Disclaimer - I own none of these characters, not making any $, etc…

A.N - Just a warning that this story is rated M for a reason and if you can't handle gruesome death/murder/child death probably best to stay away.

3rd floor Corridor, Hogwarts, June 1991

"Use your wand, fool!" Voldemort spat at Quirrell. He was a wizard, yet was acting like a pathetic muggle.

Luckily, Quirrell got the hint and quickly conjured ropes around Potter. He stared at his left hand with horror as it disintegrated into ash before his eyes. "What magic is this?" He cried.

Even Voldemort was stunned for a moment. What was it about this boy? He had already reflected a killing curse once, and now he was untouchable? Every fiber of his being ached to kill him, to destroy him where he stood. But now a ghost of fear wrapped itself around his heart. If Quirrel tried killing him, would the curse be reflected once more? He needed to know the prophecy - the entire thing this time. The last time he had recklessly rushed out to kill the boy, he had been stripped of his body for more than a decade. Now, so close to obtaining the Stone, he could not take any chances.

"Summon the Stone from him" He ordered.

"Accio!"

Predictably, this did not work. Voldemort sighed and said, "Use levicorpus." With any luck that would cause the Stone to fall from his pocket.

Quirrell had the good sense to cast a cushioning charm at the ground before he intoned "Levicorpus!"

The boy rose into the air, dangling by his ankles, and as luck would have it, the Stone slid from his pocket and fell to the ground.

Quirrell snatched it up triumphantly and gazed at it. "The Philosopher's Stone! At last."

Voldemort was amused at this. Did the fool think the Stone was meant for him? Now they needed to flee before Dumbledore arrived, but there was still one matter left to resolve.

"I will require use of your body, Quirrell. The boy needs to be Obliviated and I do not trust your weak mind arts to the task."

"I can do it Master, he is but a boy…"

Voldmeort ignored him and willed his soul to enter Quirrell's body fully. Quirrell, weak from almost a year of him latched on as a parasite, provided no resistance.

Harry watched on in panic, still upside down, as Professor Quirrell's eyes suddenly flashed red. What was happening? What did obliviated mean? Was he about to die? He struggled against the ropes but was helpless.

Voldemort approached the boy that had caused him so much pain. Oh, how tempted he was to use legilimency to scour the boy's mind for information about the prophecy, about Dumbledore, about the night the killing curse was reflected. Alas, he was now extremely cautious. If a mere touch caused disintegration, what would going into his mind entail? He would have to hope the memory charm worked, and then find the prophecy as soon as possible to find out how to kill him.

The reasoning behind the obliviate was simple: he could not afford Dumbledore discovering he was back. And since he could not kill the boy, he would have to settle for wiping his memories.

He merely edited out his own voice and revelation as Voldemort, as well as the disintegration episode. It wouldn't do for the Old Man to find out this weakness.

He cast the charm, and watched as the boy's became glazed, a sure sign of the spell working. He turned around and quickly made his way out of the castle, ignoring the boy's shouts.

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A little while later,

Dumbledore rushed into the mirror room and looked around wildly. He was relieved to see Harry, who (strangely enough) was floating in the air but appeared unharmed.

"Harry! Are you alright?" He rushed to his side and dispelled the levitation, and floated him gently to the floor.

"Sir! It was Quirrell! We thought it was Snape but it was Quirrell and he got the Stone and he's getting away you have to stop him!" The words rushed out in a torrent as Harry got up quickly.

Dumbledore peered into the boy's eyes and verified the story with his passive legilimency. How clever of Quirrell to use Harry to get the Stone! And he thought himself so brilliant when he concocted the final defense of the Stone! It appeared that he had miscalculated badly. Quirrell was undoubtedly long gone, and he had no way of tracking him down. At least Harry was still alive; that was all that mattered. He had heard the reports from the centaurs about the mysterious creature in the Forest preying on unicorns, as well as the confrontation with Harry on the night of his detention. It was undoubtedly Voldemort, in some shape or form, and now his only hope was that Quirrell got greedy and kept the Stone for himself to prevent the rise of the Dark Lord. So much for all his carefully laid plans to groom Harry into his role as the Prophesied One over the course of several years!

