Far from the light of the wizarding world, hidden deep within a forgotten and crumbling ruin, a chamber lay cloaked in darkness so complete it seemed to swallow even the faintest glimmers of magic. The walls, jagged and cold, rose like silent sentinels, enclosing a space where shadow reigned absolute. Not a flicker of warmth or comfort existed here—only the oppressive weight of stone and silence, broken occasionally by the distant, hollow drip of water.
In the center of the chamber stirred a figure, small and childlike, yet every movement betrayed a presence far older and far crueler than its fragile body suggested. Pale and unnaturally still, the figure's eyes burned with a red-gold intensity, sharp and unyielding, as if centuries of hatred and ambition had been condensed into this single form. The thin limbs twitched occasionally, not with the innocence of youth but with the restless precision of a predator coiled to strike. Every gesture, every subtle shift, carried the cold deliberation of a mind far beyond human reckoning.
This was Tom Riddle reborn in a body too slight, too young, yet filled with a darkness that could freeze the hearts of even the bravest witches and wizards. This was Lord Voldemort—the one who had brought fear to thousands across Britain, the name whispered in trembling voices in every household of magic.
Nagini coiled around a jagged altar, her scales catching the faint glow of floating candles, a living extension of his will.
"You're restless," Voldemort murmured, his voice smooth and sharp, like silk drawn over steel. His pale, snake-like face glimmered in the candlelight. "Tell me, Nagini… do you tire of this silence as I do?"
The snake twitched, her head swaying slightly, a shadow of movement that seemed to mirror his own impatience.
From the far corner of the chamber, a figure simply appeared, as though drawn from the shadows themselves. At first, she was almost imperceptible, a shifting darkness that resolved into the shape of a woman. Every inch of her was veiled—her face, her hair, even the lines of her body hidden beneath layers of dark silk. She stood perfectly still in the center of the chamber, and yet the weight of her presence was unmistakable, cold and taunting, cutting through the oppressive silence as if it had always belonged there.
Well, well," the woman purred, her voice smooth and dripping with amusement. "So this is the mighty Dark Lord. The great He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… reduced to skulking in a borrowed shell."
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed, pupils contracting to black slits as they flickered toward her. "Who dares speak to me?" His voice was soft, deceptively calm, but every word cut like a razor. "Do you not know with whom you toy?"
She moved forward with absolute grace, each step measured, elegant, as if the shadows themselves bent to her will. Her hands traced the air lazily, a subtle motion that seemed to command the space around her.
Nagini coiled and lunged, fangs bared, hissing—but with a flick of the woman's wrist, the serpent froze mid-strike, suspended as though caught in invisible threads. The movement was effortless, perfect, mocking even in its display of dominance.
"What is this magic?" he hissed, as he saw an unfamiliar magic.
The woman's eyes glinted with sharp amusement. "Control, Tom. Not magic. Control. Something you will never understand, no matter how many bodies you steal, no matter how many lives you sacrifice for."
Voldemort's nostrils flared. "How do you know my name?"
"I know far more than your little mind can comprehend," she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "I thought I might find someone worthy of attention, someone who called himself the Dark Lord and claimed supremacy over life and death. And yet…" She paused, sighing theatrically. "…you were undone by a child. A child, Tom. That is your legacy? Pathetic."
Voldemort's entire form quivered, the motion almost serpentine. His mouth opened and closed, trying to form a retort, but the venomous sting of her words pierced deeper than any curse. "I… I will kill you," he spat finally, voice breaking with fury. "I am immortal! I am beyond death! You cannot—"
"Oh, but here you are," she interrupted, her voice sharp and scalding, "dependent on others even to feed, to move, to exist. You can barely stand without your servants, can you? I see you, feeding like some starving infant on milk, leeching off whatever dead creatures you can find."
Voldemort's red eyes flared, voice low and dangerous. "You dare mock me? For what reason have you come? To kill me? I am unkillable! Immortal! There is no power in this world that can touch me!"
The woman let out a soft, lilting laugh, the sound too elegant to belong in such a place. "Once, your name was enough to make witches weep and wizards scatter. They trampled each other to flee before you, Tom. But now?" She tilted her veiled head ever so slightly, her voice rich with scorn. "Now you cling to scraps of life, squatting in a borrowed husk, kept alive by the pity of servants. Is this what remains of Lord Voldemort? Not power. Not terror. Only a shadow—thin, desperate, and pitiful."
Her hand drifted with elegant idleness toward Nagini's frozen form. "And look at this one—your guardian, your last defense. Even she bows when true control enters the room. Tell me, Tom… what are you, without your followers to fear you? What are you, without the illusion of strength?"
