"Hello, Mr Riddle."
These simple words seemed empty, with no emotion or meaning attached to them. And yet, they were also the last chance he had before violating the laws of nature, of breaking all the sacred unspoken rules shared by all creatures.
The figure that spoke those words looked vaguely human, yet the skeletal hands hanging by its sides proved otherwise. The hooded cloak the figure wore seemed to look oddly like an unholy blend of a Lethifold and black silk, moving as if it had a mind of its own and letting no light through despite it obviously being very thin. It emanated a sense of this being something unnatural, maybe something even supernatural. The figure exuded calmness and… was that disdain?
"Who are you? Where am I?" said Lord Voldemort. The surroundings he was in bore no resemblance to the Chamber of Secrets, the Slytherin common room or, in fact, any part of Hogwarts that he's ever been in. The pillars surrounding him shimmered a glowing white, with light so pure the young man felt cowed, tamed. Extending into the heavens and beyond, it was obvious to Lord Voldemort that his was not his dominion, nor was this anywhere he would consider to be 'the real world'.
"A… pleasure to meet you. I am Death" the figure spoke, tilting its head as if eyeing the young man critically. "This place… It truly is wondrous, isn't it?"
"What is this place?" snapped Voldemort. He couldn't place an accent to the figure, it felt like there were thousands of voices speaking to him at once and yet, only one indifferent string of words reached his ears. He was starting to feel scared, an emotion he wasn't intimately acquainted with. The last time any hint of fear or panic had ever come to him was more than 5 years ago, when Albus Dumbledore magically set his closet aflame.
"This, Riddle, is a strange place. One of your mental constructs, if you will. When you read a book and start visualising the location; this place is constructed on the same principles." Death answered calmly. "And yet, the circumstances under which we meet are most… unusual."
"Why am I here?" Tom spoke. "I didn't die, did I? Wasn't it the other way around? I killed that useless Warren girl, so why am I here?"
Death surveyed the young man for a long moment. It seemed as if every action Death took was to make him doubt himself, to make him feel emotions he'd never felt before, never considered having the ability to have them in the first place. "So, you're making a Horcrux."
Tom flinched. His questions went unanswered, completely disregarded even. He didn't tell anyone about his plans, much less show anyone the ritual he conducted in preparation for his first soul tearing. How did the figure know what he had done, what he intended to do? This wasn't in any of the books he's read, even with Secrets Of The Darkest Art not mentioning a meeting with so-called 'Death'.
"Oh, I am fully aware of your intentions," Death remarked, sounding amused. "And yes, this… situation would not be found even in the most obscure old book hidden away far from prying eyes such as yours. Seven, is it?"
Tom was terrified. He felt no Legilimency probe, nothing to indicate the fact that his mind was attacked, his secrets revealed, his intentions laid bare for all to see. His years of practising Occlumency and Legilimency seemed to have been all for nought. Seven? How did it know? How did it know anything? How could he get out of this situation? How could he escape, not be taken into the loving embrace of Death?
"Oh, you misunderstand me, Mr Riddle. I have no need for your earthly woes of your magicks. I know everything about everyone who comes to visit me in my… dare I call it abode?"
"What…" his voice died in his throat for a second. This was something supernatural, something none of the books he borrowed from his so-called 'friends' ever even hinted at. "What do you want?"
"Oh Mr Riddle, I just want to talk. You will be free to go after we have our little chat, worry not about your freedom to go back to the land of the living" said Death dismissively. "Seven Horcruxes… it is a first in all the billions of years that I have existed. Morgana Le Fay only made 2, and even then she was weakened considerably after that. Not to mention the simple fact that she was still unable to escape me in the end. It certainly is the most… interesting thing any living creature has ever aspired to do, and I have been around since the Archaean era. But of course, you have no idea what that is."
Tom was starting to panic. His mind kicked into overdrive. "So what is it that you want from me? To back down from my plans? To put my soul back together somehow? I don't want to die, and I have the power to prevent my own death! So why should I listen to some weird apparition that just so conveniently calls itself 'Death'?"
