It was strange the kind of things one paid attention to in the final moments of one’s life.

Voldemort’s gaze flitted around the battle-ravaged Great Hall. The acrid smell of spell damage hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the dust of fallen masonry. Stone pillars bore fresh scars from errant curses, their ancient foundations webbed with cracks.

Before him, Potter stood, brows furrowed, his face set in a nauseatingly earnest expression that made him want to hex something. He tuned out the boy’s monologue—some tripe about love and Snape’s deception. Murmurs rose from the crowd, garbled words here and there.

“Monster!”

The word stirred something in him, and his fingers reached unconsciously for the wall beside him. Hogwarts’ magic pulsed beneath his touch, familiar and steady as a heartbeat, and the present began to blur…

He was eleven again, and even though he had on a brand new uniform and robes, he couldn’t help but feel he was still wearing his shabby clothes from the orphanage. The Great Hall stretched before him, awash in candlelight that turned everything soft and otherworldly. Around him, other first-years clustered in comfortable groups, chattering about pureblood traditions and childhood broom rides. Their happiness was a barrier, their easy belonging a language he couldn’t speak. He pressed himself into the shadows, his newly acquired wand a reassuring weight in his pocket—the only proof that he truly belonged in this strange new world.

And yet, even as he watched his future classmates approach the stage for their turn with that tattered hat, he knew he was different. Special. Wasn't that why the castle’s magic had reached out to him? Why it had chosen him, and not them?

A hoarse caw brought Voldemort back to the present, and he turned to see a crow settling on a weathered branch outside the window. Is that you, M? Here to watch the show? But you already know how it ends, don’t you?

Thunder rolled across the sky, a deep rumble that vibrated through the castle walls. How fitting, he thought drily, that our final battle should have its own soundtrack.

Sighing inwardly, he turned his attention back to Potter. By all accounts, he should have been seething with fury. Instead, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, his mind the clearest it had been in a long time. Let the boy have his moment of perceived triumph. Everything was unfolding according to plan—just not the plan Potter thought he knew.

“Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed?” Potter’s grating voice rang out through the hall. “Because if it does, then it would know I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

Understanding dawned, followed by a wave of bitter amusement as he assessed the wand in his hands. So that was why his Killing Curse was destined to rebound. All those months spent tracking down Grindelwald, that theatrical grave-robbing performance at Dumbledore’s tomb—what a colossal waste of time. He had the most powerful wand in existence, and it was about as useful to him as a cheap trick wand from Zonko’s.

No matter. It was time to bring this sorry chapter to a close and give everyone in attendance a proper finale. After all, they had made it this far. It wouldn’t be sporting to simply throw down his wand and wait for the inevitable.

His gaze swept across what remained of his army. Yaxley, shoulders tense with barely concealed fear. Corban, that spineless worm, already inching toward the exit. Bellatrix... his chest tightened momentarily. The only one who’d ever shown true devotion, felled by that Weasley bitch. I’ll avenge you in my next life, Bella.

The students and teachers watched from the sidelines, their expressions ranging from terror to misguided defiance. Some bore the marks of battle—wounds crusted with blood, burns, torn robes. Others looked ready to collapse from exhaustion. Yet they all stayed, moths drawn to the flame of their precious Chosen One. They’d regret it soon enough.

He would rise again, and this time, there would be no prophecy, no mother’s sacrifice, no Elder Wand to stand in his way. Potter and his followers would be nothing but ash and memory.

He raised his wand, baring his teeth in a snarl and drawing himself up to his full height as Potter mirrored his stance. “Mark my words. This isn’t over, Potter. Avada Kedavra!”

“ Expelliarmus!”

There was an explosion of light—and then nothing.

oOo

Two weeks earlier...

People often forgot that before he became Lord Voldemort—before the rituals that stripped away his nose and lips, before he became the boogeyman of the wizarding world—he had been Tom Marvolo Riddle. Hogwarts’ most brilliant student in a century. A prodigy amongst prodigies. His professors had called him charming. His classmates had called him charismatic. None of them had suspected that behind his golden boy persona lay an insatiable hunger for knowledge that would lead him to the darkest corners of the restricted section, to books like Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Now, pacing through the shadowed aisles of Malfoy Manor’s library, he called upon that hunger once again. The scent of aged parchment and leather bindings stirred memories of endless nights in the Hogwarts library, back when the world still held secrets worth discovering. He had chosen Lucius’s home as his base of operations for its extensive collection of Dark Arts texts (though he had to admit watching the Malfoys squirm whenever they saw him was a nice bonus.) The family had amassed quite the trove of reference books on fringe and illicit subjects, many of them existing only in whispered rumours.

