Darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness.
It was not merely the absence of light, but an entity all its own—an oppressive force that seemed to coil around every fragment of thought and sensation. It clung to him, gnawed at him, pressing inward with a weight so crushing it seemed to fracture the very concept of self. This was no simple void; it was a consuming abyss, a place where time lost meaning, and existence itself became a question without an answer. In this endless chasm, a spark persisted—faint, flickering, yet stubborn. A splinter of consciousness clung to the ragged edges of oblivion, refusing to be extinguished.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Or what was left of him. No longer the Dark Lord, no longer Voldemort—titles that once carried weight, now as hollow as the void that surrounded him. Power, legacy, fear—these concepts meant nothing here. His identity was splintered, scattered like shards of broken glass across the boundless dark. Each fragment glimmered faintly, echoing memories that clawed their way to the surface, raw and unbidden.
Cold stone. Damp air. He was small again—a boy in Wool's Orphanage. The bleak walls loomed around him, silent and unyielding. He sat alone, knees drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the cracked windowpane. Beyond it, the sky stretched grey and lifeless, a mirror to the emptiness gnawing at him. The matron's sharp voice rang in his ears, cutting and cold, scolding him for faults he never understood. The other children kept their distance, their whispers slicing through the air like knives. He was an outsider—always watching, always apart.
Yet even in that suffocating loneliness, there had been sparks.
Billy Stubbs' rabbit, limp and still, hanging from its hutch. The peculiar thrill in leading Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop into the caves—watching them emerge pale and trembling, forever altered by something they could not name. Moments of power, small but potent. They had tasted sweet, like forbidden fruit, and the flavor lingered long after. The hunger for more gnawed at him, insatiable and relentless. It grew and festered, driving him to delve deeper into the forbidden, to seek knowledge that others dared not.
Amy Benson. Her wide, curious eyes had been so easy to lure. She had always been eager to explore, to venture beyond the rigid walls of the orphanage. But curiosity had its price. Tom remembered the way her hand had trembled in his as they descended into the damp, echoing darkness of the caves. He could still hear her ragged breathing, the quiver in her voice when the shadows grew too thick, when the silence became too loud. She had trusted him—and he had watched with cold detachment as that trust crumbled, replaced by an unspoken terror. Whatever they had seen—or thought they had seen—had stained them both. But for Amy, it was a scar that would never heal. For Tom, it was a lesson. People were fragile, and their minds even more so.
Dennis Bishop had been harder to break. Braver, perhaps, or simply more foolish. He had mocked Tom once, called him strange, whispered to the others that Tom was different—wrong. But in the belly of the caves, that bravado had withered. Tom recalled the moment Dennis stumbled in the dark, his breath hitching as the walls seemed to close in. A soft, sinister whisper—Tom's own voice—had guided him deeper, coaxing forth fear like a snake charming its prey. Dennis had emerged changed, quieter, his mocking laughter silenced. Tom had watched him with a distant curiosity, marveling at how fear could unravel even the strongest threads of defiance.
Those moments had been the genesis of something far greater. They were the first glimpses of the truth—that power was not merely in strength or knowledge, but in control. The ability to twist and mold others, to shape their reality with nothing more than a word or a glance. It was intoxicating.
But power alone was never enough.
The orphanage walls melted away. Now he stood taller, cloaked in shadows deeper than night. Before him knelt a sea of masked figures, the Dark Mark seared into their flesh—a mark of servitude, of fear. His voice, cold and imperious, echoed through the dark, commanding without question. Yet even as they bowed, he sensed it—the brittle nature of their loyalty. Not respect. Fear. Thin and fragile.
And beneath that fear, betrayal festered.
Severus Snape's inscrutable eyes, always watching, always calculating. Lucius Malfoy's slippery words, cloaked in false allegiance. Even Bellatrix—mad, devoted Bellatrix—was more obsession than loyalty. They were pieces on a chessboard, and every piece, no matter how useful, was expendable. Even Nagini, his most trusted companion, had been little more than a vessel. And then, Potter. Always Potter. That insufferable boy—the one obstacle he could never fully eradicate. A child, yet an unyielding thorn in his side. Every plan, every scheme, had unraveled in the boy's wake, as if fate itself conspired against him.
