A/N: Written for the Masterchef Competition with the prompt "poison".
The frigid air slid under the gap in the simple wooden door battling the heat from the roaring hearth for dominance. Despite standing in the middle of the cleared room in direct line of the icy wind, Voldemort did not so much as shiver or show any other weakness one would associate with being cold as he stood strong and impassive.
A week ago he had been handsome. His hair had been thick, black and soft to touch. Now it was coarse and starting to thin causing him to look older than his twenty four years of age. He had always been pale, but he was now as white as snow and his skin was no longer smooth but blurred and blotchy. Even his eyes had changed; they were now bordered in scarlet and the whites of his eyes were coated in thick red veins.
Standing tall and proud without a hint of weakness or emotion despite being completely alone, he stared down at the glass vial in his pale hand. The liquid inside was a bright acidic green and shimmered in the light of the fire.
To others the potion inside may not be identifiable, but Voldemort knew what it was.
Poison.
He had finished brewing it this morning for this specific purpose and for a specific person.
Himself.
When other mere mortals intended to drink poison it was often generated because of foolish suicidal thoughts, but they did not enter his mind.
He was not a mere mortal.
He had not made all of his horcruxes, but four had been created and he had completed the rituals to ensure the protection around his body and his strength was enhanced. The origins of some of the spells were from his own invention and others were merely seen as so dark and so difficult that no one was willing to attempt them.
However, he could not help, but test his ability. He wanted to battle a danger that he knew only he could defeat.
Sliding his fingers over the cork, he tugged it out. A pungent smell like a rotting corpse reached his nose. For a moment Voldemort even hesitated, before he pushed down his uncertainty.
He was more powerful than poison.
He was immortal.
Lifting the vial to his mouth, he parted his lips and tipped the liquid into his mouth. It tasted rancid like acid. It burned as it travelled down his tongue and throat. Voldemort's face grimaced and cringed at the taste.
It flamed and pinched in his stomach. He flinched away from the sensation as it grew more painful. The stabs grew harder and more brutal as Voldemort's impeccable posture broke as he doubled over against the torture.
Despite his suffering, he did not let out a whimper. His bloodied eyes were only wide in shock and mild panic.
It had not worked. His protections had failed. The poison was surging uninhibited through his body.
Gasping his throat, his hand crept to his wand, but, before he could even clutch the wood, like the click of a finger it was gone. His stomach settled and the pain vanished.
Slowly, he straightened his back and stared into the blank wall as his lips curled into a smile. The expression would unnerve anyone who saw it. There was something hidden and billowing below the surface. The joy was genuine, but the smile did not fit and it seemed unnatural.
Voldemort slid his hand into his robes and removed his wand. The wood felt the same in his hand, but it meant more. It still could channel his power and magic in a way no other mortal could match, but now he knew, even if someone managed to slip through his defences, his body could not be so easily destroyed. It would take powerful magic to do that. Now his soul was tethered to this Earth and now his body was as strong as iron.
It was without a question of a doubt that no one could ever match him. Immortality was a certainty. Victory was just as certain. It would not be long until everyone feared his name and kneeled subserviently before him.