"Oh, no. I cannot force you to do one thing or the other, and I frankly don't see the need in that. Each and every one of you chooses your own path to walk, and where it leads I can only guess. After all, it isn't my department, it's more down the road to my sister, Fate." Deathsaid dismissively. "I would like to truly understand your thought process, as nobody before you ever had the willingness to shred their soul into such an unreasonable amount of pieces, mutilating themselves until their previous self was nothing more than a fleeting memory in the minds of others. You, Mr Riddle, do truly interest me so."
Tom was flabbergasted. What did the creature mean? Was he really the first one to think of that? And what did it mean by 'mutilating the soul'? Wasn't it just a simple partition, just like cutting a cake? "I chose to make Horcuxes to become more powerful than anyone ever before. With my soul having 7 anchors in this world, I would be the man who would be closer than anyone to immortality, securing my place in the land of the living forever. With the most magically powerful number of Horcruxes, I will be unstoppable in my rise to power. I will live forever, and everyone will bow before me!" he said, pride and arrogance soaking his words so sweet to his ears. His power-crazed euphoric fantasies were only halted by the slowly widening smirk on Death's face. "Why are you asking me this anyways?" he shot back. "Can't you just read my mind to see all the answers you want?"
"Oh, I surely could. I was hoping that having to say your arrogant delusions out loud would make you reconsider your course of action, but I was wrong. As for your future and your rise to power, I can only say one thing: you will fail. And you will fail spectacularly, and in a fashion that would have people recounting the story of your fall into millions of different tales, with all of them culminating in your downfall. You somehow succeed in your… horcrux extravaganza you will be a legend that will be feared for a while, and then laughed at after."
Tom steeled his glare. How dare this… creature say such things about him? How dare it doubt Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark Lord of all time? Unbridled rage and hatred started boiling up within him. Realising he still somehow had his wand, Lord Voldemort raised it at the hooded figure. "Oh really. Then I will prove you wrong. "Avada Kedavra!"
The jet of green light glared past the columns of pure white, the reflecting sparks reminiscent of those magical fireworks some of the pesky first-years tried to sneak up into the castle. The curse hit the apparition straight in the chest.
Death smiled condescendingly.
"We meet again, Mr Riddle."
It had been 55 years since he visited this place. For 55 years he tried to stuff it to the back of his mind, but it never left. The memory stuck to him like the annoying itch that never really went away. But unlike the itch, it wasn't merely an annoyance; it was something that made him question every step he took.
He had succeeded. He made his Horcruxes. All of them powerful magical artifacts of great value not only to him but also to the entire wizarding world. He took over the Ministry. He got most of the British wizarding world right under his thumb. The rampant bribery and corruption ensured his power, because he was the highest bidder. Oh yes, it was mostly the Malfoy dog but, after all, he was just a dog, a means to an end. He had complete control over Hogwarts, and only the Potter brat and that thrice-damned Order of the Phoenix in his way. And he was about to end the only thing that was between him and his complete domination of the wizarding world, because if Britain fell, the others would surely follow suit very quickly.
And yet, he was back. He was back again in this 'abode' of 'Death'. He got the Killing Curse off the Elder Wand, the most powerful wand to ever grace the world with its existence. But he was back at the crossroads of this world and… that one. He looked for the source of the voice, and Lord Voldemort actually gasped.
"Potter!" he snarled, brandishing his wand at the boy.
"Oh don't do that. It's useless" Harry said dispassionately.
"And why shouldn't I kill you right where you stand?"
"It didn't work the last time, what makes you think it'll work this time?" the figure said in a vaguely familiar voice.
Voldemort paused. The voice was eerily reminiscent to the one from his restless nights. He had no need for sleep but thoughts of his meeting with 'Death' kept him unsure of his every move, throwing wrenches of doubt into his constant scheming and planning. "Death..?" he spoke unsurely.
Potter nodded mutely.
"Why are you Potter now?" Riddle said with a slight hint of scepticism.
"Oh, it's pretty simple actually. You must recall your favourite tale of the Three Brothers?" Tom nodded. "Well, to put it simply, one Harry James Potter is the Master of Death."
Voldemort took a step back in shock and revulsion. "That brat? How? He did fuckall the entire time, why would he even be here? And if you're the 'Master of Death', why didn't you just kill me outright with a single thought? Doesn't that mean you preside over the lives of all living things?"
