Hello everyone. I'm back, as always. Story is not abandoned. Won't be abandoned. I just suck hard with timelines.

Decided to split up the chapter into two parts, as the original Chapter 4 came up to 14k words total.

And yes, Part 2 is also completed and is being beta'd. We're looking at a potential Sunday release, might be earlier though.

I remember I also promised an Animagus reveal right?

That's in Part 2.

Thank you for sticking with me. Much love. Enjoy the chapter.

Harry Potter and The Follies of a Half-Blood

Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Part 1

The cloudless, starry sky above him was a tranquil sight that put Harry at ease.

He was used to dreams like these now, they had been recurring for the past month, and only increased in frequency as more days passed.

He was lying down on the soft, green grass of the clearing in the woods he always found himself in. Breathing in the fresh air as he rested on the blades of grass, decorated by the morning dew.

At least, he thought that the grass should have some dewdrops. He wouldn't know. He couldn't feel them after all.

He was always frozen in place in these dreams, unable to move or see anything but the starry night sky and the foliage from the trees around him.

A chirp broke his musings. Yet another constant to his dreams; a bird always seemed to be present. He tried to ignore it once more, but it chirped again.

Was that indignation? Or irritation?

Harry didn't know and he couldn't be bothered to think about it since he couldn't move his head to try finding the avian offender.

Soft pattering was heard somewhere above his head, as if something small was creeping towards him with slow, yet assured steps.

It didn't sound human. A slow, quiet tapping against a tree growing ever closer to him. He knew it wasn't feline in nature, or like most other mammals that he could think of and assumed it belonged to the bird that frequently disturbed him in this dream.

He heard another chirp from above him, closer this time. It definitely sounded like the bird was awfully close to irritation. Harry wanted to speak to it, yet couldn't, forced instead to continue admiring the woodland scene above him.

He could feel the avian creature's indignation at being ignored. He didn't know how or why he felt so sure of that feeling, but he wasn't able to confront it anyway. Eventually the tapping stopped and he felt a brief gust in his hair before sensing a small presence above him.

As if sensing his thoughts about it, the bird decided to add something new to the dream.

The last thing he felt was a sharp, hard peck to his forehead.

"FUCK!"

Harry woke up with a violent start, cursing. He maniacally rubbed his forehead, near the faded remnants of his scar. Yet, he could still feel the ghost of the pain that the irritating bird had caused.

He sighed as the pain faded to his memory and rubbed his eyes. He, once again, lamented that he couldn't see anything and sat up on the bed. The sun shone brightly outside, its rays coming through the windows, bathing the room in a magnificent golden glow. A view he had barely had time to enjoy when he woke up briefly at sunrise to chant the Animagus incantation, Amato Animo Animato Animagus. His first time chanting it since he completed the potion the night before as the full moon hung in the Grecian sky.

Yet, despite the beautiful scenery, Harry was immediately on edge. A quick Tempus showed the time and all thoughts of starry skies and annoying birds left his mind.

It was late. Too late. Yet Alexander had not barged into his room for the routine morning assault. Squinting his useless eyes, he stood up, his wand aimed towards the door.

Hesitantly, he opened the door and tried to feel for his mentor's magical signature.

Nothing. Still, he didn't not let down his guard. Squaring his shoulders he moved towards the stairs and he finally felt his signature somewhere around the kitchen of their house.

His soft, nearly soundless steps carried him towards the ground floor, but instead of a surprise attack, he saw Alexander drinking coffee at the table filled with a multitude of choices for breakfast. The man himself was reading a Greek newspaper.

"Ah, here he is," he drawled and turned his eyes towards Harry. "Put down that weapon, boy. It's your birthday, you deserve some rest."

Harry dumbly blinked. He had forgotten it was his birthday, nor did he expect Alex to take it into consideration. Slowly, he moved towards the table and his wand started falling.

A bright red bolt careened towards the young wizard and with narrowed eyes he deflected it through a window, smashing it in the process.

"Good," Alexander said, pleased. "You should never fully lower your guard. That said, you really should put that down, I won't tease you further."

