More than once he'd heard a whisper in his ear, a caressing voice with no real words to distinguish. She'd be there with every scream that ended a life and he could sometimes swear that she was crying.

The first time he took a life she was there, guiding that useless Mudblood's soul to the other world. She was so bright, blindingly so, but that didn't stop him from spying the glistening tears on her face as she did so.

She was there again, at his father's manor when he made his filthy Muggle father beg for a death that was a long time coming. She wasn't sad for that man's death but she still took him away, looking much less brighter than before.

The tramp was next, and still that girl was there. This time, her face's shape was visible along with her pale skin. Tears gleamed down both their faces as they died but the bright girl took the tramp away but Voldemort only vaguely noticed the bundle in her arms.

Hepzibah Smith was dead on the floor and still the girl was there. Although Voldemort could tell she was far from surprised, he knew she was sad. He scoffed at the bright angel of death before turning his heel, leaving the girl to her duty. Again, she held something in her arms but Voldemort couldn't bring himself to care.

He left immediately after his next kill, the girl was again present, but this time bawling over the corpse of the dead peasant. Only this time, he was certain he saw an infant in her glistening arms.

He refused to admit defeat. A child had certainly not killed him, him the most powerful wizard in the world. But here he was, in a transparent realm with nothing to hope for but death – something he'd never be fond of. He wonders and wondered for what felt like eons. Never exhausting, never thirsty, never hungry – just there with no purpose.

Then one day she was there again. He could see her eyes in the vaguest of sense and her hair was long. She looked sweet and loving, neither trait Voldemort ever held in any high regard. She reached her hand out to him and asked him to join her finally but he slapped it away and ran in fear.

Years passed until he saw her again.

Bertha Jorkins lay at his feet, eyes wide and jaw slacked when he saw her. She had barely any light around her now and she was striking, quite unlike the disfigured infant in her beautiful arms. He only looked at her as she helped the woman into the other world. He gathered Nagini and left.

Wand to wand, spell to spell, wizard to wizard – just like he always wanted. Harry Potter would be dead tonight, he knew. He laughed with glee as his killing curse burst through the elder wand and collide with Potter's spell. He knew he would win, but why was his wand cracking? His own curse struck him, like it had nearly over two decades ago, and he fell to the ground finally dead.

Again, he was in the transparent ream but this time he did not wonder. He stayed still, finally giving up. He felt her hand on his shoulder before he saw her and he at last looked at the infant in her arms properly. It was a part of his soul. Being collected and nursed by death's angel all this time. She knelt in front of him and gave him a watery smile. Before he knew it the babe was dropped into his arms and absorbed into his body. Looking into the girl's eyes he saw Tom Riddle, before he became Voldemort and for the first time in his long life, he cried for his misdeeds.

She held her hand out to him with a smile, silently asking him to take it. "It's time for you to come with me now."

With a tentative hand, he grasped her hand and nodded.

Suddenly, death is not so terrifying anymore.