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Harry sat near the fire, feeling wary and cold. He could feel the creep of approaching death from deep within his bones.

"I know you're here," Harry said quietly.

A dark shadow emerged from the seeps of the wall, forming a tall, imposing hooded figure shrouded in black mist and cascading in vengeful hunger to claim.

"Has my time finally come?" The old, wise wizard asked, his body shifting in the rouge cushioned chair.

As always, the spirit never responded and merely crept over his body like a predator readying itself to bounce on it's prey.

"Are you going to continue hovering over me like a dementor or should I get you a chair?"

Death hissed in disgust, "Don't you dare compare me to such a lowly spirit with loose morals!"

Harry shrugged, "Why not? You both float and can't walk."

The spirit mused overhead, filling the room with cold air and the smell of approaching death.

"You never cease to amuse me, human. No breathing creature has ever spoken to me with such insolence."

"Would you rather I kneel on my knees and kiss your feet? Oh wait, you don't have any!" He laughed.

Death did not take kindly to his sarcastic remark, the sprits mist of darkness washing over his ancient, fragile body like black fog and sending chills down his spine. Pure terror surged through his veins, icy daggers straight to the heart.

"Stop it," he gasped, "I know it's just an illusion."

"Fear has always been an illusion," Death responded, "It is but ghosts of children's nightmares, holds no true form and weaves into hearts of all."

"I'm not afraid of death," Harry retaliated back, venom dripping from his tone.

"No, you do not, that is clear as day." It said, the creature stirred and the wind outside his cottage picked up, banging harshly against the thin glass.

"Although, there was one young orphan who feared my might to the extent of splitting his precious soul. As I recall, you two were once very well acquainted."

Harry clenched his teeth in an effort to keep his quivering jaw still.

"Have you journeyed all the way from the depths of hell merely to insult me?"

Death's vile presence alone hung like a threatening storm over the peace of his mind.

"Nothing of the sort, my Master of Death. I exist for the purpose to prey on hate, greed, anger, loneliness, despair and take dying souls to their rightful place in the afterlife. Not to insult meaningless creations of god."

Harry resisted the urge to snort. "I'm afraid to say your great choice of a career has become rather lax nowadays, considering you have the time to visit me so often."

"I have not come to drink tea with you, Harry Potter. Your existence in this life has finally come to an end."

The old man rolled his emerald eyes, "Is it a habit of vengeful spirits to talk so much? Hurry up and get this business over and done with."

Death reaches his gnarled hands and curled it's fingers on Harry's side, clinging to his ribs and settling uncomfortably in his chest.

"Although most tragically, Mr. Potter, you will never be reunited with your loved ones."

The dread of the spirits words crept over Harry like an icy chill, numbing his brain and quickening his breath. He stared blankly at the hooded figure, his mind worryingly empty.

"I don't understand," he said weakly.

"Of course you do not, Master of Death."

"Don't call me that!" Harry snapped, protesting pitifully against the demons grasp on his body.

"Why ever not? You possess all three of my gifts."

"You can take them back for all I care! But you will not stop me from seeing my family."

A cackle resonated from under his hood and Harry imagined a wide, malicious grin widening on his hidden face.

"That is impossible, Master of Death."

"I said stopping calling me that," Harry Potter roared, his body coursing with unavoidable rage.

"Would you prefer Conqueror of Death? Vanquisher of Death?"

Harry looked thoughtful before breaking out in a cheshire grin, "You may call me all that but only if every time you took a life, you called yourself Mr. Potter's love-struck, biggest, die-hard fan."

"That will never happen."

He pouted, feigning an upset appearance, "You're so boring. How about just Mr. Potter's number one worshipping fanboy?"

"Quiet!" Death's voice boomed, the wooden floor planks shook and a blue china vase came crashing to the ground. A nervous kind of energy tingled through his body and Harry recognized it as anticipation.

Potter swallowed away his growing anxiety and asked, "What do you mean I cannot be reunited with my family?"

"You cannot die, Mr. Potter. Your wretched soul will walk the land for eternity."

"Well, isn't that just brilliant?" he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Indeed it is." Death agreed.

"I was being sarcastic!" Harry said abruptly, "So what now? Am I going to be an old man forever?"

"Unfortunately no." The spirit told him.

"Yes, it really is unfortunate. I really like being old, not having to work is very nice."

There was an awkward silence in the room before Death finally said,

"You're a strange one, Harry Potter although still a worthy possessor of the Hallows."

