Discimer: I Don't own Harry Potter or Hellsing

  In the damp hush of an ancient Albanian forest, a wraith stirred. November's chill slipped through the skeletal branches and matted leaves, and a weak sun sank through a hazy sky. Broken moonlight would arrive ter in streaks, revealing the twisted trunks and silent gdes where no human foot dared tread. The wraith was little more than a shifting darkness that coiled itself around tree roots and fungi-riddled logs. It took no true shape, only a faint, pulsing outline as though it were made of sickly grey smoke. The denizens of the forest—the foxes, boars, and birds—felt its presence and gave the area a wide berth. A subtle sense of menace clung to every twig, every fallen branch, every mound of decaying leaves.

  This wraith was all that remained of Lord Voldemort. Once, he had been the most feared Dark wizard of Britain—a figure who called himself the flight from death. Now, he was stranded in ignominy, reduced to a pitiful scrap of consciousness, drifting like a phantom in a forsaken wilderness. He had first come to Albania years ago, in search of relics and rumors of ancient magic. But after his body was destroyed by a rebounding curse—delivered by an infant no less—he found himself trapped here again, reliant on small creatures he could possess for fleeting moments of respite from the crippling hunger that gnawed at his disembodied mind.

  In these st months, the wraith had wandered the thick groves and bck-water swamps without purpose, feeding on rodents when it had enough strength to overshadow them, or on snakes that slithered in gullies. Through their senses, he glimpsed a world that revolted him in its triviality. He lurked in the hollows of trees, roosted among roots that twisted like bones, all while an unremitting sense of desperation grew.

  Tonight, though, the wraith felt different. Perhaps it was the crispness of te autumn, or the faint echoes of magical energies drifting across Europe, or some flicker of lucidity that rose unbidden to the surface of what remained of Voldemort's shattered mind. But as the wraith slithered along a rotting trunk, it found itself stilled by a sudden cascade of thoughts, more coherent than any it had known in recent months. A reluctant crity, as though a door had opened onto a memory long left to gather dust.

  He had come here—once upon a time—as Tom Marvolo Riddle, long after his schooling at Hogwarts, searching for legends of dark artifacts and hidden magics. Albania had beckoned him with its whispers of lost ruins, rumored encves of curses, and illusions of glory. "Glory," he thought bitterly. What is glory for a wraith who cannot even form a stable body?

  Yet that was not the only reason he had traveled to these woods back then. He remembered gleaning secrets of immortality. Horcruxes. The art of soul-splitting, gleaned from that ill-fated text at Hogwarts—the text that wasn't even locked in the Restricted Section. How many nights had he spent mulling over it, letting curiosity and ambition drive him deeper, never pausing to question how easily it had fallen into his hands? And how often had he afterward boasted of his brilliance, ignoring the cautionary words?

  Now, drifting in the gloom, he cursed himself. He had not read the entire text, had he? Not carefully, not when it came to multiple Horcruxes. The first warnings, he remembered now, stated that your mind—your very self—would cleave in half each time you split your soul. Two Horcruxes meant your soul was in thirds. Three Horcruxes meant quarters. But he had made six—at least, he had believed he made six. That act, repeated again and again, fracturing his essence, was meant to ensure immortality. And yet.

  He felt a cold stirring in the remnants of his consciousness: an echo of fear. Six Horcruxes would have left him with one-seventh of a soul. The text—he recalled now—warned that the mind would likewise be reduced. He had dismissed that as nonsense. The very notion that a wizard of his skill could degrade himself was unthinkable. But had he not grown erratic? Had he not unched the final step of his pn—killing a mere baby—before truly verifying the prophecy? Did he not sense that something in him had changed from measured cunning to rash cruelty?

  He pressed deeper into the soggy loam as if trying to hide from these revetions. The leaves clung to his swirling form. But he could not hide from his own mind. And that mind, though tattered, was at this rare moment painfully lucid.

  Then came the next horror. He recalled that night, the night at Godric's Hollow, when he attacked the baby and lost his body. For years, he had presumed that his Horcruxes saved him, that his battered soul was anchored by the six fragments. Yet just recently, he had begun to suspect something else was amiss. The number six weighed heavily on him, but events suggested otherwise—some persistent tug, an unaccounted tether.

  Now, in a near-frenzy of desperate thought, he recognized the truth: there must be a seventh Horcrux. How? That, he did not know. But he had read once in that same cursed text that an unintended Horcrux could be made if a wizard parted his soul at the moment of a killing with intense hatred or emotional turmoil. "And what was I feeling that night?" he mused bitterly, recalling a swirl of rage and triumph, then the sudden, unstoppable backsh from a baby's mother's sacrifice.

  An accidental Horcrux. If that was so, he had actually made seven, not six. That meant his soul was fractured into eight parts total: seven anchored outside, plus the sliver that inhabited his body. But with his body gone, what portion was left in him now? Did it matter? The logic was brutal: If he'd intended six, each part was one-seventh. With a seventh Horcrux, those fractions recalcuted. He might be left with a fraction of a fraction, perhaps one-eighth or less. He found himself mentally rummaging through the arithmetic, half-lucid but shaken to the core. The numbers blurred. But no matter the precise fraction, it implied he was missing an entire piece—and he was a lesser being than even he had guessed.

  An inadvertent hiss escaped him, traveling like a breeze through the leaves. How ironic. The wizard who prided himself on cunning had become incompetent with basic logic. He sought to cheat death by scattering his soul into shards, only to lose so much of his essence that he could no longer function as the man he once was. He had severed not just his soul, but also his rational mind. Over the years, he had grown reckless, forging "Death Eaters" out of a half-baked reinterpretation of something once more refined: The Knights of Walpurgis.

  Knights of Walpurgis. That name stirred memories. He had originally dreamed of an elite circle of witches and wizards dedicated to a vision of separating the magical from the non-magical world entirely, a lofty ambition gleaned from reading centuries-old treatises. The wizarding world, he had concluded, was doomed if it mingled with Muggles—especially after witnessing the hypocrisy and cruelty in the Muggle orphanage that had shaped his early life. If only wizards could stand apart, free from the encroaching ignorance of ordinary folk, perhaps they could thrive.

