Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or settings in this story. The honour belongs solely to JK Rowling. I suspect that I do not even own half of the plot, as this has been influenced by the numerous fanfics I've read.

Summary: Not everything is as it seems when Voldemort's revenge sends Hermione swirling into the past.

The Beginning

As I lay down on the luxurious black satin sheets of my large four poster bed that my minion provided for me, I feel the indescribable agony coursing through every sinew of my body. My arms feel like dead weight and they scream so badly I can barely lift them to wipe the sweat of my brow. My legs are so weak they will no longer support my slight frame. I see my hands, once long and thin, elegant some would say. But now they are skeletal, throbbing in pain. The mere motions of closing my eyelids make me want to cry out. Breathing is agony. But the worst pain I feel comes from my chest, where my heart once lived. There is a sensation there which I cannot explain, something that they did to me. It is a magic that I have never seen before. But a dying wizard must be honest with himself. I have seen it before. The first time I was almost destroyed.

My body may be destroyed, but my mind is still lucid. I remember the last battle so clearly, the battle that brought me to this sorry state. The memory of it invades every moment of my waking and sleeping hours. How he once again defeated me and left me barely a hollow shell. It should not have happened this way! I am Lord Voldemort! No wizard has the power to defy me, especially not a boy. But he has friends. I remember. He and his little friends together defied all logic and left me almost defenceless. I still don't know how they managed it. Three snivelling little children defeated the greatest dark lord ever to live.

I feel like screaming, as I once again feel the waves of pain. I will not succumb to the pain. I will not show weakness, even at the end.

I remember the three of them well. First, there is the little Mudblood; she will get what is coming to her. She does not respect her place. I can remember her face as she stood facing me, defiant. As if she was every bit as good as me, the heir of Slytherin! She is beneath all wizards, yet this little Mudblood whore is the brains of the three. Then there is the loyal friend. He is the blood-traitor. He is neither intelligent nor powerful, he is always outmatched. Yet he stands by the others' side, and fights to the end. He is the spirit that holds the group together. And at the heart is Harry Potter. Little Harry Potter, the baby who left me a hollow shell, and the adolescent who did it again, fifteen years later. He has been a thorn in my side for far too long. Too many times he has thwarted my plans and those of my Death Eaters. And this time, this time I fear that he has thwarted me for good.

As another spasm goes through me I start to think that maybe the old fool was right; there are worse things than death, and I am living it now. There can be nothing worse than the pain I am feeling right now. Another wave of agony strikes, and this time I scream out loud. I hope I am not heard. The spasms are coming more frequent and I can feel the end coming, and with it a certain peace.

With these thoughts I start to shake. No! The worst thing there is in this world is death. Death is nothing. Oblivion. There can never be anything worse than to no longer exist. While I am still alive there is still hope. To die knowing I was defeated by children is worse than living with this horrible suffering. I will survive … again. It is different this time. My servants are still with me.

All those who dared not to succumb to my will shall pay dearly with their lives in the most painful way possible, and those three shall be the first of many. They underestimate my power. They will all cower before me.

The fools think they can destroy me? I can never be destroyed! Only I know the secret of defeating mortality. Only I can cheat death. Twice I should have been killed, but I have survived. And this time I will arise more powerful than ever before. I feel a sly smile form on my lips. I know just how to achieve it. I begin to laugh. A plan develops before my eyes. It is purely superb in its cunning. The vindictiveness of my plan shall serve me greatly. I shall restore myself to health, and destroy the three who put me in this state at the same time.

Using every ounce of strength I have left I drag myself over to the armchair beside the bed. The move is torturous but I know I must present myself in the chair before I send for my servant. I do not want to show weakness by lying helpless in bed in front of my minions.

I see a wooden idol on the bedside table. I try to pick it up but in my current state even its light weight is too heavy for my aching arms. Still, I can see its exquisite making and I am pleased with it. The craftsmanship is flawless. It is a life-size model of a human skull, coloured green, with the head of a snake protruding from its mouth. I had acquired this idol in my youth, almost fifty years ago during my wanderings, before I truly became Lord Voldemort. When I learnt of its power I knew I had found my sign, the sign that all would one day fear, and it was through this idol that I designed the dark mark which my servants each sought to have marked to their left forearms. With a simple touch of my wand on its surface I use this idol to call my servant. 

My servants are always attentive, for they know the consequences of tardiness. He arrives promptly, and kneels on one knee by the bedside with his silver head bowed.

"Look into my eyes, Lucius." I hear that my voice is croaky and weak. No matter, it won't be for long.

My servant raises his head and looks me in the eye. I delight in seeing the fear of others, even of my most loyal supporters. Even now, in my time of desperation, my servants fear me. This knowledge gives me strength.

"Lucius," I say. "I have a little task for you."

I see the normally arrogant guise of one of my most loyal Death Eaters cower before me and I am amused by it.

"Anything, my Lord," Lucius snivels, and I laugh, a loud cackling bellow.