"I'm a worthy possessor of the Hallows because I agreed with you that I liked being old?" Harry muttered.

Death's shadows suddenly began to suffocate his body like a damp, musty, thick blanket, clinging to every inch of his wrinkled skin.

"When one wishes to be immortal, they often imagine it to be in their best self. A young, graceful and honourable age."

Harry shuddered uncomfortably at Death's invading darkness that continued to wrap itself around his body like a cocoon.

"What are you even doing?"

Harry's breathing became erratic, deep then shallow as the forbidding blackness continued to travel up his stiff body in currents.

"Can you smell it?" The spirit hissed into his ear, "The thick aroma of your fear?"

Harry sniffed in distate. What a creep.

"Perhaps your nose is just too sensitive."

The spirit chose to ignore him and reached his bony hand towards his face, while laughing a cruel, cold cackle that froze Harry as a single sharp nail grazed down his cheek.

"I will send you to the past, Harry Potter. From there on, you will walk alone and decide your new fate."

Before Harry could retort back, he felt himself being sucked into a darkness so total that he couldn't be sure he had eyes. The blackness engulfed his thoughts, stretching out in front of him and warping into the deepest depths of his mind.

"Good luck," Was the dark spirits final farewell before vanishing.

Harry Potter, the misfortunately proclaimed Master of Death, found himself in the middle of a bustling city of London.

How did he know it was London?

All he had to do was look up and gaze upon the dark grey clouds. Could he be anywhere else?

Judging by the out of date clothes and un-modern muggle buildings, the accursed devil spawn had truly did send him to the past. Ignoring the busy muggles, Harry pushed himself past the crowd all the while grumbling quietly to himself.

The inner city was flooded by a sea of people heading in different directions. The higher class people strutted down the high street carrying their leather handbags and wearing their expensive coats. Whereas the lower class people sat down on the cold littered floor begging for money.

Judging by their clothing, Harry would have guessed this year must be around the 1940's. Honestly, he had no clue, Harry had never been much of a history geek.

Within second, Harry found the entrance to the leaky cauldron and noticed it was the exact same as in the future. For a famous place, it had always been very dark and shabby.

Harry entered through the front and ignored the patrons. He sat at the bar and waved over a pinch-faced, plump-looking young girl who reminded Harry of his dead Chihuahua.

"A cup of your strongest fire whiskey will be just perfect, thank you."

The woman ogled at him before breaking out into a huge smile that made even Harry cringe.

"Of course, sir!" She giggled, clumsily winking at him.

She left, dancing as she pranced off to get his order.

What just happened. Did she really just wink at him?

Harry raised his head and froze as he made eye contact with the infuriating handsome glass cabinet reflection straight ahead of him.

He almost gaped at the emerald-eyed beauty before remembering he was in a public place. Of all appearances Death could've given him, that damned spirit just had to make him drop-dead gorgeous.

Groaning, Harry buried his face in his mind and calmed himself.

"Here you are, sir!" The chihuahua woman said, deciding again it was a perfect time to send a horribly timed eye-wink. She must've thought she look positively cute but Harry thought she looked constipated.

Harry glared back at his unrecognizable reflection. He had a beautiful face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. The complexion of his skin going well with his luscious green eyes. He looked down for a moment, before bringing the alcohol to his lips. The burning sensation pouring down his throat, creating a warm feeling deep inside of his stomach.

"Soooo~" An annoying voice said, interrupting his thoughts. "What brings you to these parts of town?"

The girl played stupidly with a single brown ringlet, biting her bottom lip in a gesture to look … adorable? submissive?

"Work." he shrugged, hoping his brisk, snappy response would send her away.

"Oh ho!" she gasped, beaming, "What sort of work?"

"It's classified information." Also known as unemployed.

"Well, I like classy!" the woman murmured, licking her lips and pouting her wet lips.

Harry suddenly had an urge to puke. Suddenly, an idea came to his mind.

"Do you by any chance know the date?"

"Hmmm…" She twiddled her thumbs and Harry had a nauseous feeling that she really knew what day it was but she was wasting time on purpose.

"I believe it's January 18th."

"Ah yes! And what year?"

Her blue eyes stared at him with sudden confusion before saying, "1934."

Harry nodded, "Ah, I must thank you greatly, young damsel. I have been asleep in my coffin for a few hundred or so years. It's been so long since I last had a feast of a fresh youngling such as yourself. Do you by any chance know the best place to go blood-drinking? Somewhere that gathers lots of young pretty girls. I prefer brunettes, y'know?"