Even with the Elder Wand in his possession, uneasiness gnawed at him. The boy was planning something—he could feel it in his bones. The knowledge tormented him like an itch just out of reach. Until Potter’s lifeless body lay crushed under his heel, he couldn’t rest. Complacency was what had led to his downfall last time, forced him to spend fifteen years skulking around in the wilderness, possessing snakes and weaklings, all because he hadn’t anticipated the lasting effects of Lily Potter’s idiotic sacrifice.

What he needed was an escape clause. A Get-Out-Of-Limbo card, so to speak.

There had to be a book on the subject. After all, there had been a book on horcruxes, hadn’t there? The problem was finding it. It wasn’t as if there was one titled How to Avoid a Second Trip to Purgatory and Obliterating Your Soul Completely. If such a book existed, it had eluded him so far.

Delegating the task would have helped. As it was, being the commander-in-chief of a military coup meant his time was consumed by briefings, torture sessions, and campaign planning. Unfortunately, most of his Death Eaters possessed the intellectual sophistication of trolls. And Bellatrix, while loyal and eager to carry out his bidding, found books tedious. (“How do you stand it? Every time I see a book, my eyes glaze over,” she had confessed once, wrinkling her nose at the staggering piles that surrounded him in the library.)

Briefly, he had considered Snape, but Voldemort didn’t trust him not to piece the information together and use it against him somehow. That’s what he would have done—it was what any self-respecting Slytherin would do. It was why he had never told a soul about his horcruxes.

No, he would have to do this himself. Just like old times in the Hogwarts library, except this time, he wasn’t looking for immortality. He was looking for a second chance.

As the days bled into weeks, his search grew increasingly frantic. While there were plenty of books about soul bonding, astral projection, and communing with the dead (including one disturbing volume that appeared to be bound in human skin), none of them had the information he sought. His mood became so foul that even Bellatrix, who had never grasped the concept of personal space, gave him a wide berth. The only one to benefit from his dark moods was Nagini, who was starting to have trouble squeezing through doorways given the number of hapless wizards being thrown into her cage.

On this particular dreary April evening, he found himself getting tetchier by the minute as he tossed book after useless book aside. The library’s dignified silence was broken only by his increasingly colourful cursing.

“Why in Salazar’s name does Lucius even have this?” he snarled, hurling a helpless treatise on Sumerian matrimonial practices in the afterlife across the room. The book collided with a bust of some long-dead Malfoy ancestor, whose marble features rearranged themselves into an expression of deep offense. “Why?!”

In a fit of pique, he swept an entire row of books off the shelf. They tumbled like autumn leaves, pages fluttering in disarray as they landed on the hardwood floor with satisfying thuds.

That was when he saw it. Lying open amidst the chaos, its title page brittle and mottled brown with age: Dei Tenebris et Daemonia.

An odd pricking sensation crawled up the back of his neck. This was the book—he was sure of it. As his hand hovered above the battered tome, the air grew heavy with the scent of dusty caravan trails and dried blood, undercut with something that was just on the verge of decay. Unlike the pristine volumes in Lucius's collection, this one was old. Ancient. Its faded cover and cracked spine spoke of centuries of arcane and forbidden knowledge.

Curiously, there was no author listed. The text appeared to be written in old Latin, a language he had never bothered to learn. What use was a dead language to one who planned to live forever? And yet, he found he could read it with ease. The words seemed to shift and rearrange themselves before his eyes, as if the book itself was choosing to reveal its secrets to him.

Interesting, he mused, carrying the hefty tome to a nearby reading table. A sentient book that could choose its readers—now that was proper dark magic, not like the pedestrian curses his Death Eaters flung around.

The book appeared to be a directory of sorts. There were entries on succubi—he suppressed a shudder as one illustrated specimen gave him a come-hither smile and flicked a forked tongue in his direction—and various demons of war, chaos, and destruction. Any other time, he might have been fascinated by the entry on soul-sucking demons who feasted on fallen warriors. But no, he couldn’t afford any distractions now. Time was running out.

No… no… not that… Wait, what's this?

The Broker.

In the days when muggles and wizarding folk co-existed peacefully, the text began, rulers and dark wizards alike would seek out an entity that resided in the shadows of Man's darkest desires. This being, known simply as The Broker, was said to aid them in their quest for glory and power. There was a price, of course, as there so often was in such instances...

“Yes, yes,” he muttered impatiently as he scanned the text. “How in Salazar’s blasted name do you summon the damn thing?”