Harry returned the laurel wand to his holster, knowing by now that Alex only doubled down on a statement when it was the truth.

"I still can't see, you know," Harry idly said while he put on his plate what appeared to be bacon, though he wasn't quite sure.

"Not for long. I did promise you a cure to your eyesight after all. Besides, you can now feel, not just see."

Harry hummed in agreement. His senses had truly developed by leaps and bounds under his mentor's harsh but effective tutelage. He had terrible eyesight, that much was true. To the point where there was barely a difference between his actual sight and blindness. Thus, they often trained with Harry blindfolded to truly give him the experience of being blind.

"In fact, I believe you no longer need training in that department," Alexander announced as he put down his newspaper. "Your sensory abilities have come along quite nicely and I trust you'll continue developing them. But you no longer need to suffer this drawback. Therefore, one of your gifts today will be to fix your eyesight. But it isn't the first order of business."

Harry's heart skipped a beat as he realised, for the first time, that his eyesight would actually be fixed. A lopsided grin took over his face, as it lit up in joy.

"Don't get so excited," Alex chastised, causing the grin to falter slightly. "You'll need to eat fast if you want us to start. We have too many orders of business today and I swear to Olympus I will deny you the rest of the gifts should you cause us to be late. By the way, here, you'll need this for now," as he spoke, his wand moved fast to conjure a pair of glasses for the boy, which he threw at him.

"The rest of my gifts?" Harry asked with his silly grin as he caught the glasses and wore them, eliciting a groan from the older wizard.

"Look at you. You'd think that nobody ever gave you gifts the way you're acting," Alex started but reconsidered with a mean smirk. "Oh, wait…"

Harry flipped him off.

With a slight pop, Harry and Alexander appeared on a mountainside littered with ancient ruins. Among the hills and mountains of central Greece, Harry looked down to see the steps of a large, ancient theatre, sitting next to the nearly leveled remains of what looked like a once great building. The ruins were framed by the beautiful, even stunning, view of the mountainous plains below them, an enchanting mix of the grey stone and green plantlife.

Despite the beauty of the place, it wasn't the view that first captured Harry's attention, but the omnipresent, even oppressive feeling of magic in the air, like a great weight upon him.

"What is this place?" the boy questioned as he tried to discern the origins of the magical aura.

Alexander didn't answer him, instead staring intently at the ruins closest to him.

"You can let us in, Adriana. We are guests."

A tanned woman appeared, wearing a white dress, and wrapped with a white cloak, directly where Alexander was staring.

"I know. We always know, God of War," the woman - Adriana - said and she moved her arm in an arc behind her. Harry's eyes widened as the air itself shimmered behind her, and the truth of the ruins were revealed to him..

The buildings, although ancient in design, stood spotless and unblemished as if freshly built, untainted by the rigours of time. People wearing similar clothes to Adriana moved to and fro about their business, making the place vibrant and lively. The most eye-catching building was the one directly below them. In the place of the leveled ruins, arose a large temple, higher and bigger than any other building at the site. Great pillars grew out of the ground, and walls rose up between them. Tiles and stones that littered the ground seemed to fly up and into place, forming a great roof, as the glory of the great temple was restored in front of his eyes.

"God of War, Marked Child, welcome to Delphi," Adriana said in a monotone voice as she started walking.

Harry's head spun at the chosen moniker for him while Alexander didn't even bat an eye.

Then again, it was expected. Despite them being together every day for the better part of a month, the elder wizard remained tight-lipped about the 'Ares business', as he called it.

Slowly, they followed behind the young witch as she walked towards the great temple. Harry knew where they were now.

"Why are we going to see the Oracle of Delphi?" Harry whispered to Alex, who merely turned his eyes in his direction.

"It's your first gift, little Potter. A meeting with the true Pythia."

"Wait. The true Pythia? The Oracle, the historical and most likely dead for millenia Pythia?"

"Who told you she was dead?"

"Common sense?" Harry deadpanned. He got cuffed to the back of his head for his efforts.