This time, he winked at her and the woman stared at him perplexed, before stuttering a quick and hasty good-bye.

Harry sat in his chair, brooding before coming into a quick realization. Tom Morvolo Riddle, the future Dark Lord, was still an orphan and was not yet in Hogwarts.

Smiling over the new found information, Harry suddenly stood, gathered his thoughts and hurried out of the leaky cauldron but not before dropping a few silver coins on the wooden bar table.

In a second, he apparated himself out of the bustling inner city into the outskirts where Wool's orphanage was located.

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The one emotion that Tom despised more then anything, was the feeling of being powerless. Tom had been slowly learning to control his new-found power and as a child, he learned that with patience and control, Tom had an upper-hand compared to the other orphaned children. He could easily manipulate their emotions into fear by simply forcing his mysterious energy to topple of few orphans down the stairs, slash cuts into their arms and legs or even cause excruciating pain to those who angered him without as much as raising a hand.

He had first learned of death when he hung Billy Stubb's rabbit from the rafters. The idiotic orphan boy cried for ages and Tom felt not an inkling of regret. He hated them all and that was a simple fact. He viewed them all as inferior beings with no self-control and irritable emotions.

All the orphans were weak, including the adults and matrons who attended to them. Tom knew he possessed a special, unexplained talent and that made him euphoric.

At seven years of age, Tom Riddle was viewed as a very handsome boy, solemn and intelligent, who hardly if rarely interacted with any of the children. The children knew to stay clear out of his path and the adults who at first saw him no more then a shy child, started to question his odd behaviour.

"He's the devil's child!" one of the orphanages laundress lady had once said. "I've heard him hissing behind bushes! And I mean actual hissing like a snake! Back in my day, such behaviour was beaten out before it could let loose."

Instead of feeling offended, Tom grinned maliciously. She feared him and fear was good. Fear resonated power.

Unfortunately, his aura of power and terror did not stop him from being bullied. Dennis Bishop, an ugly boy of ten and thrice the size of Tom enjoyed ganging up on the handsome boy with his equally unrully and unattractive side kicks.

"Hey Riddle," the ugly boy smirked, towering over Tom who sat idly on his small, dingy bed. It was nightfall and almost bed-time but that didn't stop his tormenters from seeking the young boy.

"Do you want to play a game?" Dennis grinned, revealing his abnormally crooked teeth.

"No." Tom replied simply, focusing his attention back to reading his book.

Suddenly, he felt the book being ripped from his grip and Tom jumped to his feet, eyes gleaming in pure loathing.

"Give it back!" He growled.

Benjamin Jackins didn't respond, instead he raised the book higher in his hand.

"Whatchu gonna do, Riddle? Hit me with a stuffed pillow?"

Billy snorted, "I bet ya he can't even lift a pillow!"

It was a stupid, meaningless insult but the three boys still broke into fits of laughter as if it was the funniest thing ever said.

'I'll show them what's funny.' Riddle thought to himself.

Tom focused his dark eyes onto Benjamin's raised fist and smiled when he saw the bully jump back in surprise, hissing in pain.

"The freak cursed me!" He cried, cradling his hand, "He cursed me!"

The boys glared at their victim who gazed back with a guarded expression, although he was dancing in victory on the inside.

"Alright boys," Dennis cackled, rolling up his sleeves, "Lets show Riddle the Freak how it's done around here."

"Lets beat him to the pulp!" Billy cried, his voice a squeak.

Their eyes gleamed and Dennis made the first move like always, raising his fist and crashing it against Tom's nose before he even had time to dodge.

Tom stumbled back, crying out in pain before quickly clamping his mouth shut. He mustn't show any weakness. Tom wasn't able to concentrate his power back at them, quickly losing concentration with each fist that collided against his small body. Six rough hands aimed at his vital spots and Tom was forced to curl his body in self-defence.

"Not so strong now, are you? Freak?" Dennis laughed.

"Freak, freak, freak." The other boys chorused.

"Riddle the Freak!" They cried, echoing the phrase like a song routine.

A sudden gush of pain jolted throughout Tom's body. His stomach ached, his arms lost tension and his legs began to weaken. Head pounding, Tom tried once more to gather his power against the boys but found himself to battered and winded to do anything. A gush of wind was all he managed to create, the window rattling and a small stool falling over. Riddle silently hoped that would send them off running but it only made the situation worse.

"He's doing it again." screamed Billy, "He's doing that weird, freaky thing."