Voldemort's lips drew back, teeth bared. "I am beyond your petty understanding! I am eternal!"
She stepped closer, her movements fluid, elegant, every gesture carrying a quiet arrogance. "I was disappointed by Grindelwald, you know. Once, in Paris, I saw him hold an entire hall of witches and wizards in the palm of his hand. His words were fire, his vision intoxicating—he could make the brightest mind believe, make the strongest heart tremble. Charisma like that is rare. I had such high hopes for him."
Her veiled head tilted, the faintest trace of a mocking smile in her voice. "But brilliance is never enough, is it? Grindelwald had a weakness—a great, gaping weakness. In the end, he cared too much for one man. And that, Tom, was enough to shatter everything he built. A tragic flaw for a man who could have ruled the world."
She let her hand glide lazily through the air, Nagini still hanging helpless in invisible threads. Her voice hardened, dripping with disdain. "So I looked to you. I thought, here is one who will not falter. Here is one who has torn every root of love and weakness from his heart. Here is one who might succeed where Grindelwald failed."
She leaned forward slightly, her presence pressing like a velvet blade. "And yet—what do I find? Not a conqueror. Not a visionary. A parasite, clinging to scraps of flesh, gnawing at whatever keeps you alive. Tell me, Tom—was this the grand future you imagined?"
Voldemort's red eyes flared, narrowing at her laughter. He leaned forward, voice sharp as a blade. "You are beyond me—beyond my concerns. Do not dare compare me with that… that failure. Grindelwald was a loser. I am nothing like him."
The woman's lips curled, amusement playing at the edges. "Ah, there it is. The anger. The pride. The need to prove yourself, always. You sound like a child stamping his foot." She tilted her head. "And yet, Tom… that is why I came. To see. To judge if the Dark Lord, whispered in terror, was still worthy of the myth he built. To see if you were still more than a shadow clinging to flesh."
He straightened, chin lifting, his voice booming with arrogance. "I am Lord Voldemort. I am the most powerful wizard to ever live. I am beyond the petty failures of men. I am brilliance incarnate, immortal, unmatched! You stand before the one who commands death itself."
Her laughter was soft, crystalline, cutting. "And yet you quake at a single name. Dumbledore. You speak of brilliance, yet when you were a boy at Hogwarts, you tried so hard to charm him. You fooled your professors, your classmates, even the Headmaster himself—everyone adored Tom Riddle, the shining star, the perfect student. Everyone but Albus Dumbledore. He saw you for what you were. He was never charmed, never deceived. And that, Tom, has eaten at you ever since. That is why you hate him. Not because he is stronger, but because he never believed your mask."
Voldemort froze, a flicker of unease flashing behind his crimson eyes. Very few knew those truths. Almost no one. His lips curled into a snarl. "You presume too much. Who are you, to come here and speak to me so? Who are you to judge me?"
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper sharp as a dagger. "Who am I? I am the one who remembers what you would rather forget. The boy who stole trinkets from the other children's drawers at Wool's Orphanage, then hid them in a shoebox under the floorboard, caressing them like treasures. The boy who practiced smiling in the cracked mirror because he knew his real one frightened people."
Voldemort stiffened, fury and shame burning in equal measure.
Her smile was bright, merciless. "Yes. I know you, Tom. Every little crack you pretend does not exist. You are fascinating. But… disappointing." She turned, silk and shadow trailing in her wake. "Perhaps one day you'll prove me wrong. For now… you are hardly worth the name you gave yourself."
With that, she vanished, as if swallowed by the air itself. There was no flicker of spellwork, no shimmer of apparition—simply emptiness where she had been. Voldemort's eyes lingered on the spot, flicking back toward Nagini, who hissed and slithered once more, free from the suspended state.
From the shadows near the door, a faint scuffling sound broke the silence. Peter Pettigrew slithered in, timid and deferential.
"Master… everything's ready," he whispered, voice trembling.
Voldemort's nostrils flared, his gaze burning like coals. "Prepare, Wormtail. Soon… very soon… the world will remember the name of Lord Voldemort. This… setback," he gestured to the empty space the woman had occupied, "…will not be spoken of. She is nothing. A distraction. Nothing can stop me. Nothing!"
Nagini hissed beside him, coiling protectively around his small but powerful body, sensing the lingering echo of that strange, veiled magic.
Voldemort's mind churned with fury and fascination. Who was she? How did she dare confront him in his sanctum? The questions gnawed at him, but he quickly dismissed them. For now, there were more important matters, specifically his plans.