Potter smirked. "Oh no, you misunderstand me. Remember, I am Death, not Potter. Master of Death just means he lives a bit longer than others, and I take his form. Of course, if you want me to I can change to the previous Master of Death" His form flickered, and a second later Dumbledore stood in front of Lord Voldemort.
"Oh for fuck's sake, not you again…" Tom muttered under his breath. "He was also the Master of Death, wasn't he?" Dumbledore raised a condescending eyebrow at him. "Right, uh, could you just change to Death? All these extra forms are off-putting."
Death rolled its eyes, and seconds later shifted to the ethereal form he'd seen 55 years ago. The same half-empty eyes, the same bone-white skeletal hands barely showing from the sleeves of the demonically aethereal cloak. The absence of sound, smell, or any material senses around the figure just emphasised how wildly inhuman Death was, what power it had. The strong aura of absence made Riddle take a step back in apprehension. This was worse, way worse than 55 years ago, it felt more… real?
"Y-you're not here for me, are you?" he stuttered. Actually stuttered. The fear in his voice was distinct, and a shiver of uncomfortable dread ran down his spine.
Death smiled. "Why of course, I am."
Tom blanched. His years of effort, the innumerable strides he took towards immortality, the immeasurable amount of horrors he braved through just to avoid this meeting forever. And yet, here he was, with his last memory being him cursing the Potter boy. Something clicked in his head, and he really didn't like how his brain made the seemingly obvious conclusion.
"Potter was the master of the Elder Wand," he whispered. "POTTER was the master of the Elder Wand! How… How!?"
Death looked blankly at him for a moment. "Let's take a walk, Mr Riddle. I do hope this will clear up some things." It turned around and started walking away further in between the columns, with the gait of someone just taking an enjoyable stroll down a perfectly pleasant alley.
"I won't die if I follow you, would I?" Tom said timidly. Death turned its head around and raised an… eyebrow? Was it an eyebrow? He shook his head to clear his thoughts and, realising he had nothing to lose, followed the looming aethereal figure.
"So, I was right. Shocker" spoke Death condescendingly. Tom faltered. The words of an age-old conversation came floating back to the forefront of his mind. "…all of them ending with your downfall." With a startle, he realised that this demonic prophecy of sorts was fulfilled. It wasn't told by a Seer, but it was spoken by Death itself… And how could a being so mind-numbingly all-powerful be wrong? How could he have been arrogant enough to ignore the warning of such a… higher power?
"Oh yes, you were indeed quite the arrogant one" Death remarked loftily. "You made 2 main mistakes. One of them I warned you about, and the other one was a misconception regarding the Deathly Hallows. Ever heard the phrase 'correlation does not imply causation'?"
Tom walked silently behind the figure. He needed to process this as much as he could. He was dead, or at least on the way there with no way back whatsoever. His mask, his carefully constructed persona of Lord Voldemort literally had the name 'running from death'. This was truly the one thing he spent his entire existence in the plane of the living trying to avoid, this final dooming encounter with Death. Misconception? It was probably related to the Potter boy being the master of the Elder Wand. What could he have been wrong about? Snape killed Dumbledore, he killed Snape… and then it clicked.
"The ownership of the Wand goes to the person who defeated the previous master, doesn't it?"
Death nodded. It all made sense now. Dumbledore didn't kill Grindelwald, but he was still the master of the Wand. So by that logic… Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy was the master of the Elder Wand, just by disarming Dumbledore, if Bella was to be believed. And as loath as he was to admit it, the Potter boy was much more capable than the Malfoy heir, so he must have been defeated by the 'Boy-who-lived'.
"So it backfired..?" Tom whispered. Death stared at him, the condescending confirmation obvious in the half-empty glare of its eye sockets.
One miscalculation. One simple miscalculation caused him to die. If only he just left that brat alone. And then it hit him. The average lifespan of a wizard was about 150 years old. He was 65, and he was dead. All the efforts he put towards assuring his immortality just pushed him backwards. Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Lord the world had ever seen, the terror of Britain, the man whose name struck intense fear into the strongest fighters of the Light, died at 65. At half the average life expectancy.
He froze in his stride.
"Ah, I see the irony has finally hit you," Death remarked casually. "Indeed, a simple miscalculation has played a major role in your timely appearance before me. However, do not forget that your mutilated soul played a major part as well. Oh, and so did your brilliant idea of drinking unicorn blood."
