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The Dark Lord strode casually through the halls of Hogwarts. Ha, Dark Lord, he mused. He liked the sound of that. It simply gave one shivers. Voldemort. Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord Voldemort.

He'd succeeded in bringing people into waves of nausea and fear at the very mention of his name over a decade ago. Even after years of inaction, wizards still trembled and winced when his name was but whispered under people's breath; as few were audacious enough to say his name aloud. Because surely he would hear them. No doubt he would be summoned from the deepest, darkest corners of the world to smite the one who dare acknowledge his very existence.

The corners of his mouth turned up in his musings. He had the wizarding world clasped in his very hands. Hogwarts was his. The flocks of witches and wizards were his. The world was his.

Through all his years of conquest, through all his victories, he had only one downfall. That contemptible child who'd thwarted his way out of his grasp more times than he cared to recall. But wait, thwarted? Ha. It was luck, simply luck. But one's luck can run out.

Voldemort's luck was finally returning. He'd always had the skill, the bravery, the intelligence... the power to do as he wished. He lacked only the luck it took to complete the tasks he needed done.

He continued to walk nonchalantly through the corridors, nodding at those who smiled and acknowledged him, and ignore in return the ones who ignored him. But why would the students of Hogwarts treat Voldemort so amicably? Should they not be flocking in horror, running for their pathetic lives? Well, no. Voldemort could remain hidden when he so pleased.

Never mind if it was at the expense of another's life. That was irrelevant.

What mattered was that he mastered the form of camouflage. He simply needed to pose as one of the students who swarmed the school inside of the walls. It could only work if he posed as a real student though. He couldn't take the chance of raising suspicion if someone didn't recognize his face.

Possessing bodies was nothing new to him. He'd perfected the skill when it was the only means of embodiment. He still could not manage it without killing the host, however, but again, that was immensely unimportant.

He followed a group of Gryffindors into the Common Room, and calmly made his way up to the dormitories. He knew the routine as well as any. He'd been a student once at this very school. Granted, he had been a Slytherin, but the format of the Common Rooms was quite similar excepting the layout and decor.

Walking into the dorm that he knew belonged to the host of his body, he sat down on one of the four-poster beds. He held his arms out, letting the long sleeves of his school robe fall back to reveal his hands. No longer were his fingers bone white and spindly. They were rough, with dirt beneath the fingernails. A child's hands.

Standing again, he walked over to the mirror, placing his newly inspected hands flat upon the dresser top. He leaned forward, peering into his reflection.

A smile crept onto the boyish features that stared back at him. He was looked straight into a pair of pure green eyes framed with thick, round glasses. Lifting an arm, he amused himself by running a hand through the untidy mess of hair on top of his head.

This was too perfect. Too perfect.

Leaning forward again, he brushed his bangs from his eyes, then lifted them off his forehead.

Yes, yes. The boy's luck had run out.

Smiling with triumph, he stayed there, staring straight at his forehead. He'd done that years ago. That lightning shaped scar.

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A/N- Derived from boredom. Tell me what you think, though. I'd appreciate it. I'm offering free lighters for the ones who want to flame. Thank you.