"Harry, did Professor Quirrell mention Lord Voldemort at all?" There was always the chance that Quirrell was looking after his own skin and had nothing to do with the Dark Lord.

Harry searched his memory, which was strangely foggy. Did Quirrell say anything regarding Voldemort? It should have been easy to recall, yet he only had a vague recollection of what he had said. Harry was sure that if Quirrell had mentioned the killer of his parents, he would have remembered, so he tentatively said, "No… I don't think so, sir."

Again, the Headmaster shamelessly scanned Harry's memories but was met with indistinct images and sounds. Strange, but he was well aware how the mind often worked to block out stressful memories. He would question the boy further, he clearly needed rest.

"But sir… What about Quirrell?" Harry asked desperately. Surely he can't have gotten away. Surely the Headmaster had to do something, some special magic to find him and stop him.

"Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore corrected ironically, "Is no longer in the castle." The wards told him that much.

"But then… what will we do, sir?" Harry questioned in disbelief. They had failed? After all those challenges, all the puzzles, they had reached the end… only to fail?

"We will go to the Hospital Wing, to join your friends Ron and Hermione." He answered the question in Harry's eyes, "Ronald is feeling quite well and will make a full recovery. I must commend his bravery and self- sacrifice. Indeed, all three of you exhibited extraordinary courage and resolve to tackle the defenses around the Stone. I could not be more proud of you all, you are all true Gryffindors."

Harry blushed slightly at the praise, but still hung his head morosely. "We failed though, Professor. Qui - eh, Professor Quirrell got the Stone, and he'll bring it to Voldemort, and.. Is he going to come back, Professor?"

They walked in silence for a few moments before the Headmaster replied. "Harry, Lord Voldemort was destined to return one way or the other. He never truly 'died' when you reflected the killing curse back at him. Ever since then, he has been plotting his return to the world. Do not blame yourself by any means."

"It was my fault though. He couldn't get the Stone out sir, he needed me to get it. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have gotten the Stone." Harry said gloomily.

"I will remind you that it was my decision to keep the Stone at Hogwarts, my boy. As such I cannot allow you to take any blame for my decision." Dumbledore countered. "In any case, there is little that you could have done. Quirrell was a fully trained adult wizard, with extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts. I doubt our most proficient 7th years would have performed better. Indeed, without the effort of you and your friends, we may have never known about this theft and would have been clueless while Voldemort rose to power."

The words comforted Harry somewhat, but he couldn't help but feel like he had personally failed the entire school. Because of him, the Dark Lord that had killed his parents and countless others would very soon be back.

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A few hours later, near Riddle Manor

Voldemort was growing tired of Quirrell's grumblings in his mind. Honestly, this was why he preferred being a parasite attached to the man's head. Better to be part of the head than in the head! Such simplistic, trivial, fearful thoughts. He had thought the man pathetic from the moment he met him, and this was only confirmed by hearing his thoughts.

It was time for him to take full control and rid this body of the extra… baggage.

Voldemort prided himself as a master of soul magic and all its applications. He had to be, of course, to create horcruxes. As such, he was more sensitive to the souls of others. It was the main reason why no one could ever lie to him, how no spy had ever infiltrated the ranks of his Death Eaters. Souls were unique items, each with its own individual imprint. Right now he could feel Quirrell's soul, trapped in the same vessel as his own. Two souls inhabiting the same body had rather… negative consequences for the body. It was the reason Quirrell had to drink unicorn blood to sustain himself, to keep his body from literally disintegrating from under the strain of possessing two souls.

One of his original plans was to forge himself a new body, using an old ritual. However, that would take time, require careful planning, and most importantly force him to rely on his followers. He wanted to ingest the elixir of Life at the earliest opportunity, but was loath to do it with Quirrell's soul still hanging around like a bad smell. Thus, it was time to eliminate that unnecessary complication.