As if in response, the candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the library walls. A phantom breeze rustled the pages of the scattered books around him, carrying the sound of skittering feet and whispers that seemed to originate from just behind his shoulder. The temperature in the room plummeted, and his breath began to mist in the air.

Voldemort spun around, wand raised and ready to hex the first thing that moved. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

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His attention was drawn to an armchair by the fireplace, where the air had begun to quiver like heat waves rising from sun-baked stone. A hazy form started to materialise—first an outline, then features filling in like an artist’s sketch coming to life. Eventually, Voldemort found himself face-to-face with himself.

His sixteen-year-old self.

The sight knocked the breath from his lungs. He stared at the youth’s unblemished skin, the arrogant set of his mouth, the long unbroken nose he had sacrificed in pursuit of power. But it was the eyes that held him captive—clear green eyes that still held some vestige of humanity, of possibilities not yet corrupted. He felt something stir in his chest, an emotion he hadn’t experienced in decades and didn’t care to examine too closely.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice emerging as a rough croak. “What sort of trickery is this?”

The boy settled into the armchair with fluid grace—his grace, Voldemort realised with another jolt of... was it loss? “Oh come now, let’s not waste time with the obvious,” his younger self drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. “You wanted to summon me, well, here I am.” He crossed one leg over the other in a languid movement. “The name’s Mephistopheles, but let’s keep it simple—call me M. Less of a mouthful.”

Voldemort tightened his grip on his wand. “How did you—”

“Know?” M regarded him with amusement. “Oh, we’ve been keeping an eye on you. His Lordship has a special interest in those with, shall we say, out-sized ambitions. We know all about you, Tom Marvolo Riddle. We know the circumstances of your birth…”

The youth's features melted and reformed. Voldemort's eyes widened. Even though he’d never met her before, he knew instinctively who she was. Those vacant eyes that couldn’t quite focus on the same point—he’d seen them once, a very long time ago, on someone he’d consigned to Azkaban’s dark shadows. He staggered back, something primitive and long-buried twisting in his gut at the sight of his mother's face.

“We know your desires…” The woman’s features shifted into Dumbledore’s, those damnable blue eyes twinkling maniacally behind half-moon spectacles, mocking him just as they had all those years ago.

“We know who stands in your way.” And now it was Harry Potter staring back at him, except... it was not. This version wore a grin that curved like a scythe, his eyes holding a darkness that the real Potter could never achieve.

“And of course,” Dark Harry continued, gesturing toward the fireplace, “we know exactly how your final confrontation with the boy is meant to end.”

Flames erupted in the hearth, and within them, images began to form. Voldemort saw himself in the Great Hall, saw the Elder Wand betray him, saw his own Killing Curse rebound—

“No,” he breathed, then with mounting fury: “No, no, NO!” He slashed his wand through the air, trying to dispel the images. When that failed, he seized an antique side table and hurled it into the fireplace with a crash that echoed through the library.

Dark Harry merely clicked his tongue. “Now, now. Mind the furniture. I’m sure Lucius won’t be too happy about losing any more family heirlooms.” His eyes glinted with the reflection of the flames in the fireplace. “Besides, all that rage can’t be good for your heart.”

“To hell with all that,” he gritted out. “What do I have to do to get rid of Potter once and for all?”

M, back in his sixteen-year-old form, settled deeper into the armchair. His fingers formed a steeple beneath his chin—another gesture Voldemort recognised from his own past. “There are numerous paths to power,” he mused contemplatively. “Potter is but one piece on the board. What we offer is, to put it simply, optimisation. A way to achieve your deepest desires.” His lips curved. “If those desires align with Potter’s defeat, you'll find yourself rising to the occasion easily.”

With a flourish, M waved his hand. A shimmering screen materialised in the air, names and achievements scrolling across its surface: conquerors, tyrants, forces of nature who had shaped the course of history.

“Genghis Khan,” he murmured, recognizing the name of the wizard whose campaigns had been reduced to mere muggle warfare in history books. “Alexander the Great... Vlad the Impaler…”

“And some contemporary figures from the present,” his younger self added. “Jeff Bezos, for instance.”

Voldemort took in the man's receding hairline, baggy trousers and mousy demeanor, distinctly unimpressed. It was unlikely he’d last five minutes in a cage with Bellatrix. (To be fair, few people could.) “Who?”

“A visionary who will enslave humanity without a single Unforgivable Curse.” M’s eyes lit up with unbridled enthusiasm. “No bloody battles, no resistance movements, no tedious prophecies about chosen ones. Just billions of people hopelessly addicted to the conveniences his empire provides. Rather ingenious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmmph.” Voldemort rather liked casting Unforgivables and hearing people scream in agony. He was old school like that. Still, he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued. “And you can offer me this kind of power?”

