1949

Tom Riddle was not shy, or hesitant, or any other adjective suggesting weakness. He took a great deal of pride in his unparalleled ambition; in his twenty-three years of life, he had yet to meet a man who could even hope to compete.

He thought briefly of the gaunt, greedy man who had presumed to order him around for so many years. Three years of following Caractacus Burke's orders, three years of mindlessly labelling the endless packages, three years of pandering to the stream of customers stupid enough to believe they could find objects of any value in the lurid bowels of Knockturn Alley.

No, the real treasures were hidden deep within the very outskirts of the world, clutched within hands as possessive as his own.

He tipped his head back slowly, eying the dilapidated building before him. The dark grey stone structure was built in the same style as the other ancient Bulgarian farmhouses he'd passed on the remote dirt road. The windows were shuttered with stained wooden boards, the front lawn drowning in unruly weeds. Four months of chasing down a string of wizards, each angrier than the last, had culminated in this moment. Finally he would seize the elusive secrets of the War Starter, the Knife of a Thousand Souls.

The Razaran.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his wand, sending a sudden flare of bitter magic into the barren ground. If the rumours were true, the Razaran would provide an endless wealth of power, power enough to stop anything foolish enough to defy Lord Voldemort - even death.

It had been difficult enough to persuade the old Dark wizard in Germany to reveal the Razaran's existence. The stubborn man had held on for days, clutching his secrets even in the face of considerable duress.

Still, he'd caved - they all did, each one another mark for Voldemort's ever growing list of conquests. In one desperate cry he'd spilled everything, tales of a cursed dagger that had started wars interspersed with pleas for mercy. His knowledge had been frustratingly vague, providing only a vague Bulgarian location and horrified whispers of the Razaran's destruction.

Lord Voldemort had rewarded his confession with a quick death.

The Dark Lord turned his attention back to the aging cottage, narrowing his eyes as he searched for protective wards. The outer edges of the building looked frayed, swirls of stone seeping into the backdrop of heavy grey clouds. Every seventeen seconds the leftmost stone - the one next to the round window - shuddered, a blue flash of light jerking from the rough surface for a split second before slipping back into submission.

His lip curled, his handsome features twisting into a cruel display of scorn. The warding spell, while well above the capabilities of the average Hogwarts student, wouldn't fool even the lowest of Aurors. Pathetic. He'd hoped for more of a challenge from the infamous Nephele the Nefarious; rumours suggested she was the descendent of Morgan le Fay herself. Still, the Dark witch was old, and he was powerful - certainly more powerful than any other Dark witch or wizard he'd encountered - and killed - during the past year.

Slipping his wand from the depths of his dark robes, he lazily flicked it towards the suspect stone and, timing the spell to coincide with the next flash of blue, dispelled the wards.

"Pathetic," he murmured.

Picking his way carefully through the rotting weeds, he paused before the peeling door. Although he doubted the old hag would provide a challenge, she had survived to old age - a veritable feat in a world of endless rivalry. Of course, this would soon change.

Lifting his wand in a practised gesture, he traced the outer edge of the door, a pale hand reaching slowly to caress the faded wood. He sent a savage wave of magic through the brittle barrier, smirking to himself when he heard an answering crack as his curse razed the witch's second layer of protection.

Then, pushing the door open with a silent slide of his fingers, he crossed the threshold. Blinking at the sudden darkness, he surveyed the musty interior carefully. The cottage's sparse interior was as unappealing as its exterior. He could not understand why the Dark witch lived in such squalid conditions; she wasn't a filthy Muggle, and he'd seen several superior cottages down the road that were ripe for the taking.

He dismissed the ajar door leading into the kitchen and, glancing upwards, smiled. A small patch of the stained plaster roof shimmered with magic. Casting an unveiling spell at the square, he stepped back just in time to avoid the large, wooden staircase that came crashing down from the roof.

Eying the clouds of dust, he sneered at the crude construction; the staircase was as aged and awkward as the rest of the house.

He heard a dull thump from above and, his eyes gleaming, ascended the stairs swiftly, his heart racing -

He was so close to claiming his rightful place as ruler of the Wizarding World. He would not let one witch stand in his way.