  In the beginning, that ideal was not wholly monstrous. He had fantasized about building magical orphanages—a pce where magical children from Muggle families would be intercepted at birth, to be raised in wizarding society from the start, while Muggle orphans would be quietly pced with Muggle families who'd lost children. It would be a swap, ensuring every magical child grew up in a magical environment. He used to think of it as a kindness to the wizarding-born, so they would never face an upbringing of scorn or ignorance as he had. But that pn, over time, had twisted. As the fractures in his soul grew, so did his cruelty, his contempt, and his thirst for personal power.

  What had been an idea for carefully reguted separation became a hateful campaign to subjugate Muggles, to kill or terrorize them if they interfered. The Knights of Walpurgis, once imagined as a secret society of intellectuals and visionaries, devolved into the Death Eaters: a cult of fear, marked by the Dark Mark, obsessed with purity of blood. He recognized that the impetus for that mania had come from fragments of his own self-loathing. His father was a Muggle. He had tried to bury that detail behind a fa?ade of pureblood supremacy, draping it in murder and intimidation. And as he split his soul again and again, the difference between his rational ideals and raw cruelty blurred.

  He could almost hear the echo of his own voice urging new recruits: "Join the Death Eaters and help me reshape the world." In Albanian gloom, he slithered across a moss-covered boulder. How ughable. Even his name—Voldemort—felt pathetic now. A dramatic moniker gleaned from a letter-scramble of "Tom Marvolo Riddle," meant to decre flight from death. Indeed, what a "bloody idiot" prances about prociming himself the flight from death. He had believed it was brilliant, but from the vantage of this spectral half-life, it seemed as childish as the scribblings of a teenage pretender.

  A swirl of moonlight broke through the thinning canopy. He twitched at the brightness. Even in wraith form, the moon stung his half-real senses. He drifted deeper into the forest, seeking the gloom of an old watchtower ruin he had discovered in his wanderings. It was little more than a crumbling ring of stone, half swallowed by vines, but it had served as a pce to hide from Albanian peasants who occasionally hunted in the forest. The peasants might not see him, but if he was overshadowing a small creature at the time, he risked being shot or trapped. He needed the tower's shelter.

  He slipped through a gap in the rubble, settling in the far corner, near a tangle of roots. The wind stirred the vines overhead, producing a rustling lulby. And there, in the silence, Tom Riddle's mind—perhaps for the first time in years—tried to approach the problem systematically.

  He had realized the horrific truth: there were seven Horcruxes, not six. He had intended six. He had never meant to make a seventh. Yet the events in Godric's Hollow had done precisely that, forging a final anchor in a baby's scar. The scar of Harry Potter. He recalled hearing rumors in the swirling darkness after his defeat, rumors that the boy carried a piece of his soul. But in his reckless mania, he had dismissed it as nonsense. Now, rethinking it with a fleeting moment of sanity, he recognized that it was not only possible, but likely. The baby had survived, after all, unaccountably. Could that survival be the direct result of the infant's new status as a Horcrux?

  And if the child was indeed the vessel of that final fragment—the seventh Horcrux—what did that mean? The fraction of soul left in Voldemort's wraith was now... what fraction, exactly? If each Horcrux was a severed portion, and he had done that six times intentionally, plus one unintentional, that made seven shards separated from the main piece. Or was it the other way around, with the main piece counted among the total of eight? The math twisted in his head. The text had expined that for each Horcrux, you truly sunder your soul. If he had started at 1/1, the first Horcrux would leave him with 1/2, the second left him 1/3, the third 1/4, the fourth 1/5, the fifth 1/6, the sixth 1/7, and the seventh would theoretically leave him 1/8. But because the final one was unintended, he had never accounted for it. His memory was patchy about how exactly the fractions stacked. But the gist was unmistakable: at best, he was operating with a minuscule fraction—1/8—of his original soul. But maybe even that had further subdivided, because the curse rebounded. Perhaps he was truly just 1/128 or 1/64 or some fraction so small that the essence of "Tom Riddle" was almost gone.

  He let out a spectral sigh, feeling revulsion coil within him. But knowledge was power; he forced himself not to recoil from the truth. "I'm a fool," he whispered, voice rasping with bitterness. "I soared so high in my own mind, and I have done this to myself. I am less than a shadow."

  Some part of him wanted to rage—rage at Dumbledore, who had apparently allowed an old, highly dangerous text about Horcruxes to remain in the general Hogwarts Library. How had such a book ended up so accessible to a curious student? Was it a trap id out by the Headmaster from the start, waiting for an ambitious boy like Tom Riddle to take the bait?

  He recalled how, in his final year at Hogwarts, he had found that small, battered tome about soul magic tucked among innocuous volumes on advanced transfiguration. Its corner had poked out slightly from the shelf, almost inviting him to notice it. At the time, he'd assumed luck or fate. But now, in the silence of the ruin, he suspected a cunning design. Albus Dumbledore had always had a meddling streak. Could he have pnted that text, anticipating that Riddle's curiosity would do the rest? Possibly. Or maybe it was simply a leftover from some earlier Headmaster's collection. But either way, Dumbledore had certainly known more than he'd let on.

  That recollection triggered a new line of thought—the prophecy. He had half-forgotten the swirling confusion that preceded his assault on the Potters. He had been told by Severus Snape of a prophecy overheard in the Hog's Head, describing a child who would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. In hindsight, the entire scenario reeked of contrivance. Who in their right mind arranges a monumental prophecy in so shady a venue? Could it have been a cunning trap set by Dumbledore, who knew the Hog's Head was frequented by unsavory watchers? The more he considered it with the remnants of his rational mind, the more he realized he might have been lured.

  A baby. He had felt so certain that a baby with a certain birth date was the key to his downfall. That was madness. Over those st months, he had grown increasingly unhinged. If he had not been so fractured, so arrogant, would he have paused to question the prophecy's veracity? Very likely. Instead, he made a spectacle of going after an infant, betraying all sense. And in the process, he had undone himself.

  Memory flickered: the curses pced on the Potter home had colpsed, he advanced upon Lily Potter, ignoring her pleas, ignoring every sign of a trap, and after he struck the baby with the Killing Curse, the unstoppable rebound nearly obliterated him. And thus, eight years of spectral half-existence had followed.

  He slithered a bit closer to the center of the ruin, letting the moonlight glimmer on his faint shape. That question of time—eight years—gave him a new vantage: Harry Potter must be about eight now, the same age at which Tom Riddle had first begun to notice his own magical abilities in the Muggle orphanage. A savage irony. Another orphan, but not left to the mercies of a Muggle institution? Or had he been? Perhaps Dumbledore pced him with Muggles. Voldemort had heard that rumor once, but details were scarce.