“We can offer you everything you’ve ever desired.” M let the words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken promises. “Adoration. Power. Your name on everyone’s lips. The kind of influence Grindelwald and Dumbledore could only dream of.”

The promises were seductive, but Voldemort hadn’t survived this long by being gullible. “What’s the catch?”

His younger self winced. “Please, let’s not call it that. I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement—a quid pro quo, if you will. In exchange for an extension of your lifespan, a few fortuitous circumstances arranged in your favour, the assurance of your success, we merely require your allegiance. Symbolised, of course, by your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Mmm. A mere formality, you understand.”

Voldemort fell silent, considering. His soul had been ripped apart so many times he was surprised he still had one. And given that he wasn’t supposed to survive this encounter with Potter, what did he have to lose? This was a chance to rewrite his destiny and seize the power that should have been his. He’d conquer the wizarding world first and then think of a way to outsmart M later.

“The terms,” he said finally. “Let's discuss them in detail.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” His younger self conjured a piece of parchment, elegant script already forming across its surface.

“The terms are simple,” he continued. “Your soul becomes the property of His Lordship in ten years’ time, regardless of how your situation with Harry Potter resolves itself.”

Ten years. A generous time-frame, Voldemort thought. Ample time to savour the fruits of his victory and perhaps, find a loophole in this contract.

“I want complete immunity from whatever Potter throws at me,” Voldemort demanded. “His mother’s magic, his wand—everything.”

“Of course. No spell of his will ever harm you again,” M said easily, as if he had already expected this. “Your voice will reach far beyond any shield he could conjure.”

“My followers—”

“Will number the stars,” M finished smoothly. “They will follow you wherever you go, their devotion absolute. They will chant your name, bear your mark, pledge themselves to you body and soul.” He paused, that knowing smile playing at his lips again. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To be adored?”

A thrill, sharp and intoxicating, bubbled up in his gut. He hadn’t felt this excited since the day he made his first horcrux. “And I want a sanctuary. A base of operations worthy of my status.” He was tired of moving from one manor to another like some homeless vagrant, dealing with blood wards that refused to acknowledge him as their master. No, he needed a place of his own.

“Easily done.” M’s form flickered briefly to Dumbledore, those damned twinkling eyes fixed on him. “Not only that, it’ll be a place where thousands will gather to hang onto your every word.”

A copy of the contract appeared before Voldemort, together with a ceremonial dagger, its obsidian blade humming with dark energy.

“Now, if there are no other requests, shall we finalise this agreement?”

Voldemort scanned the contract. Everything seemed to be in order, and yet... “What will happen to me afterwards? What is hell actually like?”

“Ah.” M’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent question.” He snapped his fingers, and the library walls melted away to reveal a sprawling metropolis. Soaring towers of black glass, steel and concrete reached toward a twilight sky, their Gothic spires adorned with gargoyles that might or might not have been decorative. The streets below teemed with shadows that moved with purpose.

“That’s...hell?” Voldemort asked, unable to hide his disbelief. Where was the fire and brimstone? The tortured souls? The rivers of blood that the pastors at the orphanage had ranted about in their sermons?

“Let me guess,” M said drily. “You were expecting a scene out of Dante’s Inferno?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s just propaganda from the competition. We’re rather more sophisticated these days.” He gestured at the cityscape. “Hell is what you make of it. For some, it’s a centre of innovation—” A glimpse of laboratories teeming with shadows working on unsettling experiments flashed across the scene. “For others, a platform of influence—” A massive amphitheater appeared where a mob swayed and thronged around a lone figure on a stage, their arms outstretched in adoration.

“And what would my role be, exactly?”

“Another excellent question.” M clasped his hands behind his back, circling Voldemort slowly, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You’ll have to undergo some… refinement, of course. We can’t simply bestow infernal power on just anyone.” He paused, letting a small smile play across his lips. “But you’re not just anyone, are you?”

“His Lordship has been observing your rise with particular interest. The way you carved out your own path, refusing to be bound by the limitations others tried to impose on you. The way you inspired devotion so absolute that fathers sacrificed their own sons to your cause. That kind of influence…” He gave an appreciative nod. “Well, let’s just say it’s exactly what we’re looking for in our modernisation efforts.”

Voldemort’s interest piqued. “Go on.”

“You see, the old ways of hellfire and brimstone are so dreadfully provincial. These days, true power lies in subtlety. In making people choose their own damnation, thinking it was their idea all along.” M gave him an appraising look. “Rather like how you convinced the purebloods that a half-blood was their natural leader, wouldn’t you say?”