"Pythia is immortal. Not by her own choice, believe me."

Harry chose to not respond as they neared the building.

"You'll go in alone," Alexander announced as he stopped at some sort of plaza in front of the gated entrance of the temple. "Pythia will not accept anyone else, not even me, hearing your fate." Adriana also stopped a few feet after Alexander.

Harry sighed and nodded.

Without a word uttered, he went ahead and the guards opened the doors before him, revealing darkness and the scent of something like leaves and flowers burning ahead. With a deep breath, he walked inside and the gates closed behind him.

For some moments, he continued down the dark hall before a voice was heard as if coming from everywhere - including his own thoughts - all at once.

"Walk forward, Heir of Death. You came to me, as I foresaw eons before this very day."

The voice sounded old, very old. It reverbated into his very being. He felt small, infinitely small all of a sudden. As he thought of this, torches flickered to life among the hallway, lighting the path ahead of him, guiding him to a room with a simple black curtain blocking it.

Steeling his resolve, he pushed the curtain aside and walked into the room.

The sight that greeted him was… weird. That was all he could think. At the far side of the room was a raised platform littered with pillows, and on it sat a woman that Harry could only describe as ancient. Wrinkled and weathered skin, barely a few patches of hair remained atop her head, falling around her skull-like face and a pair of skeletal hands holding something that looked awfully like a joint - 'Huh, that's what smelled like burned leaves' - like the ones he saw Dudley throwing away during his late night excursions last summer. The fragile woman put the smoke to her lips and took a deep drag, as if she was as youthful as Harry himself.

Despite her state, she breathed out a cloud of smoke with a sigh and her eyes, like spun silver, turned to pin Harry down with a stare.

"Sit, child. We have much to discuss," the woman spoke with the voice he recognised from before. Harry hurriedly obeyed and sat down on a surprisingly comfy pillow.

"You are the Pythia."

"Yes, that has been my name for the past… two and a half thousand years or so?" The elderly woman said with a smile that was missing quite a few teeth. Despite her appearance, Harry felt oddly comfortable and at ease. "I guess you want to ask me how I'm still alive, then?"

The boy simply nodded.

"It's quite simple, and a tale as old as the reputation of this Oracle. I was gifted with the Sight, but above and beyond what other Seers were gifted with. I don't need Ananke to take over me to utter a Prophecy, nothing of the sort. Instead, I can communicate with Fate directly."

"What..?" Harry uttered as he couldn't wrap his head around the revelation.

"I am speaking the truth, Harry Potter. You could say that I was the one Fate chose to speak through, the one with this special gift. This very same gift, however, robbed me of a peaceful afterlife.

"You see, we, the Oracle of Delphi, were the counsel of the Old Gods under Apollo, of the Dodecatheon - its first iteration at least. Zeus Panhellenios, in particular, took an interest in me. He saw me as an opportunity to usurp and understand the machinations of the three Fates." Pythia took a long drag of her seemingly never-ending stick of burning herbs and exhaled. "Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. Famous for weaving the Web of Fate with the Loom."

Deep laughter, coming from the ancient oracle boomed throughout the room.

"Nothing more false than that. The Fates were a front, simple witches that used an artefact beyond their limited understanding. The Loom of Fate exists, and pieces of it are still inside Hollow Olympus, deep within the Department of Forbidden Magic. Zeus realised this and one of his children killed the three fakes, retrieving the Loom in the process. He understood that he could not use it properly himself, so he came to me. Commanded me to use it, to alter his fate of a shameful death and make him immortal, to re-write his very destiny so he could live forever. The insolence!" The old crone boomed with a voice that shouldn't have been able to come from her fragile vocal cords.

"I, of course, refused. In his blind rage, Zeus tried to kill me. He failed, repeatedly. Fate wouldn't allow my death by his hands. I lived through what seemed to be sheer circumstance, or as you always say about yourself, sheer dumb luck. But I knew better, Ananke's command was such.

