Gotham. The most crime riddled city in the world. It was a place like no other and what was even more peculiar is to why people would live there. Tom Riddle had no time to contemplate the complicated minds of muggles, there was more pressing matters at hand. He sat by the open window of his hotel, watching the unmoving ground below. It was pitch black. The sky looked as though a blanket had been placed over it, to eliminate any sounds or noise. This is how he liked it, silence and peace. A tawny barn owl came flying through the open window and dropped a newspaper down on his lap and looked up patiently, waiting for pay. Without looking up from his paper, Tom flicked his wand lazily and the owl froze an fell out of the window in a a quick flash of green. A picture of his handsome face grinned handsomely from the front page under some writing captioned: "Tom Riddle Still Missing." Tom chuckled, amused by this as he began to read the article:

"Tom Riddle was a graduate at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. His teachers discribe him as flamboyant and especially gifted. He has been missing for nearly four months now. His disappearance has sparked worry and concern amoungst the wizarding community. 'He was murdered,' Says one ministry official who wishes to remaining unnamed. 'I bet you my life he was killed, it's just the beginning.'"

Tom smirked cruelly as he through the paper away. Yes, he thought, it was only the beginning. Tom rose from his seat and walked to the mirror, his face was discontorted and had a more wazy appeal to them. He was no longer the handsome teenager the Daily Prophet depicted. He knew Gotham was the safest place to go as no one would expect him to be there. It was, as he had once heard, hiding in plain sight. Dumbledore would know, he sneered, like how he suspected the oaf Hagrid didn't open the chamber.

"Room service." A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Tom opened the door warily. He slipped out his wand from his back pocket. "Hello I'm Joe Chill and-"

The man fell to the floor before a look of surprise could befall him. Tom dragged the corpse into his room and closed the door. Tom contemplates his next step. He knew if he left the body here, the man would wake up and call the police then the ministry would be onto him. Another idea flitted through his head, if he used a gun to put bullet wounds into this man's chest it will look like a muggle murder.

Congratulating himself on his genius, Tom searched for the gun he had acquired from the muggle police officer earlier that day. As he threw the contents of his bag everywhere, his hands closed around something cold. Tom extracted the golden flask from his container and another brainwave crashed down. He had made a whole stock of polyjuice potion before leaving. If he plucked a few hairs from Joe Chill's hair, he could go wandering without arising questions about his facial features. Marvelling at his own idea, Tom plucked a few brown hair's from the man's head and threw them into the potion. He head is fizz and spit as he swirled it around. Tom took a huge swig and muffled the scream that sprang to his lips as the slimy liquid slipped down his throat. He shivered as a burning sensation creeped through his body.

Tom walked to the mirror and saw his face bubbling before stopping. He had stubbly facial hair and a horrible sneer. He dressed into the man's filthy clothes and slipped on his hat. Tom smiled, it was the first time he had truly smiled in years. Slipping the gun into his pocket, Tom headed for the door, making sure to lock it on the way out.

His journey through the streets of Gotham was unpleasant. He had decided to leave his wand next to his gun in the pocket, only to be used in an emergency. That's when he saw them, tall and wearing an odd attire that only wizards could muster. Tom knew they were looking for him, someone must have caught wind of his where abouts. He slipped down Crime Alley and stayed silent, even polyjuice could be fooled.

"Hey Bruce, did you like the movie?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Tell you what, why don't we get you some ice cream on the way home?"

The sound of a female and child conversing filled the air, Tom was already extracting the gun. He spun to see a well dressed male holding the hand of a young child and an elegantly dressed woman. They stopped talking immediately. "Martha, Bruce, get behind me." The man pushed his companions behind him in an effort to shield them. "'Ello," Tom said in an attempt at an accent.

"What do you want?" The man shouted. Tom laughed his maniacal laugh as the gun fired. The man collapsed as he fell to the ground with an unmistakable thud. Blood pooled on the floor around him. The woman named Martha screamed just as another bullet hit her chest. The boy fell to his knees beside his dead parents. His sobbing filled the air, Tom had always hated crying children, it reminded him of the sickening wails from the kids back at the orphanage. Just as the gun rose once again, he looked up and saw the Ministry workers crossing to his side of the road, it was nearly the hour and the potion was wearing off. The young child, so comsumed in grief, didn't notice his patterns killer disappeare with a soft pop.

Voldemort sat there deep in the forbidden forest and waited for Harry Potter to arrive. He had never taken any interest in his victims lives or families but as his great snake curled graciously around his arm, he couldn't help but think of that orphan boy. The night rolled through his head like a movie. The boy turned out to be Bruce Wayne, son of the billionaire Thomas Wayne. Voldemort despised rich people, he shot Lucious Malfoy a look of malcontent who quivered cowardly. The orphan had become Batman, the great protector of Gotham. Voldemort had followed his story from paper to paper, book to book and ear to ear. It was one of great interest to him. The real Joe Chill had woken up hours later and was hunted relentlessly by the Batman before his expected death years before. Never had Voldemort returned to Gotham, it was even more unstable than years before, or so he had heard. He knew that he was one of the few people who knew the hero's sercret identity. The past was a perculiar thing, Voldemort reflected. In the eyes of another, his past was one of death and destruction. Him. Tom Marvolo Riddle, bead boy and prefect. The winner of countless awards and the taker of nearly as many lives. Him. Voldemort. He stroked a spindly finger down Nagini's scaley skin. Never had he once wanted to turn back, Voldemort thought, it's who I am underneath but what I do that defines me.