Voldemort paced in his potions lab, following the careful diagrams he had devised months ago. The pacing was very important, modelled after the patterns of the bees and flowers. Everything had to be perfect for the optimal result, reasoned the powerful wizard. The Moon was in the right phase of the cycle, and the fall equinox was unfolding.
He paced and he paced. Finally, he faced the cauldron. It had the right bottom thickness, the better to spread the heat of the flame beneath it equally, as much as to prevent unfortunate cauldron melting incidents. He gave the potion a stir and a counter-stir. The shimmering air above the disgusting booger-green liquid gleamed with malevolence.
Tom Riddle was a grandmaster of the Dark Arts and an overall prodigy with magic. He sensed what is called magic intuitively and has been consciously manipulating it since before he knew what it was named. For many decades after finishing his traditional education, the Dark Lord had been expanding his knowledge—and therefore his power. He travelled the world, scouring the planet for artefacts and ancient texts, coming into possession of various objects descending from the Founders of Hogwarts, amongst much else.
For years now he has worked with one Severus Snape, developing potions, and honing his skills in the artful science of potion brewing. Riddle would never acknowledge it, but he knew Snape surpassed him in his own ability to brew. Snape had an innate genius that could not be fully reproduced, much like Riddle's own with the Dark Arts.
Voldemort was patient. Things of such magnificence could not be rushed. One had to have patience, or it was all for naught.
As the Sun crept past the horizon, the potion was ready.
Tom Marvolo Riddle drank eagerly.
Pain lanced his mouth. His eyes, his ears, his throat, his face, his skin and head. The pain spread and engulfed every ounce of his body. A scream wasn't able to tear its way out of the Dark Lord. He endured until he couldn't, and darkness filled his vision as he passed out from the sheer pain, worse than anything he had ever felt, worse still than the handful of crucios he had endured, and worse still again than the half-life as a wraith.
Hours later, the Dark Lord inhaled a sharp breath, regretted it, but still opened his eyes. He was alive. The potion must have been successful.
Nobody was allowed into his home, let alone his potions laboratory. Nagini lived with Voldemort, but wouldn't risk going to the basement laboratory. Some things are just too dangerous, even for the Dark Lord's most loyal.
The Lord of Darkness, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, Tom Marvolo Riddle, eventually found his bed, and rested without sleeping, pondering about the various turns his life had taken since his reincorporation. His body was still in too much pain from his potion.
He lived in Grimmauld Place, number 12. He had come to ownership of the ancestral home of the House of Black after Sirius Black had died and the Potter welp disappeared, heir to the half-crazed animagus. It took years of litigation for Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, to reclaim the house, and mere moments to offer it to Voldemort.
His legilimency allowed him to read her mind casually, and Riddle wasn't even offended that his living in the Malfoy Manor was difficult for her, to say the least. She would have been glad to pay a very handsome price to have the Dark Lord leave her home. And she did.
The library of Grimmauld Place 12 proved particularly extensive. Upon seeing what it was that the Malfoy's had truly gifted him, he even forgave Lucius for losing his diary, his first horcrux to Albus Dumbledore… although he would never admit it to the blond wizard. Watching him squirm was a small pleasure he delighted in.
Oh, dear old Albus, grinned Voldemort, how you fell for my trap. It was costly, a second Horcrux dissolved, but his archenemy had perished taking it out. A long and painful death, if Severus was to be believed.
Tom Riddle had been genuinely surprised to find the locket, a third of his horcruxes, in his new home, the same one that had housed the Order of the Phoenix prior to its disintegration. That had prompted him moving all of his horcruxes.
Voldemort looked at his left hand, and noticed that crippling pain didn't shoot through his body.
He turned the Stone three times.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," said Voldemort with a sneer, still lying in his king size bed, wrapped in a comfortable duvet.
The old wizard appeared to the Dark Lord.
"Ah, Tom."
The image of the dead man was eerily still to anyone who did not delve into necromancy. Voldemort had no such qualms.
"Good morning, Albus. How do I look?"
For a moment Dumbledore said nothing.
"Good," Dumbledore sounded surprised despite his post-mortem state of emotionless being.
"Be gone," commanded the Dark Lord, and Albus disappeared as the wizard turned the Stone again.
Finally feeling up to it, Tom approached the large mirror in the master bedroom and marveled at his creation.
Yesssss… hissed the Dark Lord in satisfied parseltongue as he rubbed his new nose and passed a hand through his hair. He was extremely handsome by both wizard and muggle standards. His teeth were pearly white, and his eyes strikingly blue, nearing even silver-grey. He then sighed a bit sadly. He already missed his old looks. It had taken him many rituals to look as he had. It hadn't been purely cosmetic. The fear it struck into his foes and subordinates was strong. The real value had been the incorporation of many reptilian qualities into his being that offered him greater range of motions to his limbs and joints. His feet sensed vibrations through the ground. He could taste the air through his nose, as opposed to smell.
This potion had reversed the cosmetic side effects of his previous rituals, but he still kept many of the actual perks. It had been worth the pain.
The Blacks were geniuses for much of wizarding history, Riddle decided. To think that this cost only three muggles. The wizard giggled as he played with the Resurrection Stone on his left index finger. He couldn't feel his horcrux connect to his soul. It wasn't there anymore. Another power thrummed from the ring. A deathly force.
Voldemort closed his eyes and extended his arms out. His favorite robe silently flew from a hook on the wall and enveloped his body.
Voldemort tugged his arms and shoulders a bit one way and another. It no longer fit perfectly. Slightly annoyed, the Dark Lord yelled out.
"Kreacher!"
The elf appeared and bowed deeply.
"The Dark Lord summons Kreacher. What can Kreacher do for the Dark One?"
"Coffee, three eggs sunny side up, a little bit runny. Oh, and bacon and bangers. Some toast. Make some baked beans too, I'm absolutely famished. I'll start with pumpkin juice and a treacle pie, Kreacher, while I wait for the rest. And fetch me the Daily Prophet. I'll be in the office. I'll eat there too."
The elf bowed and disappeared, not daring to mutter out loud that the office was work, and the dining room for eating.
Voldemort stared at the empty space that had contained Kreacher moments earlier. The elf hadn't reacted to Voldemort's new looks. Maybe he hadn't noticed, pondered the Dark One, as he walked up the stairs to the office near the top of the building. One never knew what went on inside the mind of a house-elf. Even Voldemort's legilimency wasn't enough to break through the natural chaos that reigned in between those large pointy ears.