  He braced himself. It was time to test the ephemeral tether that connected him to his Horcruxes. Despite the decimation of his body, he still felt—somewhere in the depths of his being—threads that reached out to those soul anchors. He had tried to sense them before, in fleeting moments, but his mind had been too incoherent. Now, with this rare crity, he attempted to stretch out the intangible cords of his will, searching for the seventh anchor. The one inside Harry Potter.

  Immediately, pain fred. A shrill, psychic feedback rattled through him, as though he had touched a molten wire. The wraith reeled back, drifting against the cold stones. He almost lost his hold on consciousness. It was as if the boy was guarded by something. Or perhaps the shard of soul inside the child was sealed behind wards or mental blocks.

  Still, knowledge was everything. He overcame the initial recoil and tried again, this time more gently, letting the ephemeral tendril of thought probe the link. He felt something stir: a sense of youngness, confusion, and battered vulnerability. Then there was a whimper—a faint echo.

  A small yelp of pain. For an instant, the wraith heard a child's mind. Not words, but raw feeling: fear, confusion, lonely heartbreak. Something about the boy's emotional ndscape was profoundly bruised. Voldemort glimpsed a swirl of images: a dark cupboard, harsh voices, a sting of physical pain. Then, as if behind yers upon yers of magical blockades, he sensed an entire byrinth of imposed spells. Binding the boy's magic. Warping the boy's memories. He gasped—though it came out as a raspy whisper of air.

  So many blocks, so many tamperings. Obliviations—the residue of memory charms. He sensed not one or two, but dozens. Over a hundred. Then something else that flickered in the gloom of that mental space: a gender block, a forced stunting or distortion of the boy's inherent nature. The intricacy was horrifying. Who would do that? And to a child of eight, no less?

  A wave of revulsion coursed through Voldemort's withered psyche. Could it be Dumbledore? The old man had once had a reputation as a champion of the so-called "Light." But Voldemort—no, Tom Riddle—knew from experience how maniputive Dumbledore could be. Might the man's meddling have escated to the systematic viotion of a child's mind and body, all to ensure an obedient weapon?

  Voldemort shuddered with mingled anger and a sickening sense of irony. He was intimately familiar with cruelty, but this intrusion—these carefully yered blocks—was cunning in a different way. If the prophecy was indeed false, if the entire scenario was orchestrated by Dumbledore to groom a sacrificial mb, then perhaps the Headmaster had decided to keep the boy crippled and docile until the time was right for him to face Voldemort again. Another orphan raised in neglect, just like Tom Riddle had been, except shaped into a tool for Dumbledore's ends.

  If that was so, then "Bloody idiot" was too kind a bel for Voldemort's blind acceptance of events. He had walked right into the trap. He had ironically aligned himself with Dumbledore's pn by turning the child into a Horcrux, tethering them. All that the old man needed was to orchestrate a final confrontation in which both would die, presumably removing the st vestiges of the Dark Lord's soul. Possibly that confrontation was meant to happen at some perfect moment—maybe once the boy was older, or once the wizarding public was sufficiently maniputed.

  The wraith sank lower against the ruined stones, a swirl of emotion. Fragments of Tom Riddle's younger self awakened, recalling lofty dreams that preceded the madness: forging new wizarding orphanages to protect magical children from Muggle bigotry. Preventing others from enduring what he had. Yes, those dreams had become corrupted by hatred and violence—but they had not begun that way. Now he saw how, ironically, Dumbledore had repeated the same cycle: pcing a magical child with an unloving Muggle family, letting him suffer.

  What if—the thought flickered in the wraith's mind—what if he, Tom Riddle, was not the only victim of Dumbledore's maniputions? Could it be that so many times, Dumbledore had found orphans, misfits, or neglected children, grooming them to serve some greater pn? The notion made him quake with fury and shame. He had set out to save orphans, once upon a time, to keep them from the fate he'd endured. Yet look what he had become. And here was Harry Potter, presumably living the same nightmare.

  He tried to push aside emotion. A new survival instinct roiled within. He must do something. The boy was his Horcrux—the st tether—and if Dumbledore controlled the boy, then in a sense, the Headmaster controlled a piece of Voldemort's soul. If Dumbledore found a way to kill the Horcrux—the boy—it would further weaken or even destroy Voldemort. The prophecy might be false, but the old man's cunning was real. Could the wraith risk letting that piece of soul remain so vulnerable?

  Yet in his fleeting crity, Voldemort realized there was no immediate way to protect that Horcrux. He had no body, no resources, no influence. He was a fugitive from the wizarding world, drifting in Albania. And though he had always believed in subjugating or discarding the weak, that sense of purposeful cruelty was overshadowed by a faint, startling pang—guilt? Or was it simply survival concern? He couldn't separate them, not with so little mind left.

  He drifted around the tower's interior, ghosting over rubble. The weight of these revetions threatened to crush him. So many illusions had shattered. The Knights of Walpurgis—once a vision of a better wizarding society—twisted into the Death Eaters, a brutal horde. The prophecy, once believed a dire warning from Fate, might be a cheap trick. His repeated Horcrux creation was not cunning but suicidal stupidity, leaving him with a fraction of a fraction of a soul.

  He pictured the boy again, the small whimper that had reverberated when he probed the anchor. There was terror in that mind. The blocks, the oblivations... perhaps the child didn't even know who or what he was. Did the boy truly realize that he carried a piece of Voldemort's soul? Likely not. Did he sense the maniputions? Possibly. Maybe those blocks overshadowed any suspicion.

  Would it help to forcibly link with the boy? Could he overshadow the child, as he overshadowed small animals, to escape this wretched wraith form? The idea flitted across his consciousness. In principle, yes—the Horcrux link might facilitate possession. But if Dumbledore had set wards or mental traps, it might be an even bigger risk. That sudden bst of pain he felt when first pressing too hard suggested the old wizard's meddling ran deep. Attempting to overshadow the boy might kill them both, or might fling Voldemort into oblivion.

  The wraith hissed again, a bitter condemnation of fate. He had no easy path. But he was still the "Dark Lord," was he not? He had not survived this long by meekly curling up to die. He must plot, must strategize. The fraction of his mind that still functioned began to spin scenarios.

