Disclaimer: noooope not mine just Nina and the crazy plot.

Sorry for the wait, Hope you enjoy.


He was restless to no end, his followers clueless and useless. He didn't trust them with his horrocruxes, and he wouldn't trust them with his mysterious blood donor.

He couldn't tell what the boy's intentions were, what affiliations he has, how he spoke parseltongue, what stopped the true Harry Potter from touching that cup. He couldn't even assume the boy wasn't in that maze. If any one would have the gall to meddle with his plans it would have been the old fool. But then he wouldn't trust a slytherin, and the stranger boy couldn't be anything but a slytherin.

He looked at the small flask with the red thick liquid and felt his own stirr in recognition as it did everytime. The same question burning his mind since the first time he inspected the flask after the ritual.

Such power in such a small amount of blood.

He expected The Potter boy's blood to be so. His mother's sacrifice served him great power, but his surprise hit him when he realized the boy wasn't Potter. The golden glow of the unmistakable runes on his middle finger trayling down to his arm and over the bleeding cut paired with his snarky response in parseltongue left him stunned. And he couldn't say he often indulged the sentiment. It took only a second of his surprise for the boy to retrieve the Portkey cup and wisk himself away to safety.

He wouldn't forget the silent terror of the mysterious boy's face when he emerged, a perfect body from the thick liquid. The sweat clinging to his skin, the tremble of his limbs, the bumps forming along his skin at his approach. He seemed clueless in his fear, small breaths struggling in and out of his lungs, small distressed sounds. When he inspected his face he was far away form noticing his body's reactiond to him.

It could have been only fear. That's what he chose to think before he realized the boy wasn't the Potter boy. It never would have crossed his mind that this could happen, that his plan could fail so spectacularly, in such a twisted manner, that by the end of the night his foe was but a passing thought.

He studied the use of the Potter boy's blood for years. He knew the kind of power it's ancient magic would bestow upon him.

A mysterious wizard's blood. Not so much. But no matter. Either by his own power or the stranger boy's, his goal has been achieved, perhaps not in the way he planned or expected, none the less the results were far from disappointing.

His new body, fit him like a well tailored glove. It wasn't a body, it was his body. Not the deformed version that succumbed that night at the hand of the silly mudblood. No. This was his body, it felt untainted, clean. The way his body felt when he sensed magic course through him for the first time. Pure power in pure form, no consequences attached. There was no pain or price expected.

Dark magic had left it's trace upon his skin, a price he was admittedly more than willing to pay. He spent years seeking power, learning everything he could, practicing magic of old and dark times.

Power had no limit and he certainly put no limit to it. But in his years of study and practice, he found the ugly truth of consequence. An ugliness he accepted as beauty.

It was evolution at its finest, he saw himself as a better wizard with all his scars and red eyes.

Today, the face he abhorred once for its resemblance to Riddle, was the face he deemed as perfection. How things change.

It seems this time evolution had brought him acceptance of some old wounds.

For all that he hated his face in the past. He looked like himself and unlike himself, there were no sharp edges to remind him of his years in the orphanage. There was strength in the movement of his jaw in his cheekbones. No dark circles under his eyes to relay to the world his years of hardship.

The ritual had given him his body back, better in all ways. He couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his mouth when he recalled the punishment of one of his followers. He was pleased with the results, but after yesterday's incident, he was simply ecstatic.

The useless lump of bones, had believed himself worthy to question his master's orders. He was proved wrong when his master's face turned from Lord Voldemort's human face to vicious snake like features in a split second.

The man pissed himself and fainted.

His followers proved their aw and loyalty in several degrees of fear and submission.

He was undoubtedly pleased. Not even Magical laws would hold him back from greatness.


"Forgive me Master... But we can get to the Potter boy, and now that my Lord can touch him. We can prove to the world he is but simply a child, no match to your greatness."The silence of the Dark Lord and his stillness made the tall man squirm in his place, sweat gathering on his forehead. Some basic part of him must have sensed danger where his brain couldn't, because he looked like he wanted to explain his point further.The Dark Lord turned to him and hissed in parseltongue, "Nagini my dear, Mr. Crain seems to believe I need to prove my power further" his face changing to something they couldn't recognize as human in a million years, for just a millisecond. The giant snake slithered in and opened it's jaws wide hissing menacingly at the rest of them.

Nina woke screaming for the second time this week. Panting she shook her head and breathed deeply trying and failing at removing the image of the Voldemort that accosted her vision throughout her fourth year.

She didn't know what she saw but she could tell it wasn't a vision, that much she knew. Her visions came with pain, sometimes a headache that would leave her brain useless for the rest of the day, sometimes it only evoked a grimace.

A dream though wouldn't be this real, it would have elements of things she already experienced.The Voldemort that used her blood didn't have snake features.

She got up off her bed and started on her routine lest she started doubting whether it was a lost effort to go to the fucking cemetery.

She had to tell herself every night that no matter how she screwed up there was still something good that came out of it. Cedric was alive and well and Harry wasn't under Voldemort's proverbial laser eyes. And no one knew who she was.

She was invisible, for now, and she had time to take the next step without raising any hackles. So arrogant she was, to think that she could stop the Dark Lord from rising a second time, just because she was there instead of Harry. So utterly stupid, to think she could capture the rat and wrap gift him to Dumbledore and Ministry officials in attendance to the last trial.

Her visions were short and precise. Sometimes it showed her a path someone would take, a singular decision born to a singular moment that would create a chain reaction. Other times it only gave her a feeling, a baser instinct that took her where she needed to be, or in case of imminent danger, away from wherever she was.

It took her years to accept this, the feeling of being moved like a freaky puppet, was stifling. Being at peace with it now, she could admit to herself that the only thing holding her back were the flashbacks taking her to a life she didn't remember.

She could only do so much to avoid feeling like a freak of nature. Her magic went ballistic first then came the random bouts of instinct and visions, and lastly came the flashbacks.

Those just fucked her mind up to high heaven.

The glimpses of a life were her mother was still married to her father. A husband and father that was, but really wasn't. A life were she had a little brother, were her mother was miserable and fragile but still happy and loving, because she was proud of the two life's she made. A life where her mind was her worst enemy, where friendship was hard to make and harder to keep.

She reckoned she could have dealt with random strangers dying in her visions instead of these memories that had absolutely no purpose but to fuck her up further, as if that wasn't on her plate already. At least then she could deal with it in an impersonal manner.

Now, often experiences came with glimpses of what she called her old self.

And often times it was crippling, as if her brain automatically took those reactions and perceptions and tattooed them on her frontal lobe. In those first days, it was strong enough that at times she would expect her mother to say something or do something completely out of character. Well out of her present character, or out of her other self's character.

However you'd like to call it, it was a mind fuck.

It was impossible to know, what all this meant. She had her theories but nothing certain, she accepted it, managed it and moved her life forward with it. After all, ignoring it already resulted in disaster. If she'd followed her first vision, she could have captured the little fucker, or at least attempted to. Even if she screwed that up, at least he would have stopped or delayed him from meeting Voldemort.

She realized her mother wasn't home by the utter silence surrounding her, and was reminded of the headache inducing day awaiting her.

Being grounded only meant one thing. She actually had to face the music and plan how to unscrew what she screwed.

She probably made some kind of record on longuest fucking breakfast ever.