The process was actually similar to creating a Horcrux, as he was pushing out part of the soul and imbuing it into an object. While Voldemort's soul was a mere fragment of its former self, it was more than a match for the weak, servile soul of Quirrell. His soul offered some token resistance, a last-ditch effort to remain in its own body, but the Dark Lord ruthlessly pushed it out and bound it to the nearest random object… which happened to be a rubbish bin. Voldemort winced as dark, oily smoke poured from his head and poured into the container. That bit was always painful, but it was nothing compared to tearing his own soul into pieces. The bin glowed and vibrated as Quirrell's soul entered, and then shuddered to an abrupt halt, looking no different than before.

Who said he never did anything for the Muggles? He had just gifted them with an indestructible rubbish bin. He was curious if it would exhibit the same properties that his other soul containers had.

For the first time in over a decade, he had a body that was his own. But this was only the first stage of the plan. He was Lord Voldemort! He would not settle for some broken down body of a squib. Ever since Quirrell had discovered him in the wilds of Albania, a plan had been in the works, to regain his original body. He had been designing a ritual that would restore him to his previous state - the body that had terrorized the Wizarding World for years and would once again strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. It was something inhuman, with snakelike nostrils and eyes, and deathly pale skin. No one would take him seriously if he resembled some stuttering nincompoop.

The ritual he had constructed in the depths of his mind was something like a permanent polyjuice potion, overriding Quirrell's natural form with his own. There was a chance that it would restore him to what he called his "Tom Riddle" body, but he thought that unlikely. His soul was far too mutilated to return to that human form.

The ingredients would not be an issue. That was why he had returned to Riddle Manor, to find his (hopefully still) secret stash. There were a few valuable items there - a backup wand, some money, and (most importantly) a vial of his blood, along with some esoteric potion ingredients that the darker rituals required. He had been planning another ritual before his demise, and hopefully his ingredients remained.

He approached the spot, in the Muggle cemetery that housed his filthy father. He had thought it ironic to house his stash in the resting place of his Muggle parent. No one would think to look here, except perhaps the meddler Dumbledore.

With a wave of his wand, he dug through the earth to reveal a large black box. He hissed the password in Parseltongue, and it clicked open. A quick glance revealed that everything was there. He snapped Quirrell's wand without hesitation and replaced it with his backup wand. It was nothing special, 13 inches long, Ebony, and Phoenix feather, but anything was better than the sad excuse of a stick Quirrell had been wielding.

He went over the ritual yet again. The potion he would be ingesting was very similar to Polyjuice, with lacewing flies and boomslang skin. His own blood would direct the transformation. Ground phoenix feathers and unicorn horn to make the change permanent and stabilize the transformation. There was also another required material for the ritual, the sacrifice of a human fetus to grant his body the adaptability and receptiveness to change of a baby. He would have liked Severus's opinion on the potion, but the Potions Master had made it clear that he could not be trusted. He feared that his former spy was now in the employ of Dumbledore. He had heard the rumors, even in the woods of Albania. That Snape had been pardoned, based solely on the good word of the Chief Warlock. Ever since then he taught Potions, under the Old Man's watchful eye. It was a great shame really; Severus had been one of his most talented Death Eaters by far. His potions ability was unparalleled in all of England even at the age of 21, and his skill with the Dark Arts was exemplary - he had even invented a few spells of his own, like muffliato and sectumsempra. Severus would no doubt come when he summoned his followers, but he would be treated with caution.

He was once again sorely tempted to ingest the Elixir of Life as he looked at his sad stump of a left arm, but restrained himself. That would come later, and would be mixed in with the potion that would restore his form. Truthfully, he wasn't sure the ritual would work at all without it; which was why it had been the sole focus of his plans the past year. He was almost surprised at how easy the Stone was to retrieve. Circumventing Hagrid's beast had been the only real challenge, as the rest of the "protections" had been laughably easy to overcome. Perhaps they were meant to lull one into a false sense of security, before Dumbledore's final puzzle? But then he had received a massive stroke of good fortune as Potter was able to retrieve the Stone, somehow. Even then, he had half suspected that the Stone would be a fake, but the energy that he sensed from it confirmed that it was the genuine article.