  One scenario: he could bide his time, gather strength, lure unsuspecting witches or wizards to this forest, and possess them more permanently, building a new body. Then, once restored, he could journey to Britain, find the boy, and remove the Horcrux from him in a more controlled manner. Or perhaps he could find a way to release the child from Dumbledore's clutches—though that smacked of altruism, which he had never truly practiced. But the child was important to him in a new sense: not just as a Horcrux, but as... a reflection of all the maniputions that shaped Tom Riddle's own youth.

  He slowed his drifting pace, letting the swirl of thoughts continue. Another possibility: if he could remove the Horcrux from the boy's scar—exorcise it somehow, without harming the vessel—he might restore that piece of soul to himself. Would that unify him? But the texts were vague. Reabsorption of a Horcrux was not a widely documented process. Most dark texts considered Horcrux creation an abomination, let alone the merging back. If it failed, he and the boy might be lost forever.

  Yet the alternative—leaving that shard of soul in pce—would keep him forever tethered to a path that Dumbledore might control. The old wizard wanted a final confrontation, presumably. The entire fiasco might end in a cataclysm for Voldemort. No. If there was a chance to salvage his essence, to become whole again, or at least more than this tattered wraith, he should consider it.

  Time. He needed time. And ironically, Dumbledore might give him that. The old Headmaster might believe the wraith destroyed or too feeble to act. Or he might remain confident in the wards around the boy. The crucial advantage was that Dumbledore likely did not suspect Voldemort's moment of lucidity. The old man might not realize that Voldemort had discovered the seventh Horcrux. The Headmaster's arrogance might keep him in the dark.

  Lightning flickered across the edge of the sky, though no thunder followed. Possibly a storm brewed miles away, or perhaps it was a trick of the night. The wraith's mind churned, forming half-formed pns. He imagined slinking from this ruin, traveling by overshadowing small animals, creeping closer to civilized areas. If he found a wizard foolish enough to walk alone, he might lure them and forcibly take their body. He had done it once before, though the attempt ended in disaster when the body rotted quickly. It was not a stable method. But maybe he could st longer, with caution.

  Alternatively, was there an old artifact or hidden stash of supplies from his st sojourn in Albania? He recalled stowing something in a crumbling fortress—Sazar's locket had once been hidden here, hadn't it? But the timeline blurred. He had retrieved the locket. He'd also hidden or retrieved Ravencw's diadem. The details swam. He half believed the diadem was once secreted in the forest near a remote monastery. Could that help him now? Possibly not. The Horcrux objects themselves had proven no immediate solution. They were anchors, not bodies.

  He forced calm, trying to steady the swirl of bitterness. Slowly, he realized that rage would serve no purpose if it was not harnessed into a pn. And as his mind wrestled with a thousand tangled threads, one stark conclusion crystallized: Dumbledore was the prime mover behind all this. Not just behind Harry Potter's fate, but behind the original impetus for Tom Riddle's quest for immortality. If Dumbledore had indeed pnted that vile Horcrux text for him to find, and if the prophecy was a ruse to manipute him, and if the orphan boy was kept in wretched circumstances to become a docile sacrifice, then Dumbledore had shaped Voldemort's destiny from the earliest steps.

  That notion was monstrous. The st vestiges of Tom Riddle's pride recoiled. He had always believed himself the master of his own fate—the greatest wizard—and now faced the possibility that he had unwittingly danced to Dumbledore's tune. Over half a century of his life, from the orphanage to Hogwarts, from Knights of Walpurgis to Death Eaters, from illusions of grandeur to monstrous acts, might all have been set in motion by an old man with a maniputive streak.

  He swore—a hissed oath that mingled with the rustle of dead leaves. "I will not remain a puppet."

  Then, in the gloom, he felt a fleeting wave of memory: the earliest days, where he daydreamed of building new magical orphanages to save children from pain. It was an idealistic notion, but it had once rung with sincerity. Perhaps there was a piece of him—the piece that existed before he made that first Horcrux—that genuinely wanted to protect magical children from Muggle abuse. He thought of Harry, abused by Muggles if the fshes of memory in the child's mind were any indication, and then magically mutited by Dumbledore. The stark parallels to his own life hammered at him.

  Could he find it in himself to do something for the boy, beyond mere self-interest? The question was jarring. Voldemort had believed such sentiments a weakness. Yet now, with so little left of his rational mind, maybe that tiny spark of pity or decency flickered. If he rescued the boy from Dumbledore, he would also be rescuing his own Horcrux from certain destruction. So perhaps self-preservation and a sliver of conscience converged.

  At length, the wraith recognized that he was not ready to decide. He cked the means to enact any pn. He could not leave Albania in his present form. He needed a better strategy for regaining physical form or at least forging an alliance with someone who could carry him back to Britain. The immediate objective: gather strength, remain hidden, and watch for an opportunity.

  Time crept by. The moon rose fully, silvering the canopy overhead. The forest outside the broken tower stood silent, the occasional hoot of an owl or bark of a fox drifting faintly. Voldemort's thoughts slowed to a crawl, and he realized his spectral shape wavered from the strain of prolonged cognition. It took tremendous effort to remain so focused.

  He slithered toward the corner of the ruin, letting the stones block the breeze. He would rest here, or the wraith-equivalent of rest—drifting in half-sentience until the next wave of crity or the next chance for nourishment. Still, scraps of insight lingered, swirling in the battered recesses of his mind.

  "Dumbledore has orchestrated a grand deception," he told himself. "He left a Horcrux text out for me to find, or at least never locked it away. He staged a prophecy in the Hog's Head. He made me so fixated on a baby that I created a final Horcrux by accident. And now that boy is forcibly stunted and shaped, presumably to be used as a tool."

  The wraith exhaled, or did something akin to exhaling, though it had no real lungs. "If I do nothing, I shall remain a drifting ghost, or eventually be destroyed when Dumbledore decides the boy is ready to be sacrificed. No. I must find a path to restore myself and break the old man's hold on that child—and on my soul."

