Thursday, 4th June

Neville's heart raced as he cautiously stepped into the final chamber of the labyrinthine corridors beneath Hogwarts. The air was heavy with a sense of foreboding, and his hands trembled with fear. He didn't like that he was here alone, but Hermione had been right - one of them had to fly Ron to the infirmary, and Neville was, perhaps, the only first-year student worse at flying than her.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking, agreeing to drink that icy potion and step into the last room alone, but he always felt braver when his friends were surrounding him, and Hermione had called him a great wizard, so he supposed that he'd temporarily forgotten that he was just a Hufflepuff in a Gryffindor's clothing.

But now here he was, without his friends, with a wall of fire behind him and in front of him-

"You!"

Professor Quirrell smiled as he turned to face him.

"Ah, Mr Longbottom. I must say, I didn't expect to see you down here tonight".

"You- Y-You- But- But you-" Neville's mind was doing strange things as he tried to add two plus two but kept coming up with five. "But I thought- S-Snape-"

"Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Neville couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true, it couldn't!

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around him.

"You're too nosy to live, Longbottom. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone".

"Y-You let the t-troll in?!"

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls - you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off - and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, but that three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly… Now, wait quietly, Longbottom. I need to examine this interesting mirror".

It was only then that Neville realised what was standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised. What had Dumbledore told him? That it showed you nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of your heart? Well, Neville's deepest, most desperate desire right now was to get the hell out of this chamber.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone" Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame, "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this… but he's in London… I'll be far away by the time he gets back".

Yes! That was it! Dumbledore was coming, so all Neville had to do right now was distract him.

"I s-saw you and S-Snape in the f-f-forest!"

"Yes" Quirrell said idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back, "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me - as though he could when I had Lord Voldemort on my side".

Neville squeaked in fear and cursed the very day he'd allowed himself to be dragged along by Ron and Hermione on this stupid, ridiculous, "adventure".

Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it. "I see the Stone… I'm presenting it to my Master… but where is it?"

Neville struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn't give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the mirror.

"But S-Snape always s-seemed to h-h-hate me s-so much".

"Oh, he does" Quirrell said casually, "Heavens, yes. If there's one thing that Severus Snape cannot stand, it's ineptitude, and based on the stories I've heard the teachers tell about you… well…"

The professor briefly glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Neville's bright red blush.

"You're from a good bloodline, Longbottom, so I highly doubt that the problem is you… More likely, you need to get that wand of yours looked at. Or better yet, replaced entirely".

Like he didn't know.

Quirrell turned back to the mirror, his brow furrowed.

"I don't understand, is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?" He cursed under his breath. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to Neville's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself.

"Use the boy… Use the boy…"

Quirrell rounded on him. "Yes. Longbottom, come here".

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Neville fell off. He got slowly to his feet, his legs trembling so much that he could barely stand.

"Come here" Quirrell repeated, "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see".

Neville stumbled toward him, wishing for nothing more than this entire horrible night to be over.

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket - and as it did so, Neville felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow, incredibly, he'd gotten the Stone.

"Well?" Quirrell asked impatiently, "What do you see?"

Neville screwed up his courage.

"I- I s-see myself s-shaking hands with P-Professor D-Dumbledore" he invented, "I-I've won the- the House Cup for Gryffindor".

Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way!"

As Neville moved aside, he felt the Philosopher's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? He felt like he was two seconds from passing out, he was so terrified. Professor Quirrell was the bad guy, and You-Know-Who was somewhere in the room, and-

"He lies… He lies…" The high voice had come from the professor's direction, but he hadn't opened his mouth. "Let me speak to him… face-to-face…"

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough… for this".

Neville felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Neville would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face he had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapour… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me these past weeks… you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

Neville couldn't breathe.

His vision was flickering at the edges, the chamber spinning around him in a dizzying whirl of shadows and light. He felt his strength drain away like water through a sieve.

This was You-Know-Who. This was- was L-Lord V-V-Voldemort standing right in front of him!