What a monumentally stupid decision it had been for the Old Man to take the precious Stone to his bastion of Hogwarts. And to think, he had been right under the Headmaster's nose for over a year, plotting away his return and snatching the Stone right from his watchful eyes. Voldemort allowed himself to bask in his own cleverness before focusing on the task at hand. He now had to peruse the neighborhood till he had a muggle fetus. With the way they bred like rabbits, he doubted this would be a difficult task.

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Hogwarts Castle, The Infirmary

Dumbledore allowed the boy to run off to his friends while he exchanged a meaningful glance with Severus. They strode into a side room while Snape set up privacy wards.

"He has the Stone." Dumbledore said without preamble.

Snape looked away and bit back a curse. "Did I not warn you the protections were inadequate? That a lowly 3rd year could traipse through them with ease?"

"Yes, Severus, but now is not the time -"

"Oh but it is, Headmaster!" Snape cut him off viciously. "Because of your misplaced confidence in Potter's brat, you alone have engineered the Dark Lord's return!"

"Now, Severus, you do not even know what happened. If you'll allow me?" Dumbledore forced a smile. This was only the first of many such discussions that he would likely have in the very near future. Minerva's reaction would likely be even more antagonistic. She too, had deemed the defenses "flimsy".

"By all means, enlighten me," Snape drawled sardonically.

Dumbledore gave a brief summary of the events, as well as what he had gleaned from Harry's mind.

The following tale went about like Severus expected. "You do realize, if you had not provoked the boy into sticking his nose into trouble by returning that cloak, this entire mess may have been avoided?" He said, exasperated.

"Indeed, hindsight as the muggles say, is 20/20. I was wrong, Severus. I believed that Lily's sacrifice would protect Harry and would be enough to drive off Voldemort, or any of his servants. Perhaps the protection was weakened for some reason, or it merely decayed over the past 10 years."

Snape scoffed, "Is the protection you refer to based on love?"

Dumbledore frowned, "Do not mock the power of love, Severus. It is one of the most powerful magics that we know of."

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Love. What a useless emotion. It had ensnared him for years, and what good had it done him? Lily had not only married another man, but his worst enemy, James Potter. And then, to make matters even worse, it had been his own stupid decision to report the prophecy to Voldemort, which effectively sealed Lily's fate. Love. His parents had never shown him much in the way of love either. His father was drunk and violent most of the time, and showed little affection to his frail, pale son. And his mother was even worse, in her utter weakness. What kind of witch let herself and her son be beaten by a muggle and take no action to defend herself? To defend him!? For all that he agreed with Dumbledore, he felt the Dark Lord was right about one thing: Love was a weakness.

"So now what? Will you train the boy? Teach him to love?" He asked with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"Harry is too young for intensive combat training, and in any case it would be useless against Voldemort. Tom has decades of training, experience, and knowledge over Harry. I will however, take it upon myself to begin teaching Harry about the deeper mysteries of magic next year. I fear I will have to tell him the prophecy soon. Not this year… perhaps not even the next, but sooner than I would have liked."

Snape bared his left forearm. The Mark was present, but it was barely visible as it had been since that fateful Halloween. "The Dark Lord is not back yet. We may have some time left. He still needs a body, and will need to gather up his followers and allies. We have time, Albus, but what will we do with it? I take it your order will be reestablished?"

"Indeed, at the earliest convenience we will reconvene. I will need to find a suitable headquarters, as well as other countless matters. The prophecy will need to be guarded, and Harry will be watched as well." He was already wracking his brains trying to think of a good location. The Burrow? Too crowded, too small, but it had the undeniable benefit of Molly's cooking. The aurors, Jones and Moody, and Shacklebolt lived in Muggle neighborhoods, and in any case their buildings were too small to host the entire Order. He supposed Hogwarts was a viable summer option, but he would need to come up with something else for the school year.

