The Dark Lord Voldemort looked out over the courtyard of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had been one year since his victory over Harry Potter. It had been a singular pleasure to watch the light fade from his eyes as Voldemort's own Avada Kedavra curse passed through the boy wizard's body. He could still see the redheaded blood traitor lying on his side, blood oozing from his numerous wounds, able to do naught but watch as his best friend died, and still sobbing quietly over the loss of his Mudblood girlfriend. Hers had been a particularly easy kill; Bella had seen to that, and for such loyalty, Voldemort had made her Deputy Headmistress of his new school for the Dark Arts. Yes, life was good for Voldemort.
The only cloud on his otherwise spotless horizon was a tingling feeling that occasionally ran up his spine. He had, at first, associated it with the pleasure that came from seeing his dreams finally realized after a seventeen-year delay, but it kept coming back at odd times, sometimes as a chill, like a winter wind had been let into whatever room he was in, other times like flutter in his stomach, as if something very good had happened. He had learned to ignore it, though. His most loyal Death Eater had finished that fool Dumbledore, the remnants of the accursed Order of the Phoenix had all been killed or put under the Imperius Curse, and he himself had fulfilled the Prophecy by killing Harry Potter.
Why then did he continue to feel like someone was watching him? A knock came at the doors to his office, but before he could answer, the doors were blown off their hinges, and a figure stepped out of the smoke drifting up the spiral staircase from hallway below. A man with untidy black hair stood in the office that had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore. He wore a black robe that Voldemort initially mistook for a Hogwarts school robe. Sat on his shoulder was a massive sword with nothing to hold it by except for a handle wrapped in a bandage. On the man's face was a white mask that held a leering grin, and above the left eyehole, four diagonal stripes like a slash made by an unknown creature. Voldemort could only see two golden irises under the man's strange mask, but something about this stranger unnerved the Dark Lord, as if he knew who he was, but it was not possible. He had watched the boy die!
The strange man pointed his oversized sword at Voldemort and uttered a single word as the excess bandage from his sword's grip wrapped around his arm.
"Bankai."
Before the Dark Lord could draw his wand, the man had disappeared, and in the space of two heartbeats, Voldemort felt something cut into his arms, and then… he felt nothing. He lie on the floor of his office, his life's blood spilling out of his mouth from a large gash in his chest, from the stumps his arms, and the top of his slick head. The crimson fluid ran into his eyes and down into the slits of his serpentine nose. He tried to sit up, but his body would not respond. The man stood over him, his much smaller and completely black sword stained with red now resting at his side. As Voldemort passed from this life, he saw the man remove his mask, saw the scar, and cursed the Boy Who Lived one last time.