He felt his legs buckle beneath him and he collapsed to the cold stone floor in a heap, his body trembling in terror.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the sinister figure of Voldemort looming over him and clawed fingers reaching out to grab.

Friday, 5th June

Something gold was glinting just above him.

Neville blinked, and his vision cleared enough to realise that it was a pair of glasses.

How strange.

He blinked again.

The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.

"Good afternoon, Neville".

He stared at him. Then he remembered.

"Sir! The Stone! It was Q-Quirrell! He's g-got the Stone! Sir, q-quick-"

"Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times" Dumbledore said. "Please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out".

Neville swallowed thickly and looked around him. He realised he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers" Dumbledore explained, beaming. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows".

Tokens? Friends? Admirers? Neville was starting to feel faint. You-Know-Who... the Philosopher's Stone... it all felt like a terrifying nightmare from which he couldn't wake.

"I sent a message to your grandmother early this morning. Unfortunately, she's been detained at the Ministry thus far, but she should be arriving soon".

Oh, Merlin. What was he going to say to his Gran?! How could he explain that- that-

"Sir!" he exclaimed, jerking up, "The Stone! Professor Quirrell and- and- and him, they were going to- to use it to-"

"Calm yourself" he repeated, raising a hand, "It's out of your control now, so there's no need for you to worry about it".

"You mean he-" Neville stopped, unable, unwilling, to continue.

The twinkle in the Headmaster's eyes dimmed.

"Yes, my boy. I'm afraid that Voldemort did indeed obtain the Philosopher's Stone".

He flinched automatically at the name, even as his heart sank at the confirmation of his worst fears. He had hoped against hope that somehow, someway, they would be able to prevent You-Know-Who from getting his hands on the Stone, but it seemed that their efforts - his efforts - had been in vain.

"It wasn't your fault, Neville" Dumbledore continued, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and admiration, "You acted with courage and bravery far beyond your years. Many adults would have faltered in your place".

Neville couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at his words. He may have been scared out of his wits, but he had faced V-Voldemort and survived. It was a feat that he never would have believed himself capable of just a few short months ago. And yet…

"W-What will h-happen now?" he couldn't help but ask.

The Headmaster regarded Neville with a knowing look, his expression unreadable.

"That, my dear boy, is a problem for the grownups to handle. For now, all you need to focus on is recovering and returning to your studies".

"But- But Hermione s-sent you an owl! You were- Y-You were-"

"Too late, I'm afraid" he said gently, "When I arrived, Professor Quirrell was long gone. There was only you left in that chamber… When I saw you on the ground, my boy, I had feared the worst".

Neville paled as the realisation of what had happened finally seemed to kick in.

"Why… W-Why didn't he k-kill me, sir?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

Dumbledore observed him closely with a piercing blue gaze. Why hadn't Tom killed the boy? He had every opportunity to, after all. From what the Headmaster could put together, it had been Neville who had retrieved the Stone from the mirror and, based on what Madam Pomfrey had told him, the poor child had soon after fainted in fear - leaving him vulnerable to attack. So just why hadn't Tom killed him?

"I'm afraid that is a question that only he can answer" he eventually replied, "So for now, let us be thankful that you are safe".

Neville nodded slowly, still trying to make sense of the events that had transpired.

"Can you tell me what happened?" the Headmaster asked, "Your friends have already told me their side of the story, but I'd like to hear about what occurred after you entered the room with the Mirror if you can".

The boy nodded again, more determined this time, and started to recount the events of the previous night. Dumbledore listened intently, absorbing the details with an attentive yet grave expression. His mind was whirling with thoughts and theories.

Could it be possible that Tom was not as inhuman as he'd once believed? His recent discussions - arguments - with Severus had him seeing certain things in a new light. He could admit now, that he had failed the boy that Voldemort once was, that he had been suspicious of him far too early and that those prejudices had certainly contributed to the Dark wizard he'd ended up becoming.

And yet… he had left the boy alive.

Was it possible that there was still a glimmer of humanity buried deep within the dark recesses of Tom's soul?