"What of the Ministry?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Although I doubt Cornelius will listen to me, I must tell him that Voldemort is back. At the very least perhaps Madam Bones and a few other aurors will believe us. Without any substantial evidence I will be hard pressed to convince Fudge, but I will give my best effort."

Dumbledore didn't wait for Snape to answer and continued. "We cannot rely on the Ministry, not yet. The Order will meet soon, once the term is over, likely here at Hogwarts. We will have many matters to discuss. And as for you, Severus, I fear you will once more have to take upon your role as a triple agent. The moment you feel the Mark burn, go to him. Apologize for everything, denounce me. Do whatever it takes to get into his good graces again, for we will need you as our informant if we stand any chance in the coming war."

Snape's fists tightened at his sides almost imperceptibly. So once more he would be caught in the middle of the great fight between the Lords of Light and Dark. This was not a role he had been looking forward to. If Snape had his way he would have moved to the other side of the planet and settled down in a nice little village where he could experiment with his potions in peace. Instead, he was the key figure of yet another war between Voldemort and Dumbledore. What was his stake in this war? The guilt of killing Lily Evans? The unspoken promise to look after her son? He was tired of feeling guilty for Lily. It was easier to hate her, to shun the girl that ran off with James Potter. Who cares if it was his harsh words that had sent her there in the first place? Albus didn't understand; he thought Snape hated Harry because of his similarities to James, when it was really the other way around. Every time he looked into those almond green eyes, it was a harsh reminder of the friend that he'd lost due to his own foolishness.

In any case, he would not run, or hide. He would see it out, for better or worse.

"As you wish, Headmaster." He said stiffly, and left.

Albus stood there in deep contemplation a while after Severus left, but eventually made his way back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

It gladdened him that Harry looked in better spirits from when he had left him. His friends had no doubt comforted him, as he knew they would. Their friendship made Albus hopeful for the future. Harry already displayed a remarkable capacity for love within him.

They quieted down as he approached.

"Is it true, Professor? Is You-Know-Who coming back?" Ronald asked timidly.

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Indeed, it is very likely that Voldemort will return soon." He ignored the shocked gasp from the red-head as he invoked the Dark Lord's name.

"But I will have to ask the three of you to keep this information between yourselves, for now at least."

"Er… Why is that, sir? Shouldn't everyone know He's back? I remember Hagrid telling me that last time Voldemort was around, it was… it was really bad." Harry spoke up.

"Indeed, it was rather bad." He said dryly. " However, most of the Ministry are of the opinion that Voldemort was completely defeated when you vanquished him on Halloween, and quite frankly, they will not listen to me."

"But Professor, You're the Headmaster, and Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump, and you defeated Grindelwald - surely they'll listen!" Hermione said indignantly.

"Alas, Ms. Granger, I fear none of my positions will be of any use in this matter. The Wizarding World does not want Voldemort in the picture, therefore he does not exist. This, coupled with my lack of proof, leaves me in this unfortunate position. You three have a knack for keeping secrets - would you do an old man a favor and keep this one as well?" He asked.

The three of them glumly nodded and assured him they would keep the secret. Dumbledore sighed. They were too young for this, for the war that was sure to come. He had thought there would be more time for Harry to enjoy his school years in peace, but that time had evaporated like mist. Dumbledore felt all of his years weighing heavily on him as he slowly walked back to his office. How many would die this time around to Voldemort's madness? How many innocents slain, how many lives shattered? How many young men and women would he send to their deaths in the name of the Greater Good? The answer, he suspected, would be the same - it was always the same. Too many.

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Voldemort was frustrated. He had spent the better part of the day trying to find a pregnant muggle, but it was more difficult than he had thought. There were none to be found in Little Hangleton, so he was forced to travel to other nearby villages. How strange. He remembered during his childhood, it was not uncommon for women to bear 5 or more children. Indeed, he recalled that a number of his fellow orphans were unwanted 6th or 7th children, cast aside for their perceived economic burden. How disgusting it was for the muggles to throw away their own children without a second thought. In the Wizarding World, children were rare and treasured, and treated with the utmost respect and care. Voldemort didn't even think there was an orphanage for magical children. It was unheard of.

