those who do not try to live life should not be allowed to have it!

Underneath my skin,

Please don't cry, let me hold you while the Chanson tests you.

It hurts, doesn't it?

It is the cruellest trial imaginable, but one that is the most cathartic out of all known to humans. It bites you in the breast, worming its way into your veins and turning the very plasma of your blood into fire that chars your skin, and then the blood cells transform into ice that scratches and tears along your internal parts. And when it has purged your blood, it enters your brain and causes the sort of maddening, blinding pain that can drive you insane. All the things you enjoy are examined by the Night, and questioned and torn apart into meaningless shreds. Finally, your soul is sent through a purgatorial fire that brings to mind everything you have ever done, and if it was selfish or for the good of others. This is the part that most people fear, but it is the final part of all. Once it is complete, you live or die, whichever the Chanson dictates to be your fate.

Oh you were always my original sin

The Night was my reason for expulsion from accepted wizarding society. It was my forbidden fruit, the most exquisite of the fruits in the Garden.

Why should we be denied that which is so tempting and so sensual? Like a virgin craving that first touch, and yearning too for the love that should always accompany such an act, I wandered the world. I encountered the most evil beings on the planet, like hags, Dementors and Lethifolds, but in the ones most feared by Muggles - vampires, werewolves, dark witches and wizards - I saw the strongest presence of the Chanson.

I began to hear it as I trekked through frozen tundra, the aurora borealis lighting my path and singing to me like a mournful choir of angels. I heard it more strongly in the temperate forests and glaciers of the northern parts of Europe, and as the daytime temperature increased, the strength of the Chanson grew until in the midst of the Sahara Desert I was cast to the bitterly cold Nighttime sands.

And tell me why, I shudder inside, every time we begin

I too shook and moaned with pain when I was tried. Do not fight it for that will intensify your suffering. Accept it as you do a wound on your body - you do not try to remove it, but to heal it. You treat it. Do so now. Nurse your wounds, retreat to the recesses of your mind and lick them clean. The healing process can only begin when you accept them.

This dangerous game

Their laws shall be broken; ours shall be built in their place. Our anthem shall be the Chanson and our faith the Night.

It is dangerous, unending work, but in time we shall complete the perfect world we strive for. A world lit by moonlight and by starlight, a world where creatures of the darkness may roam freely without fear, and witches and wizards may be liberated from Muggle persecution.

Is this not a dream, a vision, a world worth fighting and dying for?

Oh you were always my original sin

My dreams have always been my undoing, as have my ideals. At first, I thought that it was my destiny to slay all Muggle-born witches and wizards and to fulfil my ancestor's decree. I relished the bloodiness of this task, but at the sight of that little girl being taken from the lavatory, I grew frightened. I tried to pin the blame on some innocent fool of a child, and it succeeded. This shamed me deepest of all, and I sought to destroy my own life by seeking out the darkest that the wizarding world had to offer.

In time, I found the Chanson and forgot the idea of self-destruction. The Chanson de Nuit taught me so, so much. I am obliged to spread its message. I am the Prophet of the Night!

A dream will fly

I must see this dream realised, darling one. Out of my love for the heady bolero that currently purges your spirit, body and soul, I must risk danger, despair and death for the sake of the world. You are facing it now, and will face it more in the future. Your hardship will soon be over, dearest one, and you will be free...

The moment that you open up your eyes

...No! Do not let the Chanson destroy you! You are worthy of this task, and I believe in you! Wake, open your eyes and watch the stars! Yes, that's it! Come now, beloved, stand for your lord...well done.

It's an awful and inevitable fact that suffering can deepen us, give a greater lustre to our colours, a richer resonance to our words - but only if it does not destroy us, if it does not burn away the optimism and the spirit, the capacity for visions, and the respect for the simple and indispensable things.

But is your suffering complete?

A dream is just a riddle

Ah, no. You linger in the dreams of your past life. It is but one further trial, one last stage of misery before you are freed. Dreams are often meaningless. Muggles waste them, which is another reason for my lack of respect for them. This dream, however, is riddling in its depiction of how we should achieve the ultimate goal.

Will we, and will you provide the ultimate sacrifice in order to cleanse the globe?

Right and wrong will humankind struggle with forever, but the cry of a hunting owl in a heavy scented forest at night, or the flash of a meteor shower against the night sky...such brutal beauty is beyond dispute.

Ghosts from every corner of your life

Cast off your old life and your old fears, darling. You have been reborn in the Night. Trembling, frightened, certain only of the love you bear for the one that birthed you, you give a lusty wail.

Each aspect of your old existence has faded into obscurity.

You truly are like a newborn, aren't you?

Come to me...

Up in the balcony

All the Romeo's are bleeding for your hand

My Death Eaters are lingering in the forest, waiting for news of their newest member. Will you now go to them, and put their minds at rest?

Oh, how they will fall in love with you! You are a flawless specimen, the epitome of dark perfection in human form! You cannot know how much the sight of such faultlessness will inflame them, how they will flock to you like innocent lambs and worship you. You will fall in love with their flawlessness too, perhaps, and you will adore them just as passionately as they will you.

Blowing theatre kisses

Go now to your new brothers and sisters, tell them that you are reborn, and await my further orders. It is good to have them with me, these others, my Death Eaters. It's crucial, really - and what I have always wanted: a grand coven of the wise, the careful old, the careless young, the enduring, the seductive, the beautiful, the despairing, the insane, the hopeless and the hopeful.

Do you remember what I once told you? Night will always fall, and shadows will never fade. No matter how many lights you shine in an attempt to quench the darkness, your shadow falls behind you. Now, you are a part of these shadows. The daytime lovers will fear you, and sometimes hate you, but you will not care. You will pulse with menace, mystery and the violence that is needed to make Night consume the world, and your sensuality will make the most beautiful women and men jealous.
You can never escape this bittersweet dream, and you will never wish to.

Reciting lines they don't understand

There is much that is new and strange to you, child. Rejoice in this Night; rejoice in its splendour and tremulous beauty! This Night is for you, and we have all the ages of the world to achieve our ultimate goal. If you die, another shall rise to take your place, and your name will be written in the stars as one of the faithful. The chanson will sing a verse in your honour.

Some parts of it we may not understand, but it is still our fate to tread this path. Go now, beloved. And know until I meet you again that I am thinking of you, and I love you with such passion that it frightens me...and that I wish you were here...in my arms. I love you.