"But alas, Zeus decided to do something else. He knew he couldn't kill me and came to me, sitting right in the same place you're currently sitting. I can't forget that day, no matter how many eons and millenia might pass by my eyes. He mocked me and ridiculed me for my tenacity, how I looked invincible in his eyes. The Strongest of the Mages of Greece, the God of the Gods, could not allow this insolence. Thus, he cursed me."

Harry stared, not able to speak.

"You see, my boy, I am not immortal in the traditional sense. Every one-hundred and fifty years or so, I die, only to be born again with the memories of my previous lives intact. I am born, I grow old, and I die. Over and over again. The tales of Delphi looking for a new Seer to take the mantle of Pythia is a half-truth - I always find this place long before they find me. What Zeus did to me…" the crone shook her head. "He bound my soul to this world, cursed to reincarnate forever more. A curse caused by sheer spite. A manipulation of raw, unguided magic. He might not have known then, but Mother Magic always knows. He used magic herself to curse me with my worst fear - a chance for a peaceful death after I'd fulfilled my role as Fate's Avatar was all I wanted. The curse worked; Fate might be all powerful but she is quite literal in her meanings. I wasn't killed by Zeus, that much is true, but Fate never made him unable to curse me."

The crone chuckled as she took another hit.

"Such a man was killed in his sleep by his own brothers. A fitting end to an all-powerful tyrant. He was a god when it came to handling magic, but he was no immortal. The closest he came to immortality was what did to me.

"I long for a time when I open my eyes after my death and see the Other Side. But alas, Lady Fate has yet to plan my permanent demise," the elderly oracle lamented as her eyes took on a strange, pearly sheen.

"I am sorry," Harry found himself saying, genuinely feeling remorseful.

"Don't be, my child. This tale was written long before your ancestors first set foot on the shores of Albion. And it is not a tale that should take up the time we have left, for you have questions. You don't know them exactly, can't articulate them. But I see them. I hear them in my mind."

"Where should I start?" Harry asked with a cocked head.

"Your prophecy should be the first thing I explain," the crone said. "You know it by now, every single syllable is engraved in your thoughts. You should know, you are not destined to kill Tom Marvolo Riddle. It is but a possibility, as is your death by his hand. This strand of destiny started at your birth, but you were only chosen as Ananke's instrument when Riddle himself chose you. Had he decided to follow another path, and choose Neville Longbottom, or Susan Bones, they would have been the ones to be marked. Had he not chosen at all, the Prophecy would have never even been uttered to begin with.""Neville and Susan have 'the power he knows not'? Do they know they have it?" Harry asked curiously.

"Oh no, not at all. You see, Harry Potter, 'the power the Dark Lord knows not' is the mark itself."

Harry was about to retort when the words died in his mouth. He vividly remembered a vibrant image of a mutilated, shadowy copy of himself with red eyes.

'Hadrian.'

"You have to understand one core element of the prophecy. Tom Riddle, in his hubris, fulfilled the first requirements of the prophecy. He marked you as his equal. Do you understand what that means, Harry Potter?"

The cogs in the boy's brain whirred at breakneck speeds as he tried to understand. In truth, what the crone meant was plain to see, but he couldn't fathom it. Not without her explaining it.

The Pythia chuckled.

"Yes. He made you, as a mere babe, his equal. A fifty-four year old Warlock of unparalleled strength, declared in front of Hekate and Ananke that you, a year old child, was his equal. Do you understand the absurdity of this claim?"

Harry was speechless.

"I've already said, Fate is quite literal with her words sometimes. Salazar's Heir gave you unprecedented power, solely for the purpose of avoiding the prophecy and ended up initiating it instead. Don't get me wrong, child, you are very strong and would grow to be one of the strongest wizards. Just… not quite that soon. You have the technique and intuition that grown mages take years to develop. You have a natural affinity to command magic, way beyond your peers. You are on the path to become one of the greatest wizards, Harry Potter. That is the power he knows not. All you have to do is guide the outcome by your choices. Take hold of your own destiny and vanquish Tom Riddle, lest you be vanquished yourself."

As she finished talking, a loud gong was heard around the room. Harry nearly jumped up from the sudden sound, while the Pythia seemed completely unphased by the noise.

