"Tell me," the robed madman demanded of the Dark Lord, his hand on His shirt, "oh tell me! Are you the powerful magician for whom I have waited 1,600 years?"
"Who are you? What are you?" Came the response, surprise concealed by coldness.
"My name; my name!" He exclaimed, his enthusiasm waning with each passing syllable. "I have long forgotten my name. But I have waited for you," he said, running his fingers over a flustered Voldemort, "for you, for the last 1,600 years. I have waited for so long that my clothes have rotten away from my body dozens of times. But you… you have finally come."
"Lucius, get rid of this madman," the Dark Lord commanded, and the faithful servant quickly readied his wand for the forbidden spell. The sickening green ether jetted out from the tip of the mahogany of the magical implement.
Yet when the green swish engrossed on the alien man's body, it penetrated his body as though it were nothing, air, immaterial void, and thence it struck another death eater, where its fateful effects were immediate.
"Come," the man said peacefully, "let me have it. I have waited for far, far too long."
Gasping at his father's omission, the platinum-haired boy grinned wickedly; longing to exceed his father in loyalty and power, he too aimed his weapon at the man; yet as soon as the spell took to physicality, the man extended his arm and grabbed the spell. In his hand, the deadly charm behaved like a whiff of green fog, and in another moment, like a viscous fluid which he poured from one palm into the other. It obeyed every movement of its holder, and he brought it to his eye level, where he closely studied the thing. Musing at its malleability, he tossed it up into the air, and with a whisper it became the most beautiful northern lights that any death eater had ever seen. It danced through the roof and evaporated into the heavens, where it shone, proud in its brightness.
"What a beautiful aurora. I've always liked aurora borealis, and it's nice to be reminded of its beauty before I join it. Now," he pointed at Voldemort, "if you please. It has to be you, I gather."
The Dark Lord was silently incensed at this defiance, this defiance of life. He, too, held up his wand, and with all the venomous viciousness at his disposal, he uttered the fatal curse. The man only grinned and closed his eyes, seeming to yearn for its impact. Voldemort did not care to understand this man – death was a gift that he generously granted to those who he deemed deserving.
But it was no good. It passed through the man and hit the window, whence it morphed into the shape of the ugly snout of a snake and slithered away into the distance.
It was at least five minutes before the man gingerly opened his eyes, and tears of a thousand emotions unknown to the Dark Lord flooded from his eyes, and only under their effect did the youth of the condemned person become apparent. At most twenty or twenty-one, he sat down on the table in the Malfoy manor, though perhaps knelt would be more descriptive.
"Is it… still no use?" He sobbed. "The prophecy… it said my suffering will end after 1,600 years."
Incredulous, the death eaters have all drawn their wands in anticipation for some kind of massive reprisal, which never came, except the silent reprimand perhaps more directed towards the visitor himself than any of those present and expected.
"Tom Riddle…" He continued, "are you not the most powerful wizard of this time?"
"How dare you question the might," Lucius attempted to redeem himself, "of the Dark Lord and speak his name?"
Yet when the visitor turned towards the Malfoy did he turn away in a seamless combination of terror and shame. "If I do not question him, do you?" He replied with another question.
"No, of course not!" He blurted to re-affirm the target of his allegiance.
"Then why the urgency in your voice?" Came the emotionless response. "How does my presence alter it?"
"I…"
"Silence." The Dark Lord demanded, for something had just hit him.
Whereas the minions only noticed the fact that he survived three bouts of avada kadavra, Tom Riddle pieced the bigger picture together; this ability is what made him a boy-king at Hogwarts in the first place. The visitor looks youthful; he has survived 1,600 years; he has survived the killing curse. This could only mean one thing.
Rarely was Voldemort one to ask for favours, but this man before him possessed what he had been in search for so long. If death cannot compel him to reveal his secrets, perhaps reasoning will.
"Well," the Dark Lord said in a seemingly lighter tone, "Draco, we owe our guest a proper greeting, do we not? See to it that he is seated at the place of honour at the dinner table."
"Yes," the boy replied with shaky lips, pale by nature but also by the events transpired, "my lord."
Voldemort refrained from picking up the topic of his life during the course of dinner, but he constantly monitored the unexpected visitor. This of course he did discreetly, but that is not to say his guest did not notice it, and also discreetly he did. The guest poked at his food with mild interest, but he was the first to speak after the fourth course, which consisted of some seafood of the British coast.
"Interesting, isn't it? Life. The question of life. How does one life end and become nourishment of another, and perhaps several?" He said, pointing at a cooked scallop on his plate, doused with a hollandaise. Voldemort was profoundly at great unease with this commencement; he should be the one reading minds, not the other way around.