The comparison struck home. Voldemort remembered the delicious irony of watching the Malfoys and Lestranges pander to him, never suspecting his true heritage.

“And Dumbledore…” M’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, for all his grand speeches about death being “the next great adventure”, he never quite grasped the true extent of it. Even now, he sits in his celestial tower, dispensing wisdom and lemon drops to the righteous dead, thinking he’s finally beyond our reach. But heaven and hell aren’t the “forever homes” people think they are. You’ll be surprised by how fluid the boundary between the two actually is.”

Voldemort leaned forward, rapt. “Are you suggesting…”

“That we have plans for your old professor? Among other things.” M gestured at the shadows swirling hypnotically around them. “Think about it. You could be in the thick of it all, helping us reshape the very nature of damnation. Imagine engineering temptations so perfectly tailored to each soul’s desires that they don’t even think twice about leaping headfirst into the abyss.”

Voldemort watched the shadows dance, his mind racing with possibilities. All his life, he’d worked to transcend death, seeing it as the ultimate ending. But what if it was merely a beginning? A chance to extend his influence beyond the mere physical realm, beyond the petty constraints of the wizarding world?

“And I’ll have a significant role to play in all this?”

“My dear Tom,” M said, and for once Voldemort didn’t bristle at his old name, “we’re counting on it.”

The vision faded, returning them to the library. Voldemort looked at the contract and the obsidian dagger beside it. He thought of the indignities he had suffered, the slights he had endured. The orphanage, with its petty cruelties and stifling mediocrity. His parents—one a pathetic muggle, the other a useless nobody. Dumbledore, with his condescending lectures and attempts to control him. Potter...

His fingers closed around the dagger's hilt. No more, he thought grimly as he sliced his palm. The blood welled up, dark and viscous, dripping onto the parchment. This was his chance. Power, recognition, adoration... it would all be his once he destroyed Harry Potter for good.

In the shadows, M’s smile widened.

oOo

Present day

The darkness receded like stage curtains drawing back. Sound hit first—a wall of screams that sounded almost feral. Then came the lights, harsh and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the atmospheric gloom of the Great Hall. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as he tried to make sense of his new reality.

A stage.

He was standing on a stage, the air crackling with an energy that felt more potent than a thousand Cruciatus curses. It was redolent with the scent of sweat, hormones, and something that reminded him uncomfortably of love potion fumes.

His body felt… wrong. The familiar drape of his robes, the serpentine grace of his previous form—gone. Instead, something uncomfortably tight seemed to be suctioning itself to his thighs. He winced as it dug into crevices he preferred not to think about. A cool breeze caressed his bare chest. His bare... what?

Voldemort looked down, and the remaining fragment of his soul almost left his body again. Gone was the cadavrous frame that he had so carefully cultivated to strike terror in the hearts of his enemies. In its place…abs. Tanned, toned and gleaming like he’d been oiled and buffed by a team of overzealous house-elves. His eyes narrowed as a soft glint caught his eyes. What in Salazar’s name… He squinted at the offending object. Was that a metal rod in his nipple?

“This is preposterous,” he hissed, but his voice, usually cold enough to freeze Fiendfyre, came out as a sultry growl that somehow triggered another frenzied wave of screams. What is the—

His thoughts were interrupted by an amplified voice that boomed through the arena: “And now… Scream if you love him… please welcome VOLDEMORT AND THE DEATH EATERS!”

The crowd’s response engulfed his ears like a Bombarda Maxima. It was a miracle he could still hear himself think. Four lithe figures emerged from the wings, taking their places beside him with choreographed precision. They moved with a synchronised grace that made Lucius and his wife look like bumbling first-years at their debut Yule Ball.

There must be a mistake. He had to get away. Voldemort’s eyes darted around in desperation, looking for an escape route only to land on a sight that made him wish fervently for a wand. M, front row center, enthusiastically waving what looked like a radioactive stick, giving him a thumbs up. Next to him, a fan held up a sign that read: Dark Lord of My Heart ♡

A cold dread coiled in his stomach like Nagini after a particularly big meal. The air thinned, his breath coming in short spurts like he’d been fleeing a horde of dementors.

No. This wasn't... This couldn’t be. He hadn’t signed over his soul for this!

He sank to his knees (noting with disbelief how this simple movement caused several audience members to swoon), the cacophony of the crowd receding as if underwater. His mind, usually so cold and calculating, felt scrambled.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

In the front row, M’s glow stick traced a heart in the air.