"It seems that our two hours have ended, Harry Potter."

"Two hours?" The boy asked incredulously. "It barely felt like thirty minutes passed."

The old crone merely smiled serenely. "You should go now. You have a lot of things to get through today, do you not?"

"I thought I had more questions you would answer…?" Harry said hesitantly.

"I will. I didn't specify when I'll do so," the Pythia said, her serene smile never fading. "And I ask again. Don't you have things to do, my boy?"

"Yes, I do," Harry said standing up. "Thank you for taking the time for me."

"No need to thank me. It needed to be done."

With a resolute nod, Harry turned around to leave. As he touched the curtain, however, Pythia spoke one more time.

"Do you know what a True Seer's Death is?"

Harry paused, confused by the statement. He turned his head towards the elder with a question ready to escape his lips.

"You don't. Well, did you know that Seers die the moment they deliver their third true prophecy?"

Harry's confusion was even more pronounced as he had no idea what any of that had to do with him.

Pythia, instead of answering the question she herself had asked, merely chuckled and raised her hand.

"Happy Birthday, Peverell."

Harry's eyes widened, but before he could speak, he found himself outdoors, clutching Alexander's robe as if it was the curtain to the Pythia's room.

"If you're quite done," the battle-mage growled with a scowl. "I take it you've had a couple of productive hours?"

"Yes. I think I did," Harry murmured as he let go of his mentor's robe, his mind replaying her parting words.

'Peverell. That name again.'

Despite reading the name over and over again inside his family grimoire - especially since it named him as one of them - he had not got closer to understanding what the name meant, nor to whom it belonged. The book refused to answer any questions regarding the name, always reciting the same words whenever he asked.

'You are not yet ready to speak to her.'

Whoever she was, he had no idea. He had tried searching for books inside the Black Family Library with any mention of the name and the room itself had extracted him from it - rather violently too. Inquiries with Sirius, Narcissa and even Dumbledore came up as dead ends. The Blacks simply vaguely remembered the name being one of importance, while Dumbledore managed to annoy him.

"I believe that the truth of the name rests with you, and you alone are to discover its meaning," Dumbledore said as he stroked his beard during one of his visits to Grimmauld Place, two days before Harry had left for Greece.

"So you know?"

"I do, yes."

"And you won't tell me?"

"No, I won't," Dumbledore said, an annoying twinkle sparkling in his eyes.

"But-"

"You will speak with me about the Peverells after you realise what they mean to you. After that, we shall discuss their importance."

Harry's eye twitched in annoyance at the memory of the discussion. Even he himself felt like he should remember the name, but couldn't quite grasp the memory. He saw it, before the Tome had started calling him one, but not long ago. It was a recent memory, it was intimate, and Dumbledore told him then that it was not the time-

Harry's eyes widened as he found the memory.

Ignotus Peverell

12 July 1214 – 19 May 1292

'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death.'

The graveyard of Godric's Hollow. The lone tombstone behind his parents' graves, at the very back of the empty stretch of unused land. Was he related to him? Who was he?

'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death.'

'Peverell.'

'Heir of Death.'

His musings were cut short as Alexander snapped his fingers in front of his face.

"If you're quite done daydreaming."

Before he got the chance to speak, he felt the tell-tale feeling of apparition whisk him away.

Back inside the unassuming home of Alexander in Northern Greece, a book flew out on its own from where it was stored and landed with its pages open on top of Harry Potter's bed.

Its pages, normally of a warm, cream colour, turned colder and took on a grey sheen.

Pitch black letters, black like death itself started appearing on the pages, as if written by a slow, steady and invisible hand.

At the same time, the book's cover changed. At first, it was black, and scaly, bound with snake skin leather, but the scales seemed to get absorbed into the leather and it grew smoother, and fuller, as the black of the leather seemed to get darker, until it began to subtly pull in the light from the room. The golden lettering on the cover changed too from a warm, fiery gold to cold silver, but the name of the Potter Tome remained intact.

