"May I help you?"

Voldemort still wasn't used to his new looks. It was strange for him to enter a shop and be treated like a regular wizard. It had been many decades since his last experience of that.

He smiled at the girl working for Madame Malkin after quickly looking her over. She was of average height and above-average beauty, with conservatively cut robes and blonde hair, blue eyes.

"Yes, you certainly can."

He shot her his most charming smile and watched her blush. She smiled back.

"I need new robes," Voldemort announced as he took out a sack of galleons and wandlessly levitated it over to the desk. It wasn't charmed, but it was full to the brim. It was more than the girl earned in several months.

"Madame Malkin is out for the rest of the day, but I can take your measurements. If you'd like that, of course," she said after staring for a few seconds in awe at such a display of power. She needed to incant her spells with wand in hand in order to do what the handsome stranger had just done, and she had graduated with EE's and O's. The money didn't impress her: she saw rich purebloods every other day.

"Splendid," the Dark Lord walked over to the stool the girl indicated.

She started doing her seamstress work, and Voldemort diligently moved the way she demanded in order for her to get the correct measurements. He reflected on the journey he had gone through to be where he is now, and the road ahead.

As a child, Tom Riddle grew up in an orphanage during the Second World War. He ended up an emotionally stunted youth, carrying invisible and festering wounds for many years. As a teen, he had been focused on acquiring power, nothing else. As a young man, he had already corrupted his soul, tearing it to shreds, creating horcruxes, and performing too much necromancy for his own good. He went mad under the influence of the Dark Arts, although he would never admit it out loud.

It took the disintegration of his physical body, over a decade of a half-life as a wraith, and the subsequent recreation of his body, as well as the destruction of two of his horcruxes for him to acknowledge that he had made mistakes along the way.

Albus Dumbledore had been the only wizard, besides schoolchildren, to believe Harry Potter about his return. Voldemort liked to believe that the smear campaign against him by Fudge had driven the boy to the edge of sanity. Watching his friends and loved ones die in the bowels of the Ministry must have pushed Potter over the edge.

Voldemort had tried to track the youth many times over the years. It always ended up nowhere. Eventually, the Dark Lord had accepted that one day, Harry Potter would show up to challenge him. The ball was in his court, but he seemed to refuse to play. So Voldemort waited for his nemesis to reveal himself, and consolidated his power. He had, of course, already been to the Hall of Prophecy in the Department of Mysteries and knew the exact wording that Severus Snape had failed to bring back to him. Potter would face him one day. It was inevitable.

While a wraith, Voldemort had much time to consider the mistakes of his first campaign against the entrenched status quo. This time around, he had hidden himself in the shadows of his loyal followers, as they enacted his will. Many were prominent members of society, holding various offices or owning businesses and lands. He had agents more or less everywhere, and he kept them in check. His power was not based solely on terror anymore. It was political, and he was almost ready to seize the centerstage.

It had been a while since he called a general meeting of his clandestine organization. Even his most loyal and oldest Death Eaters were not aware of his new appearance. His inner circle. They didn't know his plans; they simply obeyed his orders. Such was his power. Such was their loyalty.

"All done."

The seamstress was on her knees in front of the wizard, still playing with a measuring tape. She looked him right into the eyes. The Dark Lord easily entered her mind, for his legilimency was unparalleled. She was imagining what sex with him would be like, as well as entertaining thoughts about whether he was a pureblood, and if their children would be powerful wizards like he obviously was. She thought about her own age, close to thirty, and that it was time to settle down and get married, and start a family. He looked, in her opinion, to be maybe ten years older than her. She hadn't seen him at Hogwarts, so at least seven, for she would have surely remembered such a handsome face. She thought about her own half-blood status, and whether or not that would be a deal-breaker for him.

The Dark Lord beamed at her. It had been years–decades–since he last had sex. His previous form… was not ideal for such occupations, and the wraith like creature he had been before was even worse.

"Let me ask you, when will you close up shop today?"

The girl looked him over, hope translating through her eyes. He didn't even need legilimency anymore.

"In an hour," she gently replied.

Voldemort could sense her heart beating faster. Part of his reptilian senses. She was excited. He decided he wouldn't read her mind for now. The thrill of the hunt, he justified to himself.