Before Dumbledore could ponder these questions any further, the infirmary doors swung open and Dowager Countess of Leicester burst into the room, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Oh, Neville!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side and enveloping him in a tight embrace, "I was so worried! What on earth were you thinking, you daft boy?!"

As Neville leaned into his grandmother's hold, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him. Despite her stern demeanour, Augusta Longbottom had always been a pillar of strength and having her with him right now was a comforting reassurance.

"Gran" he began, his voice muffled against her shoulder, "I-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to-"

But before he could finish his apology, Augusta pulled away, her eyes flashing with a mixture of concern and reproach.

"Neville Franklin Longbottom" she chided, her tone stern, "What were you thinking, getting involved in such dangerous business? You could have been seriously hurt, or worse!"

He winced at the use of his full name, a sure sign that his grandmother was really upset. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dumbledore interjected before he could utter a word.

"My dear lady, if I may" he started, his voice calm, "Neville's actions last night were nothing short of remarkable. He faced unimaginable danger with nerve and bravery far beyond anyone's expectations. He truly is a credit to your family".

Augusta's expression softened slightly as she turned to face Dumbledore, her eyes searching his for confirmation.

"Bravery?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.

Dumbledore nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Indeed. I dare say he did both his House and his parents proud".

At the mention of his parents, Neville felt a lump form in his throat. He had always felt the weight of their legacy hanging over him, but to hear Dumbledore speak of them, and him, with such reverence filled him with a sense of pride he had never known before. Augusta's eyes welled with tears as she reached out to grasp Neville's hand in hers.

"Oh, Neville" she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, "I'm… proud of you, for all your hair-brained decision-making. Your parents… yes. Yes, I think they would be proud of you as well".

He felt his own eyes start to burn. For so so long, he had felt inadequate compared to his parents - compared to anyone, really - but in that moment, he felt a sense of… acceptance that he had never experienced before.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him.

"I believe Neville deserves to be rewarded for his bravery" he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "And I, personally, would consider getting him a new wand".

It was only then that the boy realised his own wand, his father's wand, was missing. Where was it? Did Professor Quirrell destroy it? Did he take it? Oh Merlin, how could he tell his Gran about that?! That the- the monster responsible for her son's condition now had-

"Perhaps".

He blinked, blinked again, and then pulled back so he could see his Gran's face. She was staring down at him, something calculating and… different in her stern gaze.

"The school holidays are only a few days away, after all" she continued, "And this newfound side of you should be encouraged, to uphold the family honour… Perhaps a trip to Ollivander's is in order".

Neville's eyes widened in astonishment. A new wand? It was more than he could have ever even hoped for! Maybe now he wouldn't do so badly in class and he'd make his Gran even more proud and Professor Snape would stop hating him and-

Dumbledore silently slipped away, making his way towards the infirmary doors. He couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension about what lay ahead. Voldemort now had the Philosopher's Stone, after all, and once he succeeded in making the Elixir of Life…

Well.

It didn't bode well to dwell on that for very long.

Although the Headmaster didn't think that Tom would continue to drink the Elixir past it restoring his body - the man had always been far too independent for that, and the idea of being entirely dependent on it would be intolerable to him - he most certainly did think that the Dark Lord had a back-up plan, which meant it was up to him to now figure out what that was before the dark reign of terror returned.

But as he glanced back at Neville and his grandmother, he felt a tiny spark of hope flicker within him. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still hope for the future, even in the face of such darkness and despair.

Why hadn't he killed the boy…

With a reassuring smile to Neville and a solemn nod to Dowager Leicester, Dumbledore quietly slipped out of the infirmary, his mind already racing with plans and preparations for the days to come - but for now, however, he had an end-of-year feast to plan.

He wondered, distantly, just how long Severus would stop talking to him for if he gave out some last-minute house points.

And if that, necessarily, would be such a bad thing…

Monday, 8th June

In the dimly lit confines of a dilapidated old house some three hundred miles away, Quirrell stood in the centre of a circular room, his hands trembling with nervousness as he clutched the Philosopher's Stone tightly.