  He tried to keep that thought alive, but found it slipping as exhaustion overcame him. Lucidity was a double-edged sword; it gave him comprehension, but it sapped what little strength he had. He sank into a half-aware state, a swirl of nightmares and half-formed illusions. His mind conjured images of the old orphanage in London, of Ms. Cole's disapproving face, of the squeals of children who feared him. Then the images shifted to Hogwarts—slender columns, candlelit corridors—and a memory of that battered library book on soul magic. He saw himself as a young man, eyes alight with ambition. Flick. The memory changed again, now a swirl of green light, Lily Potter's screams, and the rumble of colpsing wards. Then he saw the baby, wide green eyes staring, a lightning-bolt of unstoppable magic smashing into him. Then came darkness.

  He drifted in these illusions for a timeless while, until something faint tugged at him—an awareness that the forest was stirring. Not morning yet, but the hush had changed. An animal? Possibly. He forced himself to rouse. Flickers of crity returned, though less sharp than before.

  He sensed no immediate threat. The presence, if it was more than a stray fox or boar, receded. After another long stretch, he let the weariness take him again. He would rest until the next night or the next stroke of fortune led someone foolish into the forest. Then, perhaps, he could overshadow that body for a time. Step by step, he must climb from the abyss.

  Guilt and regret gnawed at him, but also a new sense of cold determination. If he was indeed so fractured, if his mind was so reduced, he must salvage what he could. A rational pn would be his lifeline. Accept that the prophecy was a lie, accept that Dumbledore had outmaneuvered him once, and vow not to let it happen again. But vow also that if he ever returned to power, he would rectify the fiasco of the Death Eaters, the meaningless cruelty, and the pointless pursuit of Muggle sughter that had overshadowed his original mission. If there was a chance to reassert control, to separate wizardkind from the non-magical world without genocide, to create a pce for the orphans so no magical child endured what he had—and what Harry must have—maybe, just maybe, that final flicker of old Tom Riddle's ideals might survive.

  His rational side reminded him that full redemption was unlikely. He had done horrors. But perhaps a lesser horror might be better than continuing on the downward spiral orchestrated by Dumbledore. At the very least, he would not let the old man's pn succeed at the cost of his own existence.

  He sank further into a drifting half-sleep, letting these contradictory impulses swirl. Time lost meaning. The moon climbed overhead, then began its descent. The forest rustled with a breeze that carried the scent of damp leaves and distant water.

  Sometime ter—perhaps an hour, perhaps several—he stirred again, mind flickering into fleeting focus. A sliver of desperation jabbed him. He recalled the final detail gleaned from that fleeting contact with Harry's mind: the boy was not only blocked and obliviated. There was also some bizarre "gender block." The phrase had made no sense at first. But rummaging through the scattered references in the memory, it indicated that Dumbledore had sealed or altered aspects of the boy's physical or magical development. Possibly to keep him weaker, or to manipute him in ways unimaginable.

  He felt a roiling anger. He had heard rumors, back in his earlier years, that some unscrupulous wizards practiced the dark art of forcibly shifting a child's innate magical expression. Doing so was extremely dangerous, risking madness or physical harm. Dumbledore had always tried to paint Voldemort as the darkest wizard of the era. Yet here, the Headmaster might be performing acts equally vile, if not worse. The boy was only eight, for Sazar's sake.

  In that grim reflection, Voldemort found a reservoir of slow-burning wrath that pushed away exhaustion. He realized that, ironically, he was not the only monster. So many had branded him the root of all evil in the wizarding world, yet Dumbledore might well surpass him in maniputive cruelty—only wearing the mask of a grandfatherly savior.

  He tried to keep these revetions at the forefront of his mind, aware that if he slipped back into the typical, animalistic hunger of the wraith, he might forget or bury them. He repeated them mentally, as though engraving them: I have seven Horcruxes, not six. Harry Potter is the seventh. The prophecy is likely fake. Dumbledore is orchestrating events. I must act in time.

  Stones glimmered with dew as the forest air cooled further. He drew himself deeper into the corner, letting old vines drape his form. The hush was absolute. In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Then came a faint scuttling, and a rge rat emerged from a gap in the stones. Immediately, Voldemort stiffened. He had overshadowed rats before, used them as vessels for short bursts of mobility. The creature froze, whiskers trembling as though it sensed something unnatural. But it was cornered by the yout of the ruin. The wraith extended intangible fiments of magic, and in a swift, predatory thrust, seized the rat's meager mind.

  The creature squeaked in terror, twitched, and then fell under the wraith's control. Voldemort felt the rush of new sensations—tiny pulses of a heart, the scurry of paws on stone. The colorless gloom sharpened into the rat's color-limited perspective. The synergy was never perfect. Each overshadowing was an ordeal. But for a moment, he had a body.

  He flicked the rat's tail experimentally, trying to see if that staved off the mental exhaustion. The difference was marginal, but he could at least scuttle around, gather mushrooms or small insects to keep the host alive for a bit. Perhaps some scraps of rotting forest fruit. The overshadowed rat had a limited lifespan, but it was better than drifting as a wraith in the open.

  As he guided the rat in a small circle around the ruin's interior, he tried to recall the details of conjuring a rudimentary wandless spell. If he had had more of his soul, more of his mind, he might have forced raw magic through the host's body. But he was too feeble for that. The best he could do was remain tethered and watchful.

  Slowly, step by step, the overshadowed rat carried the wraith across the ruins, then retreated to a snug corner to hide. Voldemort let the host's instincts take over just enough to gather a scrap of fungus it found edible. He had no illusions that this was a real solution. The body would degrade soon. He could only overshadow it a short while before it colpsed or starved. But at least for the night, he had some measure of shelter against the bitter cold.

  And so, in that quiet hour, he resolved on a course: survive, gather strength, seize a better host if possible, then find a way to leave Albania and return to Britain. I must circumvent Dumbledore's watchers, retrieve my stolen birthright, and if possible, free the boy from that old man's meddling if only to preserve my Horcrux.

  Yes, that was the initial pn. Pragmatic, yet it held an unexpected undercurrent. Because if Tom Riddle's old idealistic flicker still existed anywhere, if some shred of that childhood dream remained, perhaps he would do more for Harry Potter than merely preserve the Horcrux. Perhaps he would, in some twisted sense, fulfill that original notion: saving the magical orphan from the horrors of Muggle cruelty and a maniputive wizard. But that was a distant specution. Survival came first.

  The overshadowed rat squeaked, chewing on the fungus, oblivious to the epic conflict stirring in the intangible occupant of its body. As the night wore on, the wraith drifted in and out of awareness. Fshes of monstrous fury, shame, cunning, and regret swirled in a chaotic dance. The crity might fade soon, repced by more disjointed illusions. But the seed of a new pn was pnted.