He burst into the cramped alcove and, smiling thinly, pointed his wand at the stooped woman clinging to the back wall. She was easily over a century old and of Asian descent, her snow white hair dry and tangled. He could see the marks of battles long in the faint scars lining her hollow cheeks and bare arms. His eyes dropped to the thin, lacquered wooden box clutched between her bony arms, and his smile grew into a jagged grin.

"Hello, Nephele," he said carelessly.

The witch let out a moan, her black, angular eyes wide. She pressed back into the wall, her right hand fumbling behind her -

He froze her with a flick of a wand.

"Ah, ah," he crooned. "No need for such unpleasantry."

Stepping forward deliberately, he stared greedily at the slim box. The glossed exterior was lined with inky black symbols that blurred when he looked at them directly. He would have to study them later, but for now, well, there were more important matters on hand. This close, he could feel a hum of power emanating from within, and his own breath quickened. He could feel the intoxicating thrill of it surging through his veins, the back of his heavy black cloak lifting slightly as an unseen wind whispered of destruction and power, sweet, sweet power -

Murmuring counterspells against any curses cast on the box, he slipped the box from the elderly witch's iron grip, ignoring the brittle crack of her bones as the heavy wood left her hands.

The witch all but forgotten, Lord Voldemort grasped the box between his hands, his eyes fluttering shut as the wood all but sang between his fingers. Each wave of magic pulsing from the box sent a shock of adrenaline through his body.

He wanted it. He needed it.

Yanking the box open with trembling fingers, he gazed eagerly inside.

Empty. The fucking box was empty.

His eyes flashed red, his head rearing up to stare accusingly at the witch, to curse the witch to oblivion and hear her scream for the mercy she would not receive -

The witch was surprisingly close, and he had a brief moment to wonder how she'd broken his petrifying jinx before Nephele the Nefarious smiled.

She looked different, he realised - stronger, younger, darker. He caught a glimpse of a black rune etched into the pale expanse of her collarbone and, his eyes widening, brought his wand up, thinking fiercely Avad -

Nephele frowned, her thin lips a slash across her narrow face. She blinked. Crooned, "Ah, ah. No need for such unpleasantry."

Her voice was rapture itself. If he believed in gods, he would say the smooth silk spilling from her throat was a gift from heaven. His thoughts stilled, and to his vague horror, he found himself thinking desperately of ways to get her to keep speaking. Perhaps he could charm her; he knew he was handsome, and a well placed smile often brought girls to their knees -

He curved his lips into a tilted smirk, letting his eyes drift across her smooth, even-featured face. Her midnight black eyes were expressionless, her hair forming an equally dark curtain around her face. He wanted her to speak. He needed her to speak.

When the witch remained silent, his mood soured, and he brought his wand up to cast the Imperius, for if he couldn't charm her into it, he could use other means -

The witch shook her head. "You, Tom Marvolo Riddle, are a horrible excuse for a person," she said critically.

In some back part of his mind, he knew that he was being insulted, but he couldn't bring himself to care because she was speaking again and he felt like drowning in her voice -

He didn't see the knife until it was hilt-deep into his chest.

He blinked unseeingly down at the dull, battered gleam of it, his lips parting -

Then the fire erupted, a terrible heat searing through his veins, and his blood was burning, boiling within the confines of his veins -

He screamed, his veins standing in stark relief against his pale skin. It was the worst pain he'd ever known, and dear Merlin she was moving the knife, her face indifferent as she carved her mark into his skin.

He wanted to claw himself out of his body, to rip the scorching veins from his skin, to flee the damning agony tattooing itself into every atom of his being. Lord Voldemort, the man who had survived splitting his soul five times, was dying.

The cursed witch was murmuring something, and her voice was no longer ecstasy but torment, a barrage of sour orders burrowing into his ears -

The dagger paused in its excruciating trail and, with a sickening pull, reluctantly slid from his chest.

"Farewell," he heard dimly.

He fell to his knees, clutching at his chest, and felt an entirely new variety of pain.

This time, as he felt himself pulling apart, he wished for oblivion.

AN: thank you for reading! all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter c;