He had bought the falling down cottage only a year before at the behest of his Master, and had warded it heavily against intruders - both magical and muggle alike. Now, the room seemed to pulsate with dark energy, casting eerie shadows across the walls as he waited for further instructions.

"You are almost done… Quirinus… Take joy in serving… your Master".

He bowed his head. "Yes, my Lord".

"Now… follow my instructions exactly… or you will suffer… the consequences… You know what to do".

Quirrell nodded frantically, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead as he moved to obey his master's orders. With shaking hands, he placed the Stone on a small, makeshift altar in front of him next to an empty vial, his heart pounding with fear and anticipation.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, willing himself to push aside the fear and doubt that threatened to consume him. He focused his mind, clearing away all distractions, until all that remained were the ancient incantations that echoed through his consciousness like a haunting melody.

The air crackled with anticipation as he began to recite the words burned into his very being, each letter dripping with power and significance. The room seemed to tremble with the force of his words, the very fabric of reality warping and twisting in response to his commands.

And then, as Quirrell reached the culmination of the incantations, a brilliant light erupted from the Stone, casting the room in a warm golden glow that seemed to reach into every shadowy corner. Tendrils of magic danced and swirled around the Stone, weaving intricate patterns in the air as they spiralled upward toward the ceiling.

With each passing moment, the light grew brighter and more intense, illuminating the room with an otherworldly radiance that seemed to transcend the bounds of mortal comprehension. Quirrell's heart raced with excitement as he felt the power of the Stone coursing around him, filling him with a sense of euphoria unlike anything he had ever experienced.

And then, with a sudden burst of energy, the light faded, leaving behind a small vial filled with a shimmering golden liquid.

The Elixir of Life.

Quirrell's breath caught in his throat as he reached out to grasp it, his fingers trembling with anticipation-

But before he could even touch the vial, a surge of pain ripped through his body, causing him to cry out in agony. It felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire. His vision blurred, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious yet still writhing in pain.

In that moment, Voldemort's wraith emerged from the back of Quirrell's head, a triumphant smile twisting his features as he gazed upon the Elixir before him. With a cold, calculating gaze, he reached out and seized the vial, his ghostly fingers curling around it possessively.

With a victorious laugh, Voldemort raised the vial to his lips and drank deeply, the golden liquid coursing through his spectral form like fire. A surge of power washed over him, filling him with renewed strength and vitality. As Quirrell lay unconscious on the ground, Voldemort's wraith began to coalesce, his form solidifying and taking shape once more, his eyes blazing with the newfound power that coursed through his veins.

And with it, came clarity.

Voldemort was no fool - he'd researched the Elixir of Life extensively as a teenager before he'd shifted his attention to other, more permanent means of immortality. He knew that the golden vial restored the drinker to the height of their power, and that, consequently, the body he would be returned to would be that of himself when he was at his strongest.

He had assumed that would be the same form he'd had on the night of October 31st, 1981.

He had not assumed that he'd end up looking like… this.

The face of Tom Riddle stared back at him from the mirror he'd conjured with Quirrell's wand. Pale skin, black hair, and dark eyes. A well-defined jawline, a straight nose, and chiselled cheekbones. Symmetrical facial features. Classically handsome, albeit in a darker, more striking way.

He hadn't looked like this since he'd been twenty-four years old.

That was when he'd been at his most powerful?! Only two Horcruxes in, with plans to make a third? Working in Borgin and Burkes, to the disappointment of many, charming family heirlooms out of Lord's and Lady's hands? Before he'd started to push the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been? Before he'd started gaining followers for his political opinions and beliefs? Before the name "Tom Riddle" was lost forever and he became known as "Lord Voldemort"?

No.

It didn't make sense.

He didn't like this!

As Voldemort stared at his reflection in the mirror, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churned within him. He couldn't reconcile the image before him with the memories of his former self. This youthful, handsome visage seemed incongruous with the powerful Dark Lord he had become. It was as if he had been transported back in time, forced to confront the person he once was before he embraced his true destiny.

The realisation struck him like a bolt of lightning.