Nevertheless, he was eventually able to secure his prey, and apparated with it (a small, dark-haired thing) back to the cemetery. He had double checked that this one was indeed pregnant, after an embarrassing fiasco with a fat whale of a woman. That woman should be thanking him, really. A killing curse was a far better way to go than a lifetime of heart disease, diabetes, and obesity.

He placed the stunned muggle down and began preparations. The potion took him a lot longer to brew than normal, as he was still without his left arm. After countless hours of sweating, cutting, dicing, stirring, and cursing, the potion was just about complete. Now for the elixir of life. Alchemy was a complex branch of magic, and what separated it from basic transfiguration was its permanence. No transfiguration, or conjuration was ever permanent - each object had a basic 'reversion rate' which was directly proportional to the mass and size of the transfigured item. Alchemy, however, was an alteration at the molecular level, using magic to force atoms into becoming other atoms, and stay that way. It was just about a dead magic in the Wizarding World though, because one needed a catalyst like the Stone to make it viable.

Voldemort did not particularly care for the details, though, and was just happy that he had a source of immortality and infinite wealth. This was the big test - he was sure the Stone was real, but now, for the first time, he attempted to create the elixir of Life. He watched, transfixed, as the vial of clear water he held became thick and golden, and positively radiated magic. He added it into his cauldron and watched with glee as the potion took on a glowing, molten gold sheen.

(*TRIGGER WARNING - DO NOT READ NEXT PARAGRAPH IF CHILD MURDER BOTHERS YOU)

There was only more ingredient to be added - the blood of a murdered fetus. The Dark Lord coldly cut open the muggle's uterus with a spell and summoned the disgusting creature from her womb. He took out his knife and slit its throat, and dispassionately watched its lifeblood drain into the basin. The Muggle was still stunned and remained motionless. Stunners were generally far more effective against muggles, often putting them in a coma - like state unless reversed, as they had no magic to counter its effects. He stirred the cauldron a few times, and then drank.

He had expected a terrible taste, as most potions were disgusting, but it was surprisingly sweet, and he eagerly gulped down the entire contents of the cauldron. He did not have to wait long to feel the effects.

It was like polyjuice, but a thousand times more intense. He felt like his entire body was squirming and wriggling under his skin, like there were millions of insects moving every which way inside him. And the pain, it was indescribable, like those insects in him were made of molten steel and were biting him with white hot pincers. And the worst was yet to come, for he felt his very soul withering under the intensity of the Elixir of Life. As he screamed and thrashed in agony, his only thought was that he had miscalculated badly. Perhaps the potion was missing some crucial ingredient, maybe the Stone actually was a clever fake, maybe this was Dumbledore's trap all along!

What Voldemort was feeling was actually the Elixir's attempt at mending his soul. Had he ingested the potion without using the elixir, it would have worked as expected - he would have regained his old body without a hitch. However, the sheer healing power of the Philosopher's Stone would have immense consequences for Voldemort. The elixir targeted the most damaged part of Voldemort - his mere fragment of a soul. The elixir recognized that it was incomplete, so it called to all of Voldemort's horcruxes in an attempt to restore the soul to its full health. The pain Voldemort felt was his soul reaching out and flaring like a beacon so his various soul fragments knew where to go. One by one, the Dark Lord's soul fragments left their phylacteries and swarmed to the master soul like moths to a flame.

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Dobby was not having the best of days. In fact, as the House Elf of the Malfoy family, most of his days were rather bleak. This day, however, was dark even by his low standards. He had burned the Master's dinner, so as punishment he had left his hands in the oven for 5 minutes. Then while he was cleaning he had accidentally fumbled with his burned hands and dropped an antique vase, which had apparently been a Black Family heirloom. It had been repaired in an instant, but the punishment came all the same.

