Lord Voldemort was a wizard with many resources at his disposal. He had a band of loyal and talented (more or less) servants who would sacrifice themselves to his slightest whim. He had his wand and an arsenal of spells. He had a really big snake that could eat people.
But when it came to stuff like this, he pulled out the really powerful tools. He sat down at his computer (somewhere in Binghamton, a Muggle was lying in a pool of blood with a big empty space on his computer desk) and typed into Google: “What is love?”
“A strong positive emotion of regard and affection,” www.wordnet.princeton.edu told him. He knew what “strong” meant (it was when you could kill someone else and they couldn’t kill you), and he knew what “emotion” meant (it was when you got really mad and killed someone slowly), but “positive,” “regard,” and “affection” stumped him. Google told him that “positive” meant “certain,” “regard” meant “respect,” and “affection” meant “a feeling of liking.”
He plugged in the definitions. It didn’t make sense.
He went back to his results page. “What is love?” said www.love-sessions.com. “It is one of the most difficult questions for the mankind. Centuries have passed by, relationships have bloomed and so has love. But no one can give you the proper definition of love. To some, ‘Love is friendship set on fire.’ For others, ‘Maybe love is like luck. You have to go all the way to find it.’ No matter how you define it or feel it, love is the eternal truth in the history of mankind.”
At this point, Voldemort had to excuse himself to go throw up.
Energetically swishing Listerine around his gums, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Split Your Soul in Seven Easy Steps had said that your soul was like your spleen: no one could figure out what it was for, and the only thing it seemed to do was get in the way at inconvenient moments. There had been footnotes and everything, and testimonials from tens of wizards who said they hadn’t even noticed their souls were torn, except for the ones whose skin had miraculously cleared up after the procedure.
What if that’s what the soul was for? For loving? Maybe that was why he found the whole concept inexplicable and slightly revolting.
He went out into the hall, feeling strangely lonely. Bellatrix was passing by.
“What is love, Bellatrix?” he asked her.
“You’re asking the wrong person, my Lord,” she said.
“I thought you might know,” he explained, “because you’re married””
He waited politely for a while, but when, ten minutes later, she was still in paroxysms of laughter on the floor, he got bored and moved on.
“What is love?” he asked Crabbe and Goyle, who were in the kitchen.
“Love?” said Goyle.
“Can you spell that, my Lord?” asked Crabbe.
“Sorry, Your Evilness,” apologized Goyle, “but it’s been a while since sixth grade vocabulary.”
“At least ten years,” agreed Crabbe.
“Never mind,” mumbled Voldemort, and proceeded onwards, shaken by the revelation that two of his Death Eaters a) thought that “love” was sixth-grade-level vocabulary, and b) did not, apparently, know any numbers higher than ten.
Even Google had failed him.
When Wormtail peeked in the next day, he found Lord Voldemort lying on his bed with the shades drawn, moodily throwing darts at a giant picture of the Boy Who Lived. A particularly vicious throw hit the scar dead on just as Wormtail opened the door.
“Fifty points,’ muttered Voldemort. “Hurray for me.”
Wormtail hesitated. It was always tricky to know what to do in situations like this. If he asked what was wrong, he would get Cruciatus for daring to suggest that anything was other than idyllic in the wonderful life of Lord Voldemort, and if he said nothing, he would get Cruciatus for not showing empathy when his Lord was so obviously in a bad mood, and if he tried to unobtrusively close the door and pretend he had never looked in, he would get Cruciatus for thinking Voldemort was stupid. (Oh, and if he tried to betray his Lord, his own right hand would strangle him, but he didn’t know that yet. Hee hee.)
Wormtail took a deep breath, conjured a teapot, and entered with trepidation.
“Tea, my Lord?” he croaked.
Voldemort sighed, a deep sigh that came from his stomach and fluttered the curtains above him.
“Oy,” he said deeply.
“Mmm,” said Wormtail sympathetically, and began to busily pour out tea.
Voldemort passively accepted a cup, but left it resting on his chest as he stared bleakly at the ceiling.
“Nobody loves me,” he said.
Wormtail was silent. This was clearly a situation that called for an “I love you, my Lord,” but he didn’t think he could pull it off. “Nagini loves you,” he managed.
Voldemort glared at him. Clearly not the response he’d been looking for. “If you could understand what she says, Wormtail, you would know that that is rot. Nagini wants to eat me. If she caught me unawares, she would tear out my throat.”
“Women, eh?” said Wormtail weakly.
“Don’t tell me,” said Voldemort, falling limply back on his pillows. “I only ever had one real girlfriend.”
Wormtail couldn’t help himself. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know, I think I fed her to a chimaera, that’s not the point,” said Voldemort irritably. “The point is, she didn’t love me either. Neither did the women at the orphanage.”
The Dark Lord was still staring at the ceiling, but a tear was leaking down to the thin pillow.
“No one even thought I was a cute baby.”
“I’m sure you were, my Lord,” said Wormtail loyally. He was seriously worried. Voldemort was clearly cracking up, and soon people were going to notice. How long before Lucius or someone tried to take a crack at the cackle? And a world without Voldemort to protect him would not be a sunshine place for Wormtail.
He considered and rejected the idea of a discreet Cheering Charm. (Good thing too, because that would have been using magic against the Dark Lord, and his own right had would have strangled him.)
“Leave me now,” Voldemort said heavily. Wormtail bowed and scuttled backwards.
“Oh,” said the Dark Lord as he reached the door, “thanks for the tea.”
Wormtail fell back against the corridor wall, chewing his tongue in shock. Thanks for the tea? Thanks for the tea?!
Something had to be done fast.