This was who he had been before he'd delved deep into the darkest corners of magic, before he shed his humanity in pursuit of immortality and ultimate power, before he'd lost his mind.

This was Tom Riddle, the young wizard with boundless ambition and a thirst for greatness.

… This was him at his most powerful?

He was too exhausted to think about it right now.

Voldemort- Tom- Voldemort vanished the mirror with a snarl and turned his attention to Quirinus who was still lying, quite silent, on the cold, dusty concrete floor at his feet. He sneered in disdain.

The wizard had served him well, he had to admit. He had even done what he'd asked rather admirably, given the circumstances, and Lord Voldemort always rewarded those who were loyal to him… but that reward could wait for another day.

For now, he used the man's own wand against him, levitating his unconscious body and having it trail after him as he made his way through the house. He dropped him carelessly on the torn couch in what could, technically, pass as the living room - and on second thought, stunned him as well.

It wouldn't do for Quirinus to get cold feet and run out on him now; he still had plans for him, after all.

Task completed, he made his way slowly upstairs, the exhaustion and stress of the past few hours, days, weeks, months, years draining any and all energy he had out of him. He transfigured the first bed he saw into something more fit for a wizard of his status and gladly collapsed down on it face-first.

There was much to do - too much, in fact - but he knew he wouldn't be doing anything without twenty-fours of sleep and a decent meal inside of him.

Wednesday, 10th June

Voldemort awoke very late the following day, the setting sun casting a red glow across the moth-eaten curtains, and he slowly, stiffly, sat up in the musty old room. He sneezed, scowled, and then sneezed again.

The cottage would serve him well enough for now, but he mentally added "find new accommodation" near the top of his to-do list.

Stretching his aching limbs, he stood and immediately had to grab onto the bedside table for balance as his head spun and his knees trembled. Apparently, it would take him some time to adjust to having a corporal form again, and he didn't like that one bit.

Alas, he had things to do.

Returning to the make-shift ritual room, he spied the gleaming red stone in the centre of the table and silently cursed, annoyed with himself for not securing its safety the night before. It would seem that it would take him time to re-adjust to a lot of things.

Transfiguring a broken floorboard into a chair, which he gladly collapsed down in, he set about completing his first task of the day.

Approximately two hours later, he returned to the living room.

"Rennervate".

The professor jerked, briefly, before groaning weakly and blearily blinking open tired eyes. He sat up, clutching the edge of the hole-covered couch for support as he glanced around the room, his gaze finally landing on its only other occupant.

Quirrell stared.

Lord Voldemort raised a solitary, unimpressed eyebrow.

Quirrell immediately blushed and lowered his eyes.

How… intriguing.

"Master" he murmured, his voice hoarse and strained, "What… What is your command?"

The younger man regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Quirrell was weak, feeble, a mere shell of his former self after being his host for the past year or so. Yet despite his frailty, he had proven himself useful, and apparently, he still wanted to serve.

"Quirinus" he said, and then smirked as the man gave a start at his voice, "You have served me well in recent times, and Lord Voldemort always rewards those who are loyal".

"... My Lord?"

"Drink this". With a flick of the unfamiliar wand, a vial half-filled with golden liquid crossed the room towards him. "It shall counteract the unicorn blood and restore you to your full health".

Quirrell caught the glass with trembling hands, before looking up at him with wide eyes, clearly recognising it for what it was.

"My Lord, I… I don't understand. I thought-"

"You thought wrong!" he interrupted, cutting him off sharply, "If you are to continue proving your… usefulness, then I need you at your best. I have used the Stone to produce multiple such vials and hidden them, along with the Stone, somewhere only I know. This is the only Elixir that you are getting… so use it well".

Quirrell stared at him for another moment, before he swallowed thickly, nodded once, and downed it in one gulp. His face twisted at the taste even as his grey pallor lessened, but Voldemort didn't blame him - it truly had been vile.

"The child's wand" he demanded, "I told you to take it. Where is it?"

"R-Right here, Master".