  He would rest, rebuild. He would not remain a puppet. He would not let the old man's pn run unopposed. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, once Lord Voldemort—and though battered, though sundered into eighths or even smaller fragments, he still existed. If that existence was all he had, then he would cling to it with a savage persistence until he found a way to strike back.

  Night deepened. A harsh wind whipped through the forest, rattling branches. The overshadowed rat huddled in its corner, shielded by rubble. Now and then, it trembled under the strain of containing the wraith's presence. Hours dragged by.

  At times, random recollections intruded: the earliest days of the Death Eaters, when they were but a handful of young wizards enthralled by Tom Riddle's charm and speeches about wizarding autonomy. Then the slow morph into a paramilitary cult, sporting skull masks and branding people with the Dark Mark. The transition had seemed so natural at the time, but in hindsight, it was mania. People had died. That mania had strangled the original concept, until all that was left was fear and violence.

  He recalled also the moment he had grandly chosen the name "Death Eaters." He had wanted something that struck dread, overshadowing the more refined "Knights of Walpurgis." Another sign that madness had taken hold. But in that era, it had felt brilliant—a brand of terror.

  Even the name "Voldemort" evoked the arrogance of youth, a teenage puzzle to invert the letters of "Tom Marvolo Riddle" into something theatrical. I am Lord Voldemort. How many times had he hissed that, believing he had transcended the limitations of mortality? Now, he could do nothing but overshadow a forest rat.

  Eventually, the rat's body twitched with exhaustion and the wraith, feeling the host near colpse, loosened its grip to let the creature slip away. The battered rodent scurried off into the undergrowth, leaving Voldemort's spectral form once more huddled amid the rubble. This time, the wraith slid into a shallow pit in the crumbling tower floor, curling in on itself like a swirl of grey smoke. The final vestiges of that night's crity began to flicker. But before drifting into a vacant torpor, he repeated a final vow in his mind:

  I will break free of Dumbledore's chains, one way or another. Harry Potter is the seventh Horcrux, and I will not let that child be a sacrificial mb for the old man's designs. If I can, I will recim what is mine and end Albus Dumbledore's vile maniputions. For now, I wait. But soon—soon, I will act.

  The vow echoed in the darkness, as though the forest itself carried it along in a hush of wind. Outside, the moon slid behind a cloud, plunging the ruin into deeper shadow. The wraith's shape dimmed, drifting in near-sleep, yet still clinging to a kernel of new resolve.

  Night gave way to dawn. The forest floor brightened into a brown-and-gold tapestry of fallen leaves. Morning's chill settled like a thin frost over everything. The wraith huddled against the stones, unseeing, half-lost in a swirl of half-sentient dreams.

  By midday, beams of sunlight knifed through cracks in the tower, painting columns of brilliance across the rubble. Small forest creatures dared pass near the ruin again. A solitary crow perched on a jagged stone, cawing in curiosity. But no one disturbed the battered presence that lurked within.

  So the day drifted on. By the time twilight approached again, that vow remained—a faint spark in the swirl of battered consciousness that was Tom Riddle. He had discovered too many truths: the seventh Horcrux, the false prophecy, the maniputions of Dumbledore, the illusions of grandeur that led him to stupidity. The pain of it might have shattered a lesser mind. Indeed, it threatened to break what little was left of him. But he clung to anger, to cunning, to the possibility of a future.

  Thus, he waited, afloat in a sea of bck regrets. Yet in that gloom, ironically, a flicker of something faintly resembling the boy who had once dreamed of saving magical children from Muggle misery stirred. Perhaps the next time he overshadowed a creature or encountered a lost traveler, he would glean more information. Perhaps he would glean the means to slip back into Britain and continue the fight in a new form.

  Though he was fragile, though he was hardly more than a tatter of soul, he was not undone. He would gather himself. He would not be a fool again. He would be more cunning, more calcuting. If that meant forging unexpected alliances or rethinking his entire approach, so be it.

  And in that vow, the memory of the yelp from Harry Potter's mind rose again. The child was in pain, blocked, battered. A wave of something akin to pity washed over the wraith. Then pity turned to smoldering fury at the old Headmaster.

  "We shall see who is the true maniputor, Dumbledore," he thought, letting the sentiment coil like a serpent in his mind. You have used me as your unwitting pawn for decades. No longer.

  When midnight arrived, the forest sank once more into near silence. A faint drizzle pelted the leaves, dripping through the tower's ruined roof. In the gloom, the wraith pulsed with a slow, dreadful rhythm, as though practicing a heartbeat it no longer possessed. A pn, half-formed, crystallized: find a more suitable host, gather knowledge, slip into Britain under the cloak of secrecy, avoid direct confrontation with Dumbledore until strong enough, and then... rescue or capture Harry Potter, remove the Horcrux from him, and in so doing, thwart Dumbledore's maniputions.

  Whether that rescue would be a genuine mercy or merely an opportunistic recmation of his own soul fragment, even he did not fully know. But the end result would be the same: The old man would not have his perfect sacrificial pawn, not this time.

  He lingered there, swirling thoughts between the edges of madness and sanity. Hours crept on. He drifted in and out of dark reveries, glimpses of memory that spanned the decades. Then, slowly, dawn approached once more, and he slipped into deeper hibernation.

  Two days, three days, a week—time blurred. The Albanian forest was patient, and so was the wraith, for the moment. He took more small animals as hosts, each overshadowing sustaining him for only a short while. The pn was far from complete, but a pn it was. And for the first time since his defeat, that pn was rooted not solely in blind hatred and mania, but in a raw, if half-lucid, understanding of how thoroughly he had been used, of how thoroughly he had used others, and of how close he was to final oblivion if he did not adapt.

  Thus, the final vestiges of Tom Riddle's cunning struggled to remain afloat. He recalled a line from the Horcrux text that had once enthralled him: The soul is the seat of identity, but each tearing diminishes that identity. One who makes multiple Horcruxes courts a splintering of mind, leading to an existence more akin to a monstrous shade than a wizard. That was precisely his fate. He was the monstrous shade in the Albanian woods. But maybe, just maybe, not forever.