Yet he had tried. Oh, how he had tried. The diary, the ring, the cup—each Horcrux a safeguard, a shield against mortality. He had delved into the darkest of magics, torn his soul asunder, all to evade the finality of death. But the soul was not meant to be fractured, and the cost—the cost was far greater than he had anticipated.
The images twisted, blurred—the towering halls of Hogwarts, the final battle. The Killing Curse on his lips, the sickly green light arcing toward its mark. And then—rebellion. Magic turned back upon him, his own spell unraveling him. The shock, pure and absolute, rippling through every thread of his being. The screams of battle, the crumbling stone of the castle, the faces of those who defied him—all converged into a blinding crescendo.
And then—silence.
But silence was not peace. It was a void, gnawing and ceaseless. In this darkness, he found no comfort, only reflection. His failures circled him like vultures—each betrayal, each misstep, each moment of overconfidence that led to his downfall. He had thought himself invincible, yet even the mightiest could fall when the foundation was brittle.
Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop had been his first lessons in control, but he had mistaken fear for loyalty, manipulation for mastery. The Death Eaters had been no different—a legion built on fear and promises of power. Yet fear breeds resentment, and resentment breeds betrayal. He had never commanded true loyalty, only submission.
And Potter. The boy had not been stronger, nor more cunning, but he had been loved. Love—a magic he had dismissed as weakness—had shielded Potter, had rallied armies, had undone him. How could something so intangible, so trivial, have triumphed over his carefully wrought plans? He had underestimated the power of bonds, of sacrifice, of trust.
The silence of the void surrounded and engulfed him, threatening to take over his entire being.
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"Was it worth it?"
The voice did not belong to any mortal tongue. It resonated, ancient and boundless, neither male nor female, but something far older. It rippled through the void, vibrating through the fragmented remnants of his soul. The question was not posed in challenge or accusation, but in pure, dispassionate inquiry—a curiosity as deep and vast as the abyss itself.
He turned—or thought he did. Movement was an illusion here, but he focused his will upon it. Before him, shapes coalesced.
The Nirns.
They defied form, shifting between light and shadow, between shape and nothingness. Their eyes were distant stars, cold and watchful, flickering in colors that defied comprehension. They regarded him without judgment, without pity—only an ageless curiosity, as though examining a specimen caught in amber, something ancient and strange, preserved yet decayed.
"What is this place?" His voice was thought made sound, echoing thinly in the void. It seemed frail, small, against the vastness that surrounded him.
"A place between endings and beginnings," one of the Nirns replied, its voice neither harsh nor gentle, but absolute. It resonated like the toll of a distant bell, a sound that was both close and infinitely far away. "Here, all truths are laid bare."
"I owe you no answers," he hissed, though the venom in his tone felt hollow, brittle, crumbling even as he spoke it.
"You owe only to yourself," another whispered, its words folding into the dark like silk. "Tell us, Dark Lord, would you walk the same path again?"
His instinct roared to affirm—to declare that power justified all, that his path was the only one worth treading. Yet here, in this formless place, there was no audience, no pawns to manipulate, no fear to command. Only himself. And the jagged edges of doubt, sharper than any blade.
What had his relentless pursuit of power truly gained him? Fear. Isolation. Betrayal. Death. Defeat.
Yet—what alternative had there been? Could he have been anything else? Was he ever truly given a choice, or had his path been carved by forces beyond him, by the cruelty of fate and the cold indifference of the world?
"I did what was necessary to survive," he said at last, though the words felt brittle, as though spoken by a stranger. Even as he spoke them, the justification rang hollow.
"Was it?" The Nirns spoke as one, their voices merging into the very fabric of the void, a chorus that rippled through the empty space.
Could he imagine a life without power, without conquest? No. Power was survival. Yet...
A harrowing thought echoed in his mind: What if the world itself was different?
Silence seemed to last for an eternity. Then, the void began to tremble.
"And if the world were different?" they asked. "If you were born anew—without enemies, without the same rules—what then?"
He did not answer. Could not. The question coiled around him, suffocating in its simplicity. What would he be without the weight of prophecy, without the need to claw for dominance? Was his nature fixed, or was it merely the consequence of circumstance?
"We shall see."