"Would you like to try Madame Rosmerta's stew? I've been told it's very hearty. Dinner with me tonight? Three broomsticks!"

Tom Riddle's words came out all jumbled.

She couldn't believe her luck. The handsome stranger was interested in her, and had actually made his move.

"Sure. I'm Maona, by the way. Maona Stevenson."

The way she had announced her last name had a tint of bitterness to it, Voldemort observed. There were a lot of laws that were to the disadvantage of mudbloods and half-bloods, and there has been a strong smear campaign against these groups for quite a few years now, organized by the pureblood faction and orchestrated by him from the shadows.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Tom. Let's meet at the Leaky, say at a quarter past five?"

"Make it five thirty, I have some closing duties to attend to after locking up."

Maona handed Voldemort the sack of galleons back.

"Payment on delivery of goods."

He nodded to her, and said his goodbyes, promising to be at the Leaky Cauldron.

Walking out of the shop, Voldemort considered the Alley. There were shops everywhere, and the whole district was buzzing with activity.

The Dark Lord cast a quick spell, and found it to be four twenty. He considered his options. He had an hour to kill. He didn't need anything from the bookstore, or the apothecary, or even Knockturn. He had money on him, so he didn't need to visit the bank. He didn't need anything at all the moment, and no one and nothing was bothering him. The world was his oyster.

He slowly walked to the pub, extending his senses in all the directions around him.

There was a bit of tension in the air, but nothing that threatened to spill over into riots by unruly mudbloods or anything of the sort. He nodded to a small group of witches that were walking around, shopping. They smiled at him. He had forgotten what it meant to truly be alive. He had spent so many years working magic of death, that it had robbed him of something essential.

It had all changed when he found his locket with the miserable Kreacher after entering Grimmauld Place for the first time. Even now, he felt its comfortable weight and presence around his neck. It was warm on his chest, stuck to his skin, magically attached. The fragment of his soul yearned to be back home, but it was trapped in a necromantic phylactery.

In some ways, carrying his horcruxes on his person seemed to make the most sense to him. After all, with Albus Dumbledore dead, there was no one left to challenge him. Until Potter returned, and unless he had been trained by the best of the best for many years, Voldemort didn't think anyone posed a challenge to him.

After all, the Dark Lord was paranoid. He only drank from his horcrux cup. It detected poison and neutralized it. He could smell poison without it anyway, with his reptilian senses and vast knowledge. Better safe than sorry. He had no desire to return to the land of the undead, gliding around as a shade.

These days, he always maintained a discrete magical shield to stop any hidden attacks on him. He drank various potions regularly to maintain his body in peak physical health. He even studied martial arts, both magical and muggle. He practiced his magic daily, read tomes of power, and regularly performed ritual magic.

He has never been so powerful, and he even entertained the idea that he would defeat Albus Dumbledore, should the old man have been alive this day.

He even had one of the three Deathly Hallows, the fabled Resurrection Stone. For a necromancer, this was an amazing tool, and he still had much to learn about wielding it, let alone from the various souls he brought back and interrogated.

"What can I get you, stranger?" the barman Tom asked him when he finally entered the pub and sat down.

"A pint of bitter, if you will."

The barkeep nodded, and sent it floating to the table that Voldemort had picked out, a corner booth.

Voldemort inhaled the air in the place, rich with smoke. He tasted it with his serpent like senses. He reached his magic out, and felt the vibes of the place, for lack of a better word.

There was a strange undercurrent of fear. Voldemort quietly enhanced his sense of hearing and began to eavesdrop while sipping on his pint.

Apparently someone had been murdering werewolves, and now whole packs were gone. The three largest packs, actually. Almost all of the remaining wolves had fled Britain. Voldemort considered the situation. He had planned on getting rid of the filth anyways, so he wasn't upset that they were dead.

What was of concern to him, was that he hadn't known of it beforehand. He was the Dark Lord of this nation, and someone was making moves on his territory.

The arrival of a blonde witch interrupted his train of thought. She wasn't wearing her conservative robes anymore, and showed some skin and curves. She had more make-up on too, and her hair looked different.

"Hello Maona," the Dark Lord stood for her as she joined him at his table. "I'm glad to see you."

He leaned in, taking her hands into his, reaching across to give her la bise.

She smiled at the handsome stranger, letting him take her hands into his, and pull her in close.