  And so ended that bleak interval in the tower. The year was 1988, the same day that Harry Potter, in a faraway English estate, dozed peacefully after a day of gentle care from Sir Integra Hellsing. While the boy found soce in a new guardian's kindness, the torn fragment of Voldemort's soul in Albania discovered a measure of truth about the byrinth of lies behind their intertwined destinies.

  The forest nights melted into quiet days, and the wraith bided its time. Soon enough, someone careless might wander into these woods. Or perhaps the wraith would muster the strength to slither beyond the forest, to a lonely road or an unsuspecting vilge. The next steps y in the future, uncertain. But one thing was sure: Voldemort was not quite as blind as he had been. That might prove the downfall of Albus Dumbledore's grand design—and might reshape the entire wizarding world if the wraith survived long enough to enact its pn.

  Days and nights continued their cycle, and the spectral shape huddled in the ruin, patient as a spider. In the quiet gloom, he reflected on that st flicker of boyhood innocence, of the promise he once made to himself to spare magical children from the horrors of an unkind world. Even now, that battered ideal cshed with the cruelty etched into the shards of his soul. The result was a tortured internal monologue. But if any fragment of kindness remained, it might anchor him against further descent into madness.

  He mused that once upon a time, the name "Tom" had conjured images of a bright-eyed orphan who discovered, to his delight, that he was special, that he had a gift. Then came so many betrayals—by the orphanage staff, by society, by Dumbledore's sly condescension. And now, at the tail end of it all, he was but an echo. The echo might yet roar, if given a chance.

  So he waited, swirling among the fallen stones, listening to the hush of the Albanian forest. The drifting of leaves overhead lulled him into a half-slumber. Another night slipped by, starless and cold. He was lost in illusions, flickers of old dreams and regrets. In those illusions, the memory of Harry's whimper re-emerged, melding with the memory of his own younger self. Two orphans, entangled in a twisted game.

  He felt a pang of something like sorrow, then an upwelling of fury that this was how the wizarding world operated—maniputions upon maniputions. He recalled the old condemnation he had leveled at Grindelwald's era of chaos, believing that he, Tom Riddle, would do better. Now he saw that Dumbledore's "light" had, in many ways, overshadowed Grindelwald's tyranny by cunning alone.

  But mere anger would not suffice. If he was to confront Dumbledore's empire of lies, he needed a pn, an alliance, or at least a stable body. He considered the possibility of finding a minor wizard in Eastern Europe, overshadowing them, and traveling to Britain. That would risk detection if the overshadowing caused odd behavior. Yet it might be his best chance. He could not dare face the old man directly. He must remain hidden, gather intelligence, possibly discover the fate of his existing Horcruxes. One step at a time.

  Even that question nagged him: Where were his original Horcruxes—the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, the snake Nagini? Wait, Nagini was not yet a Horcrux at the time of his defeat—he recalled that vaguely. She might have become one ter, or had he begun the process? His mind's timeline was garbled. The ring had been stashed in the Gaunt shack. The diary was entrusted to Lucius Malfoy. The locket—did he retrieve it and re-hide it? The details were tangled. Possibly Dumbledore had discovered and destroyed some of them, though that seemed uncertain. The Headmaster might keep them in secret. Or they might remain unsuspected.

  Regardless, the accidental Horcrux in Harry overshadowed them all in importance. Because that anchor was not hidden in an inanimate object, but a living, growing child. An anchor that, ironically, might be the final key to destroying the entire byrinth if Dumbledore had his way. Or perhaps an anchor that could be recimed and reversed. This was more vital than all the others combined.

  He repeated that logic to himself, letting it shape his new determination. Step one: survive. Step two: rebuild. Step three: secure or free the boy, one way or another. Step four: deal with Dumbledore. The old man would pay for his maniputions. That vow burned bright.

  He took what comfort he could in the methodical approach. The forest was patient. He would be patient, too. He had learned the cost of reckless arrogance. He would not repeat that mistake. No more trying to murder babies without verifying the facts. He let out a faint, bitter ugh that echoed in his own spectral ears.

  Another dawn. Another quiet day. The world turned outside Albania's forests, oblivious. In a far-off nd, the wizarding world might be paying homage to Albus Dumbledore, blissfully ignorant of his maniputions. Further away, in Engnd, an eight-year-old boy was safe behind wards unknown to either Dumbledore or Voldemort, watched over by a stern and caring knight named Integra Hellsing. Neither side, ironically, comprehended the third force in py.

  Voldemort, in his swirling thoughts, remained unaware of Hellsing's existence. He believed only that Dumbledore had the child. The revetion that the boy might be beyond the Headmaster's immediate control would come as a shock. But for now, ignorance reigned on all sides.

  Thus, the slow pacing continued. Each passing day offered the wraith a fraction more strength or an opportunity to overshadow a new forest creature. He repeated the basic steps to keep from losing that precious crity: Remember the Horcrux count. Remember the block on Harry's magic. Remember the prophecy is false. Remember Dumbledore's cunning. If he repeated it enough, he hoped to imprint it on his battered mind so that, if mania or bnk confusion returned, some part of him would still cling to these truths.

  In quiet moments, he recalled with faint nostalgia the earlier days at Hogwarts—the library shelves, the Slytherin common room's flickering torches, the sense of belonging—before everything twisted. He remembered the day he discovered he was a Parselmouth, and the thrill that gave him, believing he was special. He remembered the first time Dumbledore gazed at him with that peculiar measuring look, as if seeing an experiment rather than a boy. So many little signs he had missed.

  They all led him here, to a shattered tower in Albania, with no company but rodents, insects, and the cold hush of the forest. Another wave of rage rose, but he forced it down, turning it into determination. He would not remain forever in squalor. Dumbledore might have maniputed the entire wizarding world, but Tom Riddle had not lost all cunning—not yet.

  Night fell again, starless. A drizzle began, pattering the leaves. The ruin dripped with water, forming puddles. The wraith drifted to a drier corner, curling beneath a half-colpsed arch. He must endure. This squalor was humiliating, but it served as a reminder of what happened when he acted on fractal illusions. Never again.

  He drifted, letting half-dreams swirl. Scenes from the Knights of Walpurgis days, before they rebranded as Death Eaters. A handful of bright, skilled witches and wizards who once believed in the idea of preserving wizarding culture from Muggle encroachment. Some parted ways when his methods grew extreme. Others stayed, enthralled by his presence, twisting that original concept into monstrous dogma.

