I suppose this is just a bit of a content warning for the first part of the fic since there are some rather dark themes with it. It gets better and I didn't make anything too graphic but just be aware that there are potential triggers in the first 10 or so chapters including blood and non-con.

Chapter One

The window had no blinds and gaped like a staring eye out at the blank expanse of brick just on the other side of the narrow alleyway. The wooden floors of the room were badly scuffed and covered in a layer of dust, the furniture blank and undisturbed over the course of the occupants long absence as if the place had been avoided by the buildings other inhabitants like it had housed a victim of the plague. The walls were the same dismal hue of not-quite-white that they had been for years and even through the darkness he could clearly see the myriad of stains marring the surface of the ceiling overhead.

Wool's orphanage was not a pleasant place to be and one Tom Marvolo Riddle-Heir of Slytherin, soon to be Dark Lord of Britain and self-proclaimed second coming of Merlin-was anything but pleased to once more be consigned to his miniscule and grimy room. Small mercies that he'd come of age this coming New Years, and after the close of his final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would never have to so much as lay eyes upon the hellhole again.

Then again, maybe he would come back once he was fully immortal and had all his other affairs in order. If only to raze the place, along with all memories of his past.

Speaking of his immortality, Tom-oh how he looked forward to the day where he could shed that damned Muggle name like an old skin-was pleased with his current progress towards achieving absolute immunity to death. He already had one Horcrux-a fortuitous accident, were he to be truly honest, with the help of his 60-foot-long highly venomous inheritance-and had plans already formed for a number of others. Seven, to be precise. But these new vessels would be meaningful. Much more precious. As for his diary, it was currently as safe as he could currently make it-unable to use magic out of school at his current age-and at that moment was held tightly in the grip of…

Budding Dark Lords did not jump up out of bed, nor did they let out undignified or high pitched sounds of surprise, but he certainly felt that the sudden appearance of the black robed figure which had materialized at the foot of his bed permitted a bit of a minor slip; he was pressed into a corner in the blink of an eye, heart breaking itself to pieces against his ribs in a desperate bid to escape as his wide eyes remained anchored to the simple book which held his precious soul. His only current tie to unending life. Its covers were being gently caressed by the boney talons of what could only be none other than the Grim Reaper himself.

Was this how he was going to die, then? Surely not! He was too great for this! Too young! Still had too much left to do to make the world a better place for those with magic, those who were superior! It couldn't be his time and surely that meant that this monster, this personification of his one true fear, couldn't touch him.

"You would be correct in that assumption, young Tom Riddle, under normal circumstances." It voice was like a blade of ice being run directly through his heart. "But these ceased to be normal circumstances the moment you created your first Horcrux. You have attempted to cheat me, and ancient laws allow me to do with cheaters as I see fit, be it their 'time' or not. I assure you, it isn't a pleasant fate which waits for you." The scythe was absent at the moment, but he had little doubt that would make much difference. "However, you present me with a…unique opportunity. I have made deals with others, so I will offer you one now: let us make a wager, young serpent."

Wager? Terror slithered up his spine, thick coils dragging over raw nerves like the sleek form of one of his beloved snakes. Wagers and gambles and games; they all had rules, rules which led to punishments, and Death was well-fabled to be the epitome of cruel in every tale he'd ever read which mentioned it Muggle and Magical alike. Even a single toe being placed out of line would, he knew, be noticed and avenged.

"Wager? What sort?" his mouth was suddenly very dry and his heart seemed to have migrated into his throat. Tom's back was still pressed tightly to the wall, shaking from a combination of fear and cold; much like a Dementor the Reaper radiated an gelid aura and, despite the summer heat outside, frost had marbled the glass window.

"A punishment game."

Punishment…? Tom stared, dark eyes wide and disbelieving. Despite there being nothing but darkness beneath its cowl, he knew that Death was grinning.

"Interested?"

"If I were to tell you that I'm not?"

"You would suffer the cheater's recompense. Even Hell could not dream up that punishment, I assure you. Suffering beyond suffering, forever."

"And if I agree? If I take your wager, play your game and win? What's in it for me?"

"Immortality: not a desperate bid to escape me by shattering yourself and hiding the pieces but true immunity to my touch. But by the time I'm through, I doubt you'll want it."

True immortality? Death never able to touch him? Tom prided himself on his ability to control his every action and emotion but in a sudden rash of rather Gryffindorian impulse he nearly had to bite his own tongue off to prevent a hasty agreement that would all but surely land him in hot water.

"What's the price?"

The laughter sounded like shattering bone. "The price? Oh, you truly are Salazar's Heir, aren't you? So suspicious." Death cackled. "I will bring you low, Tom Riddle. All your fervor. All your pride. Everything you think you want and think you believe. Gone. You will know the suffering both of your parents were forced to endure to bring you into this world and you will understand what it truly means to sacrifice yourself in the name of love. I wager that what you shall endure will irrevocably change you, but if I am wrong and you are able to remain as you are-Lord Voldemort-when you are in my presence once more you may claim the offered immortality."

"And if I do change?" Not that he would-the Reaper had sounded like Dumbledore for a moment there when it had brought up "love"-but best to know.

"Then you may request one other boon be granted in its place."

He would not be swayed from his path. Not by anyone. Not by anything. And in all that he'd already gone through, nothing that the Reaper had up its black sleeve could ever hope to break him. Of that he was absolutely certain. "Very well, Death. I accept your wager and would be honored to play your 'punishment game'."

"I am pleased to know that you are pleased. You won't stay that way for long." That trickle of fear again. "We shall see each other again in just over nine months."

An exact time frame? And why nine months? Nine wasn't even a magical number! Why couldn't it be seven? Questions raged in his mind like angered bees so much so that he almost didn't notice the fact that Death had turned to leave before abruptly pausing.

"Oh, I almost forgot. You'll need to undergo a few changes, first of which being a restoration of your soul."

Sharp bone pierced leather before that last sentence could be registered and black ink hemorrhaged outwards like blood from a fatal wound. Pain, agony far worse than what he'd felt when he'd made the damn thing in the first place, ravaged his body lighting his nerves on fire and stealing his breath. The last thing he saw was the Reaper vanishing in a whirl of dark fabric before he crumpled to the floorboards and everything went black.