"Well," Lucius again interrupted, "having lived for 1,600 years, perhaps you have more to say about it than we do?"
The visitor considers this for a brief second and replied, "I was merely complementing the culinary excellence of your kitchen staff."
The Dark Lord shot his underling an evil glare, as though he had destroyed his life's work.
"Forgive his impertinence," he offered a mysterious smile, "my dear guest."
"Ah, yes, forgive. I am afraid I cannot," he said, looking down at the table, "I cannot."
Lucius paled at this.
"Of course, one cannot forgive if one takes no offence, and nothing is there to be forgiven." He explained. "My dear host, are you known for the habit of forgiveness?"
"I can. But as customs are around these parts, would it be terribly unfair for me to acquaint your name, since you know mine?"
Draco nodded greedily at this interrogation.
"It would, except I did not ask for it." The guest rejoined at the host's slightest challenge, giving his smile too to Draco, who shudders. "Names are empty tags that limit a man, in my view. I prefer to be called what is appropriate at every given moment. If at all possible, I would not like to know your name, but their divulgence has made it inevitable, my dear host."
"Whose divulgence?" The Dark Lord asked with significant interest.
"The person who is coming through the corridor of this property, I think." The guest commented as though it were obvious.
"Ah," he dragged out his voice, just as the door opened on its own accord, leaving Macnair's hand reaching for a receding knob, "Walden, enter and take your place." The host indicated with a serpentine finger to an empty chair. "Our distinguished guest has lately… spoken of you, Walden."
Macnair was baffled by the way he looked. "Of me?" Of all the death eaters, Macnair was one of the few who were less afraid of Voldemort, though this is an artifact of numbness of sense rather than affection.
"Yes, you." The Dark Lord pointed at him, this time with his wand.
The mere pointing set Macnair back a good four inches into the plush of his chair; he was less afraid, not unafraid.
"Did you reveal my name to the distinguished guest?" He demanded.
"I, no… I did not… I would never, my lord –" and by avada kadavra his defence was cut short.
"How pathetic," he commented over the lifeless body of the executioner, "liars are."
While this silenced the entire assembly, it set life alight in the guest, who sauntered over to the scene of the execution, and whispered something under his breath; as though his breath became Macnair's, the eyes of the deceased fluttered open, and vanished life was restored.
"What… happened?" Macnair muttered senselessly.
"This man… this demon," Bellatrix shrieked in disgust and horror, "he knows the counter-spell to avada kadavra! He must die!"
"And would it not be convenient if you could actually fulfill what you said?" The guest turned around, finding the horrid woman buried in her dress, only narrowly avoiding the gaze of the wizard.
Lord Voldemort, sensing the quick change in the power structure in the room, now that avada kadavra has been dismantled, fell on his knees with the grace of a water-snake traversing an endless pool. "Lord," he declared, "share with me your power and secret, and I shall be your servant in eternity." Exactly as he would utter the killing curse countless times, he would also curtail every inch of his pride if it led to what he wanted. The same ruthlessness applied both ways; he would pitch his entire flock to achieve immortality, just as he collected them.
"You, a servant? If anything, to what position do you relegate them?" The guest said, rolling his eyes at the death eaters.
"My following shall be yours," he further decreed.
"Lord Voldemort," he began with a chuckle, "that is not very kind. They have elected to follow you, not me. Even as a matter of decency, you should remain their lord and master."
"Nay," Riddle replied, still on his very knees, "they are nothing to me, if you will not take me."
"So I see, you are after the power of immortality," he spoke Voldemort's very mind, and with a whiff of his palm set him on his feet. "As a cursory question I am obliged to ask, I can turn any object of your desire into pure gold, I can instill love in any person of your choice, or I can speak with you a little more. Which one do you choose?"
"Master, speak with me a little more." Voldemort made the obvious choice, possibly by the rules of elimination.
"Of course, Mr. Riddle," he brightened ever so slightly and quietly, "you are wiser than most. But we shall see, for not all are worthy or ready to receive this wisdom."
"Master, I am ready and worthy! I beseech you, bestow it upon me."
This only caused the guest to sigh.
"What irritates you, master? Tell me, and I will remove it from your presence!"
"It will probably fail… I may have lived for 1,600 years, but I am no teacher. No person has ever successfully learned my secret."
"Do not relent, master, for I am the worthy one. I am the one," Voldemort suddenly had an idea, "for the prophecy tells that today you will acquire a companion and your suffering of solitude will end." Voldemort again fell on his knees, and with his hands he clasped those of the guest, "I am that companion, master."
"Is that… is that what the prophecy tells?" The guest asked.
"Certainly, master."
