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I come from a world of magic and in that world, anything is possible. The only rule is that with magic there are no impossibilities, and no one is above or below that rule. Material possessions, physical life, the security of what is known and familiar, even earned power and established reputation means nothing - ultimately the only truth is that nothing ends, a soul never really dies, and if you can fathom a concept, it's potential of reality is possible.

My name was Tom Riddle. Then it was Lord Voldemort. And you think you know me. And you think you know who I was and what I wanted and what I hoped to achieve. But you don't - not really. Your bias is as skewed as this world's history books. "History is written by the victors." Everyone thinks they understand who I was and what I wanted and what I went through - the closest they have to understanding is a biased account on the part of a woman from a different universe attempting to piece as much of a grand story together as she could manage, and failing to detail everything accurately. And from what she did, it was all from Potter's side, because she was smitten as everyone is with our little hero. I should say, the only bit of her account I am impressed with is her truthful account on how everyone made themselves useful in stopping me except Mister Potter, who succeeded entirely from luck, and the immense loyalty and courage of those around him. Apparently, being loved makes you more powerful than being a useful individual.

He did kill me. He was supposed to die as well, though - he was the unintentional final horcrux. But he did not, and a piece of me survived on the thinnest thread of existence you could imagine - and it was not necessarily the image of a dying baby Ms. Rowling creatively constructed for her novel's end. Perhaps on some metaphorical level, that is how it works. I was in a sort of purgatory of souls for an unknown period of time. I do not understand quite how the dots connect, but I was from a universe in which the "fiction" of yours was real, though events happened in slightly different arrangement. I was a more developed individual, with a legitimate agenda, rather than a maniacal fool raging around killing everyone for virtually no reason aside from bloodlust. I was closer to the characterization of Gellert Grindelwald than to how she chose to portray myself.

Now I am here. Trying to understand what is, and remember what was. Trying to deduce a place in this world where I having nothing as I did. This is my purgatory. This is my punishment. I do not want to live without the greatness I lost and cannot achieve in this dull surrounding.

This journal will be my final horcrux.