The Potter coat of arms, however, was completely gone.

The changes ended and the book remained open on the bed with the single phrase, now complete in pitch black ink.

'Lady Iolanthe is ready to meet you, young Peverell.'

A couple of days prior…

Tom Marvolo Riddle. The self-styled Lord Voldemort. In his opinion, it was an appropriate name for him, very fitting. Vol De Mort. 'Flight From Death'.

It was important in more ways than one as it was both metaphorical and literal. He often wondered how he had survived in his youth through the vile abuse of the orphanage and the tense climate of the Second World War. In the end, it didn't matter how he survived. He realised he was destined for greatness, his life simply could not end as simply a footnote of history, a name on a tombstone, one of many in a Muggle graveyard. Regardless of the circumstances, he flew from death time and time again.

Later on in his life, he found the secret to immortality. He stole himself from Death, denying the old god the pleasure of claiming him, for his time would never be up. He found a vile ritual that would split his soul into containers called Horcruxes.

Such was his obsession with escaping death, he did not care about the consequences or the methods needed to achieve his goal. The rituals themselves demanded more than simple sacrifices in the form of murder. He also needed to give up a part of himself, a piece of his very being.

As he stood inside the locked and warded cellar of Malfoy Manor, Voldemort's thoughts went back to the beginning of his quest. His old mentor and ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, begging him to reconsider, to try and convince him that it wasn't worth it. Myrtle Warren, the poor Mudblood he strung around with promises of love. Listening to her profess her love for him, moments before the basilisk's gaze ended her life. Minutes before her body turned cold in front of him. Tens of minutes before he managed to erase his presence from the girls bathroom.

He remembered how his hands had trembled, how hesitant he was and how numb he felt after he had effectively killed her. Barely registering the ritual that materialised around her corpse, a ritual he himself had set up. He remembered how Tom, despite the bravado he showed to survive inside of the Slytherin dungeons, was near hysterical. Doubts, fear, sorrow at ending the life of a fellow witch. The life of a girl who could understand his lonely life better than anyone, a girl who he had perhaps even experienced love for. A girl he had grown fond of as he strung her along in pursuit of his ultimate goal. A girl who had dominated the dreams he'd once had of a happy, future life.

He regretted everything, back then; he'd nearly wanted to die alongside her, but his fear of death had won out and he'd proceeded with the ritual. Coincidentally, the mental torture he'd put himself through gave him the clarity he'd needed to complete the ritual. The first part of himself that had been given up in the quest for immortality had been his kindness, his compassion for others.

He saw part of his very soul split from his heart, saw it enter the little, black diary. A personal project of his, an item with an artificial consciousness that kept him company, because he didn't have anyone else close to him. He chose it for its significance and sentimental value, chose it to become the first container of his soul, the first step towards immortality. Yet, after he lost a part of his essence, that sad little book of his had seemed useless. He stood above the corpse of Myrtle Warren, looking at the diary with barely concealed disdain, lamenting the poor choice he had made for his first Horcrux. Still, his soul was inside, therefore the object should be protected and cherished. With that thought, he left the bathroom and his past behind.

Returning his mind to the present, Voldemort took a deep breath of the musky, damp air of the basement. With his calculating gaze he took in the sight in front of him. A lifeless male body was strung up in the middle of a septagram carved onto the stone floor, framed by a circle. It was too dark in the basement to recognise more than that about the body, so with a flick of his wrist, the Dark Lord started lighting up torches around the walls of the underground he did that, he thought back to the summer after his fifth year, after his first Horcrux. Enchanting his pathetic uncle into believing he'd killed the Riddles, reclaiming the Gaunt Lord's Ring. He'd decided, right then, that it would be the second container for his soul. The most important heirloom he had ever possessed, the clear link to his legendary legacy. Proof that he was more than a simple orphan, a simple imbecile who could shoot sparks through a stick.

He remembered apparating to the manor near the ruined shack his uncle had called a home. Noticing the striking contrast between the spotless, obscene manor that screamed of the wealth his father's family possessed, and the filth that his mother's family had lived in. He vividly remembered his blood boiling in rage, seething as a worthless Muggle lived lavishly while the Gaunt Family, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin lived in filth and squalor.