  "How far we have fallen," he murmured, voice a spectral hush.

  And then, inevitably, his mind circled back to Harry Potter. That eight-year-old child unknowingly carried the seventh Horcrux. More, the child faced near-constant abuse. If Dumbledore was half as maniputive as Voldemort suspected, the boy's suffering was likely part of the pn. Keep him broken, keep him malleable. "Same as me," the wraith realized again, recalling his own childhood. History repeats itself.

  Yet the difference was that, in Tom Riddle's case, Dumbledore had not gone so far as to impose literal blocks on his magic or memory. Perhaps the old man had learned from that earlier experiment. Now, with Harry, he was even more thorough, weaving illusions in the boy's mind. The cruelty was breathtaking. If only Tom had glimpsed that truth earlier, he might not have wasted years turning to tyranny in rage. Or perhaps that was inevitable anyway.

  He reeled with the immensity of it all. Slowly, the drizzle abated, leaving behind a damp hush. The wraith forced itself to remain calm. The pn: escape Albania, resurrect a stable form, locate the child, undermine Dumbledore. Possibly retrieve or destroy the other Horcruxes if time allowed, ensuring the old man could not use them as leverage. That was the shape of the future.

  As for that fleeting flicker of pity for the child—Tom Riddle was uncertain. But maybe it was enough to keep him from descending fully into the mania that once defined him. He had tried pure cruelty. He had tried dominating the wizarding world. Where had that led? The entire fiasco. Perhaps a new approach was in order.

  And so, in this remote Albanian forest, overshadowing small creatures night after night, the wraith known as Lord Voldemort settled into a slow, methodical survival. The transitions between day and night became nearly meaningless, a cyclical routine of drifting in gloom and seizing fleeting windows of crity. But always that new resolution guided him: No more blind subservience to the strings that Dumbledore pulled.

  If he once decred himself the flight from death, maybe now he would cling to life in the simplest of ways—by biding his time and forging a truly cunning pn. Step by step. No fmboyant pronouncements or public crusades. No fmboyant mask. He had lost the right to arrogance after all his humiliating blunders.

  Thus, the leaves of te autumn fell in the Albanian woods, forming a thick carpet that muffled all footsteps. Deer picked their way among the gdes, crows circled overhead, and the weather grew colder. Voldemort might have spent weeks or months in this twilight existence. He did not measure the passing days precisely, so battered was his mind. But that vow to act remained.

  Meanwhile, far across nd and sea, the rest of the world continued. Hogwarts bustled with unsuspecting students. The Ministry of Magic operated under illusions of normalcy. And in a certain English estate, an orphan boy found kindness and warmth, oblivious to the flicker of a shattered soul that once haunted his nightmares. The lines of fate were drawn, though none involved yet realized how drastically the future had changed.

  One day, that chance collision would come. For now, Lord Voldemort, battered shadow of Tom Riddle, lingered in the Albanian forest, mothering a single spark of crity in the darkness. He understood at st that in shattering his soul so many times, he had nearly destroyed himself, turning into something lesser. But lesser or not, he still existed. And that existence, he decided, would not be surrendered easily.

  So he waited, forming and reforming his designs in the hush of swirling leaves, pnning the moment he might slip free of these borders and return to the nd that both birthed and betrayed him. His mind turned again to the child, that small figure with a lightning scar and a fraction of Voldemort's own soul lodged in him. The child was more than a Horcrux. He was the one chance to unravel Dumbledore's plot from within, if the illusions could be stripped away.

  And though the wraith dared not bel it mercy, something akin to hope flickered, that perhaps two orphans might yet stand outside the old wizard's maniputions, forging a new path. But that dream was delicate, overshadowed by the ferocity that drove him all his life. Whether it manifested as compassion or cunning vengeance, the result was the same: the old man would not have the st ugh.

  Thus ended the long, slow vigil in the Albanian forest, as November crept onward. The wraith's ephemeral presence slid between battered stones, drifting from one half-colpsed chamber to another. Rats, snakes, occasionally a passing fox, all became fleeting hosts that gave him glimpses of the shifting season. Each time, he repeated the pn. Each time, the memory of Harry's whimper prodded him. Each time, the knowledge of Dumbledore's monstrous cunning stoked his determination.

  If fate gave him a chance to seize a wizard's body, he would do it. If a traveler passing near the forest carried a wand, he might corner them. If a Death Eater from Britain sought him out, he might use them. But he would not act rashly, not until he had a surety of success. Pride demanded vengeance, but caution demanded time.

  And so, the wraith lingered, a swirling gloom in the heart of the Albanian woods, forging a renewed sense of purpose. Far away, invisible threads of destiny pulled at him. For the first time in many years, he had recognized that he was not the only monster, that he was, in fact, a pawn in a rger chessboard orchestrated by Albus Dumbledore. That knowledge might shape him in ways unimaginable.

  Nevertheless, the ambition that once ignited Tom Marvolo Riddle had not vanished, though it had been battered. Now it coexisted with shame, guilt, rage, and a faint echo of compassion. This collision of emotions might break him further or might forge something new in him. Only time would tell.

  Night fell again, the hush absolute. The wraith sank into half-awareness, dreaming of grand halls, of scattered shards of soul re-fused, of a child's tearful eyes free from illusions. The forest breathed around him, unknowing and unconcerned.

  He had no illusions that redemption was at hand. But perhaps he no longer sought the wholesale destruction of all who opposed him. If he could dismantle Dumbledore's tyranny, if he could recim his scattered soul, if he could in some measure right the twisted path his life had taken... that might suffice. Or perhaps, once strong, he would again yield to cruelty. The future was unwritten, and he was a patchwork of regrets.

  But for now, at least, the wraith in Albania was not quite the same mindless terror that scuttled about for eight years. He remembered. He pnned. He waited. And that was a new beginning in its own dreadful way.

  High overhead, a flight of bats crossed the moon. A gentle breeze stirred the treetops. The night held its breath as a monstrous shade hovered in the tower. Slowly, the final traces of that day's lucidity ebbed away, leaving the wraith to drift in a half-sleep, holding onto a single vow: He would act in time. He would not remain a pawn. He would not let the boy die for Dumbledore's schemes. One day, Tom Riddle would return—one way or another.

  And so ended this uneasy chapter of silence in the Albanian forest, while half a continent away, the world turned.

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