Quirrell struggled to fully sit up before reaching into his robes and pulling out the pale yet richly coloured wand. He held it out - handle first, smart man - and Voldemort immediately took it, pointing it at the now-empty vial and muttering, "Evanesco".

The wand jerked in his hand, clearly unhappy, and sparked warningly.

Voldemort frowned, annoyed, and examined it. He had hoped that by stealing the boy's wand, he'd have something to use until he could retrieve his own. He couldn't rely on Quirrell's wand - nine inches, Alder wood, unicorn hair, bendy - because the man would need it himself if he were to be useful to him, and he wasn't so cruel as to take his wand away from him permanently.

Turning the new wand around in his hands, however, he realised that his initial plan wouldn't work. The damn thing was made of ash, which meant it was painfully loyal to its original owner and didn't have a chance in hell at working for him. No wonder the Longbottom child had been so dismal in all of his classes - the bloody wand wouldn't listen to anyone but his father!

Voldemort exhaled loudly, relished in the brief spark of fear that came over Quirrell's face as a result, and then carelessly tossed the wand into the unlit fireplace, moving "find Wormtail" higher up on his to-do list. If anyone would know what had happened to his beautiful yew and phoenix feather, it would be that rat.

Staring down at the wand in the empty grate, he briefly wondered if Neville Longbottom showing up in that chamber had been a sign. Had he made a mistake, when he'd chosen which baby was the child of prophecy?

No. He couldn't have.

The boy had been laughable in his attempts to stop him - he hadn't even remembered to draw his wand, for Salazar's sake! Quirrell had taken it from his robes after he'd fainted in fear at the sight of him! That child being capable of his downfall? Not a chance.

Although, speaking of the prophecy…

He mentally recalled the few lines his spy had heard - the few lines that had convinced his former self to blindly go after a mere babe in an effort to seal his success.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

Had he really decided to attack a powerful wizarding family, just based on that? Not even the entire prophecy?! That was… troubling, to say the least.

Voldemort's mind churned with a tumultuous mix of thoughts and emotions that he hadn't felt in years. Had he truly been so reckless as to base his actions on a mere fragment of a prophecy? It seemed unfathomable now, in his restored state of clarity and-

Clarity.

The Elixir had done more than just restore his body - it had restored a part of his mind.

Not all of it; a quick patrol through the walls of his mental fortress revealed more than one empty room, places where thoughts, memories, or even aspects of himself were missing.

Where parts of his soul were missing.

The Horcruxes, those fragments of his soul scattered across Britain, had undoubtedly played a role in his descent into madness. They had tethered him to the mortal realm, but only so much as to maintain his life, not his mind, which had anchored his consciousness to a state of perpetual instability.

His frown deepened, and he idly flicked Quirrell's wand at the empty fireplace to set it ablaze. The late evening was no match for the summer day, and the draughty old cottage was doing nothing to raise the temperature either.

The Elixir of Life had certainly done a good job in restoring some of that stability - he couldn't remember the last time his thoughts had been this clear, this focused, and looking back on the final few years of the war, looking back on his actions during that time, had his stomach twisting in anger, disgust, and- yes, even a little bit of shame.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen…

He glanced over at the empty vial still held too tightly in Quirrell's trembling hands - the shaking now caused by fear rather than weakness.

But was the Elixir enough? Had it done enough? Would this newfound stability stay, or was it only temporary? Voldemort couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the back of his mind. Would he ever truly be free from the shackles of his own creation? Could he ever regain the full extent of his power and ambition without sacrificing his immortality?

Without reclaiming parts of his soul?

He'd already seen the positive side-effects of having his old body back - dear Quirinus had hardly been able to contain himself before he'd realised just who the handsome young man in front of him was. So, surely, restoring his mind as well as his body would only further advance his goals?

He had tampered with dark and ancient magic, defying the laws of nature in his quest for immortality. He'd ignored the warnings and scoffed at the fear of his most trusted once they'd realised what he'd done. Immortality would secure his power, would secure his place in this world.

But now, countless years later, in a situation far worse off than the one he'd started in, he couldn't help but wonder if the price of his ambition had been too high…