Pained gut-wrenching screams suddenly filled the cold night air. They were long and drawn, like a wounded animal's cry; the very kind of sound that seeped into one's very bones and made those in hearing distance run away in primordial fear.

Alas, such a healthy amount of self-preservation wasn't present in everyone.

Under shadows casted by the thin crescent moon, a lone figure approached the writhing creature that had - just minutes past - literally appeared out of thin air.

"Shhhh!" he whispered in an attempt to hush the screaming man.

The man- if you could still even call him that - was convulsing in the middle of a vast field of grass. The greenery around him withered at an alarming rate, the dead patch spreading even wider with every passing second. His skin looked like it was melting off his bones, and his black robe was smoking and scorched in places. He didn't appear to be aware of his surroundings, much less of the presence silencing him.

The hooded stranger, now crouched just about a meter away, sighed. Out of the folds of his cloak, a pale hand slid out with a polished stick in its grasp. With it he made a sharp motion in the air, as if stabbing an invisible enemy.

"Stupefy," he intoned, voice soft but clear.

Suddenly, the screaming man's head snapped to the side, likely in search for the person who uttered the word. His deteriorating sight detected two indecipherable blobs of a familiar green glow.

It meant something, he thought – no, he knew it did... But he was finding it hard to think, to breathe, to exist –

The pain was simply too much. Before another torrent of screams could come out of his melted disfigured mouth, his consciousness was swallowed in red light.

Then there was nothing.

'He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone.'

She expectantly looked at her companion for correction, but he simply nodded.

'It's – it's true?' she faltered, not expecting the rumor to hold some truth, much less the truth. 'After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just outstanding... Of all the things to stop him...' she looked away, incredulity painted across her lined face. 'How in the name of heaven did Harry survive?'

The old man beside her looked up at the night sky. 'We can only guess,' he murmured softly, his eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles that reflected the starless expanse above. 'We may never know.'

White.

That was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

White sheets, like in the hospital wing.

His mouth felt like it was filled with sand, his bones like they would creak or snap at the slightest movement. Experimentally, he wriggled his toes and fingers; they seemed relatively fine. Breathing deeply, his eyes slid shut again and he pressed his face into the pillow. Despite being sore, he felt strangely refreshed and sleep-drunk. Tranquil.

It didn't last long.

Years of drilled vigilance finally caught up with him, and images

Halloweenchildrendeathsmokelaughtergreen

Killmercynotharryeyeschildgreengreen

Greengreengreen

'Avada Kedavra!'

images flashed behind his eyelids.

It was enough to jolt him completely awake.

Pain beyond pain beyond pain exploded in his head. He tightly clenched his jaw, bottling the screams that were threatening to pour out. His hands fisted into the sheets at his sides, his toes curled in agony, and he swore his head was going to burst

'Go back to Hell, Demon!'

burst and burn. He couldn't breathe.

'Something's wrong with him.'

Acting on instinct, he tried to trap everything behind Occlumency shields. But he was weak

'Boohoo, weak wittle Tommykins can't even pwotect his pwecious pet. Weak Tommykins, weak Tommykins-'

and his pathetic attempt easily crumbled like dust. All he could do was helplessly wait

'It's fine.'

for the pain

'I don't believe you.'

to subside

'Everything will be fine.'

on its

'…Liar.'

own.

…

Ever so slowly, the ringing in his ears ceased. His chest constricted, and he took hungry mouthfuls of air. He hadn't even realized that he had stopped breathing. He closed his eyes - listening to the beat of his heart and urging it to calm down. Once it did, he propped himself up on his elbows and took stock of the room he was in.

It was small and plain, with dark wooden panels lining the walls and the ceiling. There was no window, and the only source of light was a lamp beside the door, burning low. His bed was against a corner, and to its side was a nightstand - with which on top was a glass of water. It could be poisoned, but the extreme dryness in his throat made him reckless. He downed most of it in one go, just as a man dying of thirst would. A line dribbled down the corner of his mouth in his haste, and he made to wipe it off with the back of his hand. At the exact moment of contact though, he stiffened.

'No,' he thought. His mind must be playing tricks on him. To be certain, he trailed a trembling finger across his… lips.

The empty glass was set aside on the table with a dull thud.

He held his face with both hands now; his fingers tracing the bridge of his nose, his knitted brows, and then combing through the strands on his head-

'This shouldn't be possible.'

Feeling more and more out-of depth, he looked around wildly, but there was no sign of his wand. He stood up, and the white blanket that had covered him previously slid down his frame, exposing naked flesh.

He had no wand, no clothes, and no idea as to where he was, much less what was happening. He was basically a cornered animal; vulnerable and clueless.

He must remedy that at once.

He couldn't waste magic by conjuring his preferred black robes, not with his core drained as it was, so he bent down and grabbed the blanket at his feet. Needing his hands free, he decided to wrap it around his hips, the hem just falling slightly above his ankles. Upon making sure that the blanket's knot was secure enough to allow running if need be, he headed towards the simple wooden door.

Something cold settled in his gut. This was it. He had no idea what to find outside. He was, for the first time in decades, completely unprepared. He picked up the lamp on the floor, breathed in, and then opened the door.

What he saw outside was so unlike the drab room he stepped out of that he had to glance back to make sure he hadn't been transported to a different place altogether. He hadn't, but that didn't make the transition any less bizarre. His lamp provided him with a good radius of light in the dark and empty hallway, and he stared at the rich green expanse of the wall stretching indefinitely on both directions.

Carefully shutting the door behind him as to make no sound, he gathered himself and, with a rusty creak from the lamp as he raised it higher, faced left. For as long as he could remember, he had always been partial to that side. It was a childish fixation that he never had bothered to overcome. It made him predictable, but the ambidextrous Dark Lord hadn't really cared. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford not to care now. So, sparing little thought to breaking a life-long habit, he went right.

He walked and walked, chancing upon no one and nothing on his path except for the occasional bare end tables and paintings of unfamiliar landscapes. He watched everything with a critical eye, his pace never wavering.

Until he passed a suit of armor.

The suit didn't bother him per se, but what he saw on its surface made his blood go cold. He knew that he had his old body back, and old he expected it to be.

His reflection told him otherwise, though.

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle's face, thin and pale, almost seemed corpse-like in the lamplight. Gone were the crimson, snake-like eyes; in their place were grey orbs. It was a once-familiar shade that he had last seen on the day he had first created a horcrux.

Suddenly, a soft, barely audible trickle of sound reached his ears. Not wanting to face his own ghost any more than he'd had to, he tore his eyes away and followed the trail of music.

He didn't see the way the armor's empty helm rotated and followed his retreating form with non-existent eyes.