The kicks against his body increased and Riddle finally let the tears roll down his face from the pain.

"Not so strong now, are ya?" one of them mocked.

He tasted copper in his mouth and spat a large amount of blood out of his mouth. The sight of so much blood finally made the boys cease their kicking.

A hand cuffed his collar and slightly raised him, "Hey Freak, you alive?"

The voice was taunting but Tom could hear a level of uncertainty.

He turned to face the boy who spoke to him but there was no longer any trace of tears, not in his eyes or in track marks on his reddening face. His eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard.

"I hate you," Riddle muttered venomously.

"He's alive, Dennis. Let's go quickly before the matron comes." Ben said, eyeing the door apprehensively.

The bully nodded, dropping Tom on the floor none to gently.

"I'll see you tomorrow, freak. You better watch your back."

With those last words, the gang left.

Tom lay on the bed, blood seeping beneath his skin, ribs fractured and arm twisted in an awkward angle.

He wouldn't cry, he told himself. Crying is for weaklings and he wasn't a weakling. But even then, Tom couldn't refrain the tears from bursting forth like water from a dam, spilling down his face and trailing down to his trembling chin.

He lay stiff and broken like a doll on the bed, slowly feeling himself drifting to unconciousness.

Tom awoke to warmth and tranquility. Blinking lazily, Tom thought it odd that he felt a lack of pain and gasped audibly when he felt a smooth hand stroke his raven black locks.

"You're awake, I see." Said an unfamiliar, yet soothing voice.

Tom raised his head and found himself staring at the eyes of glimmering emeralds.

"Who are you?" he croaked, struggling against a warm body that held him down.

"Calm down or you'll hurt yourself…" the man said, "You're still weak from your injuries."

Tom didn't respond, choosing instead to glare suspiciously at the handsome man. His curls were a tousled brown and his eyes were a beautiful vivid green, framed by graceful brows.

"Back to the topic of your injuries, will you tell me how you got them?"

Riddle stiffened and growled, "That's none of your business, old man," he snapped.

"Hey, I'm not old! I'm… oh never mind, I guess I am pretty old."

Tom stared at the strange man, expressionless and cautious.

"I don't want you here," Tom said coldly, "Leave me alone."

Surprisingly, the attractive man smiled, "Aren't you going to thank me for healing you?"

Riddle opened his mouth to retort back but closed it immediately when he realized his body was fully healed, without a single scratch or mark of the earlier events. All the pain he felt before disappeared… like magic.

"What did you do?" He demanded, curling his hands into fists.

He didn't respond and stared back at him amused.

"Tell me!" Tom ordered harshly, his tone ringing superiority, "Tell me what you did and who you are!"

"All I did was heal you and I'm… Harry."

"Harry who?"

The man hesitated before slowly saying, "Harry Gaunt."

Tom stared at him blankly before saying, "You're lying. Tell me who you really are."

"I'm Harry Gaunt," he repeated, a warm smile plastered on his face. His expression was so kind and caring that it made Tom, who was so unused to affection, incredibly uncomfortable.

"How did you heal me?" Tom asked authoritatively, his dark eyes meeting the green eyes so fiercely that it would make any adult balk but this one didn't budge and continued to gaze warily down at him.

"You will find out soon enough," Harry said calmly, caressing his cheek.

Unwillingly, Tom leaned to his touch but quickly drew back, his small face staring at the stranger in horror. Did he really just lean into his touch? Riddle felt absolutely disgusted at himself and using all his strength, pushed the man away from him.

The man did not seem to mind, instead choosing to slowly unbutton his luxurious dark wool coat. "Do you want to come home with me?" he asked unexpectedly, making Tom's breath hitch.

"No, you're strange and I don't like you and I will never like you. If you adopt me, I will only grow to hate you!" Riddle replied sternly, his eyes glowering with intense displeasure.

Tom expected the man to look offended but instead he merely gave him a small smile.

"I understand," Harry said softly, "But remember, if you ever change your mind, just call my name and I will come and get you."

The orphan was about to say that he will never call for him but Riddle felt oddly sedated and all of a sudden very, very weary. His mind grew foggy and his eyes drooped close.

"What did you do to me?" Tom groaned, hating how feeble he sounded.

"It's time to sleep." Harry said, slipping his costly fur coat off and draping it on top of the small, skinny child.

"Call my name when you need me and I will return…" Was the last words Tom remembered hearing before the dark bliss overtook him.

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