Now he was dusting in Master's study, while Master Malfoy was away on business. The quiet was disturbed by a strange shrieking. Dobby frowned. There was no one in the room, yet, the grating noise was definitely emanating from a locked cupboard, which Master Malfoy said under no circumstance was he ever to touch. He cautiously approached, then yelped and leapt back as an ominous cloud of black smoke leaked out from the closet. It floated aimlessly for a moment, before shooting off at astounding speed, going through the walls like they weren't even there. Dobby shrugged. Whatever that had been, he was at least sure it wasn't his fault.

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Harry lay in his bed, rubbing his scar worriedly. It had been twinging and bothering him ceaselessly since the incident with the Stone. He had also felt strangely elated today, even though his time at Hogwarts was almost over and he would have to return to the Dursley's very soon. Add in the fact that Voldemort's return was nigh, he really shouldn't have been feeling anything remotely close to happiness. Maybe someone had hit him with a cheering charm? He had heard about those from Hermione, even though she couldn't cast one yet. Yes, that was probably it; Hermione had noticed he was depressed and asked someone to cast a Cheering charm on him while he wasn't looking.

A fresh jolt of pain interrupted his thoughts. He frowned; this was getting rather annoying. Then he stopped thinking altogether, as his scar exploded in pain, the likes of which he had never experienced. It was like there was a rusty screw in his head, and someone was extracting it, or maybe pushing it deeper; he couldn't tell. Everything else vanished, the room, his previous good mood, as he couldn't help but scream as the pain swelled even further. After what seemed like hours, the endless, throbbing waves of agony ceased and he mercifully collapsed into unconsciousness, while he faintly heard others enter the room and yell indistinctly.

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Similar scenes took place across England, as the Locket, Cup, Diadem, and Ring were freed of Voldmeort's taint and raced back to their master soul. Voldemort lay on the ground, curled into a ball from the hours of agony, and barely noticed as his soul fragments merged into one massive cloud of darkness and entered his head. Strange memories played through his head like a broken pensieve. He saw himself killing his useless muggle father, and then pouring his rage and disappointment into the diary which had been his loyal companion for years. And then he killed Morfin, and the Smith Lady, and so on, until he finally watched vicariously as his killing curse was reflected from the baby Potter and struck him in the chest. Was this the end? Was he reliving his last moments before his final, ultimate death? Surely pain like this had to end. Anything, anything to end this agony! Dying was nothing to this, making horcruxes was nothing, this was too much. And then it was over.

He woke up and looked around blearily. Was he dead, was he a spirit once more? He waved a hand around gingerly and slapped himself in the face, hard. He winced - that hurt. So he was alive, somehow. He cautiously got up and looked around. He was still in his father's cemetery, in Little Hangleton. The cauldron was nearby, overturned, and the corpse of the dead muggle child lay discarded next to the grave of his father. It was all as he had left it - the Muggle woman was even there, still stunned.

Voldemort looked at his body - the first thing he noticed was that his left arm was back. He shakily waved his wand and conjured a mirror. He looked at his new features for the first time - and dropped the mirror in shock. It was impossible! How? Was this the Stone at work? He conjured another mirror and looked again. Staring back at him were the cool grey eyes and handsome face of a young man in his mid 20s. It was his face - Tom Riddle's!

Unexpected tears formed in his eyes as he looked at his youthful visage. What had happened to his young, idealistic lad, to turn him into the ruthless killing machine that had terrorized England for years? Voldemort snarled and then threw the mirror away with enough force to shatter it into a million pieces. What on Earth was going on? Why was he crying like some sniveling schoolboy? His eyes fell on the motionless woman, and he thought of his mother. Why did she toss him aside and abandon him to the Muggles? New tears formed and Voldemort was equal parts enraged and confused as his emotions spiraled out of control. He forced himself to sit down, cross-legged and do a basic occlumency exercise. He immersed himself in his own mind, and just focused on his breathing for a few moments. Something about the ritual had gone horribly wrong, that was certain. But what? He mentally went over the potion, the ritual, all the ingredients…