"Nevertheless, so many have failed before. Let me warn you, then," he lowered his pitch, "there are heavy tuitions to be paid in this process. Life and blood, my dear Mr. Riddle."
"In any quantity you require, master." Voldemort looked up into the guest's hazy eyes, which rotated to look at the cowering assemblage.
"Incarcerous expelliarmus!" Voldemort yelled, and ropes instantly wound their way around every body in the room.
"In order to examine Mr. Riddle's aptitude, we need one brave volunteer," the guest declared to the guests.
None whosoever came forth, earning Voldemort's incessant curse, "Disloyal idiots! You swear your lives away at my every whim, and now you shy yourselves away from my victory?!" He uttered some other spell, and Lucius was dragged before him by an unknown hand, which was real enough to strain his shirt in the process of pulling him.
"You… you will be reviving me then, ri… right?" The older Malfoy stuttered.
"If Mr. Riddle proves adequate, he will be reviving you." The guest reassured unsuccessfully.
"Has there been any successes in the past?"
"Out of a total of 72, none have succeeded at this stage." The guest recounted factually. "But it certainly is different to see you question the aptitude of your master." This earned him an elbow from the Dark Lord.
"And if he should fail…" Lucius spoke despite Voldemort's most powerful glare.
"If Mr. Riddle proves inadequate, it will be beyond my power to revive you, for only he can see where your soul has escaped." He paused. "And he will not be able to see it, if he is inadequate."
"Wait! Is there really no other way you can test this?"
"The secret to eternal life is in the observation of life in its pure form, without the mask of a body clouding the observer's developing consciousness."
"Enough with your rambling, Malfoy. Avada kadavra!" He roared, and again the green potency exploded from the wand, leaving Lucius merely a corpse.
Immediately, the teacher grabbed Voldemort and placed his and over the pupil's eyes, which voluntarily shut as hard as they would do. With a passing hand, he cast another spell onto Voldemort.
"This spell enhances your senses, but whether you can, that is up to only yourself. Now, open your eyes, and tell me where Lucius' life is."
And just like that, Voldemort fought with the minuscule weight of his eyelids, to open his eyes… and he saw nothing unusual and certainly no "life" floating around.
"Master, where is it? Where is it!?" He screamed.
"Feel it! Yearn it! Perceive it! It is neither visible nor graspable, but you must feel its presence."
"Tell me something, master! What does it feel like?"
"It feels like life itself! It's floating all around us, but only a human life is substantial enough for a novice to sense its presence."
"I am trying, master, I am trying my best, but I can't feel anything unusual!"
"It's nothing unusual, Mr. Riddle! It is the fabric of the consciousness that we share! It is so hard to sense because it is so usual indeed, but you must distinguish it from the lifeless air, Mr. Riddle."
After three minutes, Voldemort gave up. "I can't, master. But surely you know a better way."
But before then, the master already started sobbing. "It's no use. I am condemned to eternal solitude; if even the most powerful wizard of this time cannot comprehend this matter, then it's hopeless. Oh, world, why give me the secret of life and yet deny me the ability to share it?"
Voldemort has been frustrated, but he did not show it; yet as it boils over, he hatched another plan.
"I threaten you with their lives to come up with another way," he said coldly, pointing at his prisoners and former followers. "Come on, master, I know you are a kind person who cares about them. Even just for their petty lives, please share with me your secret."
Without warning, the ground under their feet started trembling, and the guest was the only person who had the remotest idea why.
"Mr. Riddle," he began, with an air so chilling that even Voldemort was taken aback, "if you are under the impression that I am either selfish or conceited that I am unwilling to share the secret to eternal life, I beg to inform you that you are grossly in error."
"I…" Voldemort strived to begin, but it was silenced with a wave of the stranger's hand.
"For the past 1,620 years, the only thing that befell me was grief and sorrow, as every person I love and care for passed on into the next world. My parents, my siblings, my children, my friends, and my enemies, they all abandoned me in this strange, awful world, and I am forever forbidden from that new world where they all live in bliss. Forever, Mr. Riddle, I will never reunite with them," he paused. "Is this the gift that you long for? Because even if it must be you with whom I will share this eternity, I will gladly take you over nobody, or death too. I have made it a rule to acquaint no names, so that I will be less grieved when they, inevitably, leave me behind. A world where love only leads to loss, and friendship to pain, is that what you desire, Mr. Riddle?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"Men call me Death, but my real name I have forgotten. Men think I take life, but men are misguided. They see their friends dead and me alive, and they think I took them; little did they know, they are the ones who will reunite with their friends when their lives end, while I will be left with eternal sorrow."
"Are you… really Death?"
"No of course not. I am Ron Weasley, you fucking idiot."