He remembered entering the manor as if he owned it. Seeing a family of three inside, one middle aged man and an elderly couple.

He remembered the brown eyes of his spitting image staring back at him. His Muggle father.

He couldn't be bothered with torture, the Cruciatus too inelegant and too lacking to create a Horcrux. His ritual was already set, courtesy of his unparalleled skill with a wand, his immense intellect and the ritually granted eidetic memory, ensuring no errors were made in the preparations.

He remembered putting his father under a weak Imperius. Letting him speak his mind out-loud as his body worked for Tom. Making him murder his own father and mother as he shouted pointless apologies at them and screamed his throat hoarse to the point he spat blood. Making him taste the blood of his own parents as it squirted to his face from torn and pierced arteries. Letting him fall to his knees, broken beyond repair as he could not stop the atrocity he had been forced to commit. He tried to end himself, but Tom did not let him. He reanimated his grandfather, the one that had raised his son with love, something that son didn't do for his own in turn. The Inferius grabbed the knife and stabbed Tom Riddle Sr. repeatedly, as he kept healing him. Denying his father the pleasure of sinking into oblivion, making him suffer the icy touch of death as his own father's corpse looked at him with grey, lifeless eyes.

In the end, not even his healing magic could keep his father alive as he succumbed to death's embrace.

As the atrocity was committed, he also let a part of himself go to fuel the ritual. He let go of the last of his empathy, deeming it a weakness. The piece of his soul got attached to his new ring and with a satisfied smile, he disapparated, leaving the Inferius to brutalise his father's body beyond recognition.

As all the torches were lit up inside the cellar, the lifeless male was easily seen. It looked similar to Voldemort's human self, albeit several years older. It took him several days to create, but the end result was satisfactory. A perfect homunculus, fit to host his soul and conscience.

Many would marvel at his creation, pay their respects and reverence to his unparalleled intellect and ability. The first wizard to create a truly functioning body.

The truth was of course much simpler. The body was a simple Muggle without a soul, a product of the Dementor's Kiss. Obtained by Bellatrix, put under the Draught of Living Death and given to him to work with in order to get rid of this serpentine body. Modified to have his own - and Harry Potter's - blood coursing normally through it. Permanently altered to better fit his image. He still needed to perform physically augmenting rituals once more, but it wouldn't be too much of a problem for him.

The rest of the necessities would happen by means of possession. Much like his current body, the soul piece - his soul piece - would alter the container successfully since it lacked a soul.

His plan had a twofold gain. First, he would finally be rid of his failing, repulsive body. He was meant to be a man above men, a god amongst wizards and witches alike, not a serpent posing as a wizard.

The second gain, the most important, would be the mending of his destabilised and wounded soul. His gaze caught a golden goblet propped next to the homunculus, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup. Yet another of his Horcruxes. For that one, he gave up his ability to taste, deeming it worthless as his body no longer needed edible sustenance to function thanks to a ritual he had performed. Getting it back wouldn't be too bothersome. Certainly not as bothersome as regaining his capacity for mercy would be, which was tied to Salazar Slytherin's Locket.

A tremor went through his body, causing him to scream and convulse violently as his weakened and destabilised soul attacked him once more. As it passed and he raised his head, his murderous gaze locked onto the body he would soon occupy.

Everything was ready. The ritual was perfectly set up, as was always the case with his rituals. He did not need to delay any longer.

Sensing his intent, the carved septagram glowed in a sinister, dark green colour. The Cup trembled in response to the ambient magic and the intent from Voldemort's leftover soul. The eyes of the homunculus opened and its irises locked onto him, but its gaze was empty. The only thing left for him to do now was to sever his soul from his body in order to possess the new one.

Finally, he would be freed from Harry Potter's lingering taint and could return to the front lines, undisturbed and unshaken. And the boy would pay.

He turned his long, yew wand to his temple.

"Avada Kedavra."