It must have been the Elixir of Life; it had been too powerful and worked its magic too well. But to what extent? He was experiencing emotions he hadn't felt since he was a teenager - loss, regret, pain, fragility. His horcruxes had all but purged those weaknesses from his soul. What use did he have for love, hope, and all those dreadfully human emotions? He was Lord Voldemort, he was above such things. Then a terrible realization gripped him like the cold chill of a dementor. The elixir's power was the stuff of legends - no one truly knew what it was capable of. What if it had somehow… healed his soul? He was well aware that his soul was mangled and a shadow of its former self, the price he willingly paid for immortality. But had the elixir actually restored his soul? No, that was absurd. He couldn't have a full soul and have horcruxes. That was impossible. And yet, the sinking feeling lingered on like a heavy weight on his chest.

He hadn't thought of the effect the Elixir might have on his horcruxes. They were two different forms of immortality - and perhaps incompatible with one another.

Well, there was an easy way to find out. The Gaunt shack was nearby, so he would quickly check on the ring. What he was expecting to find, even he did not know.

He apparated without a sound and made his way to the worn down structure. It was as dilapidated as ever, and he strode inside nervously. He ignored the compulsion on the Ring and dispelled the curse on it. He held it in his hands, feeling for something, any hint that his soul remained. There was nothing. It was a lifeless rock, devoid of his soul. He bit back a scream of rage and frustration. If this Horcrux was no more, it was likely that all of his former phylacteries had suffered similar fates. He was immortal, but vulnerable. The elixir of Life had somehow overridden his previous immortality and had returned to him his full soul.

His horcruxes were all likely gone. He had his soul back. Creating more would be impossible while he consumed the Elixir of Life. Was this Dumbledore's plan all along? Had he somehow caught on to his method of immortality, and devised the perfect solution to strip him of his nigh-indestructible containers? It was a possibility - the old man was always too clever for his own good. So he was now immortal, but vulnerable. Strangely, the thought did not terrify him as it once did. Who was capable of defeating him anyway? He was the most powerful wizard to have ever lived. He had accomplished things most wizards never even dreamed of. The only real obstacles in his path were the Headmaster and strangely enough, the Potter boy. The boy had somehow reflected a killing curse, and now Voldemort couldn't even touch him without disintegrating. Learning the full prophecy was his major priority now. They were often vague, senseless ramblings, but perhaps it offered some clue as to how to kill Potter.

But that was for later. The more pressing concern was getting his followers back. They were for the most part a bunch of weak, easily-manipulated fools, but he needed followers if he was to ascend to his proper place and take over the Wizarding World. He focused on the magic of the Dark Mark, It would have been easier to use one of his Death Eater's marks, but he still controlled the magic of the Mark, as he was its creator. He focused and made it burn like it had never burned, a clear sign not only of his return, but of his anger. It was a summons that could not be ignored.

He slipped the now useless ring into his pocket and apparated back to the cemetery in Little Hangleton. At last, he was back, and once more poised to dominate England. They had needed a fluke, the unlikeliest miracle to stop him the first time. He would not be denied this time.

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A.N: Ok, that's chapter 1. Thought of including the Death Eater meeting, but I think that deserves its own chapter because A LOT of stuff goes on there.

Explanations: Dumbledore trusts Snape a LOT more in my fic than in canon, if it wasn't obvious.. At this point Dumbles suspects Voldemort used Horcruxes, but has no proof yet.

Harry will get some more time later but Voldemort will essentially be the main character for the first part of this fic, cause he's the one that has changed the most from canon. Harry "losing" and not having a horcrux certainly has an impact, but a much more subtle one.

I've certainly read a shit ton of HP fanfics, but this is my first real attempt at writing one, so reviews will be GREATLY appreciated. I have a general outline of the story in mind, but if you guys have any insightful suggestions regarding the plot/characters I will certainly consider them.