Tom blinked. Once, twice. He shook his head. It was too much. He wanted to let loose, curse everything around him. An intense wave of fear, self-loathing, disappointment and anger welled up in him. He channelled that feeling into his wand. He pushed.
Nothing happened.
There was a second of silence, and the world stilled around him.
And he broke.
Tom Marvolo Riddle collapsed to his knees. The tears came flowing like a dam breaking, and he didn't know how to feel. This never happened to him. He never really felt.. well any emotions much, other than anger, hatred and fear that one time 55 years ago. Colourless drops of salty water flowed out of his red eyes. They were tears, right? Tom shook violently. He didn't realise he was capable of feeling so strongly. Just once did he feel something this intensely, and it was the moment the Killing Curse backfired off the Potter boy. But then, it was mostly shock and anger. Now, it was panic, fear and the looming sense of the inevitable end approaching. The realisation was too real, he wanted to detach himself from this… reality, he wanted it to end.
Death watched on dispassionately. So often, people broke down when meeting it for the first time. There were exceptions, of course, namely Albus Dumbledore, Nicholas Flamel and his wife, along with Harry Potter. They were all ready to meet Death, and greet it on their own terms. Everyone else was mostly devastated but accepting of the fact that they had to leave their family and their closest ones behind, and go on the next great adventure. Some continued rambling about their delusional power-crazed fantasies. But Tom Riddle was different. He truly feared death, he hoped to escape it as much as he could, and took immeasurable strides towards that. And yet, nothing came of it. He was breaking down after realising all of his mistakes. And most importantly, he was aware that he alone was the reason he ended up before Death again so prematurely. Riddle was unique.
A vague interest welled up in Death. "It sucks, doesn't it."
The tone changed. Instead of the usual cool disinterest, Death's voice was soft and… weirdly comforting. Tom flinched, but continued sobbing silently on the ground. He was torn. Never before had someone tried to comfort him so genuinely. Dumbledore was always full of distrust, always ready to use Tom to his own gain. The caretaker at the orphanage was so condescending, her ways of 'comforting' could have very easily just been called abuse, all of her honeyed words soaked with loathing towards the troublemaker. And yet, most ironically, the one thing he feared the most, Death, was the first thing ever to comfort him.
"S-sorry…" Tom choked out quietly, for the first time in his existence. He felt the crushing regret reaching a peak. All of the small things he's done started coming back to him. The playing cards he stole from the one boy in his orphanage. The baby bunny he killed. The 2 kids he irreversibly traumatised in that cave. The countless people he killed. The countless people he deceived. The distrustful looks he threw at anyone who offered him any form of help, the pride that so addled his mind until he wasn't thinking straight, solely focussing on his one goal of… escaping Death…..
It suddenly felt empty. All for nothing. Tom Riddle was broken, a shell with the smallest shred of a soul. He had nothing other than the memories of his mistakes, his innumerable regrets and his heart-crushing feeling of remorse.
He screamed.
Tom Riddle split his soul many times. Every time it hurt so much that the Cruciatus he asked Bella to put him under once, purely out of interest, felt like a harmless tickle. Along the way he truly became Lord Voldemort not just in name, but in mind as well. Maybe it was the pain that drove him to become Lord Voldemort, or maybe it was his delusion of the 'protection' of his Horcruxes gave him. And now, his existence, or whatever he was, on this plane between Life and Death, was split. It was split into an uncountable amount of pieces, sewn together again and again, then split yet again. Lord Voldemort was no more. He would go insane. Was he even Tom? Was he even dead? Alive? Was he ever a wizard? What were those broken shards in his wand hand? What was anything? Was it all just pain? All he felt was pain. All he knew was pain. He started to feel faint, slowly edging away from consciousness.
And then it stopped.
He panted like a puppy. A hoarse groan came out of what was left of his scream-torn throat. The dizziness subsided slowly.
He felt… different.
He felt alive.
Almost.
Almost whole.
"So that's how it happens…" Death mused under its breath with a slight chuckle. Never before had it seen any form of reunification of soul fragments. Even a partial reunification was unseen by Death itself, in the billions of years it has been around. "Congratulations, Tom. You're almost whole again," it said quietly.