Two figures stood beside an inky black river. One was tall and thin, cloaked in a set of hooded dark robes. The other stood shorter, wearing a ripped dress that seemed to flow into the river behind her. A voice spoke, though neither of the figures' lips moved.

"Is it done?" The voice was rich and deep, so low that the air seemed to vibrate with each word.

"Yes, father," the woman murmured, head bowed. "The boy will remember nothing."

"Wonderful," the voice mused, and the very word seemed to bring forth wonder. The woman gasped, tears of joy springing to her eyes. "Now," continued the voice. "The path is clear for you, oh dark one."

The other figure hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was high and cold— an icy contrast to that of the other's.

"I will be invincible?"

The voice chuckled.

"Completely."

"And I will rule all of Europe?"

"And more, if you so desire," the voice purred. "None will stand in your way."

The hooded figure nodded, seemingly pleased by the voice's answers. He slipped a thin strip of wood from his pocket, fingering it with pale white hands.

"I am ready."

"Do not forget your end of the deal, dark one," murmured the voice, growing fainter.

The figure straightened and for a moment the dim light was reflected back upon red, catlike eyes.

"I will not," he said coldly. "Lord Voldemort always keeps his promises."

A gust of cold wind battered the ends of his robes for a moment and then, like a switch had been flipped, the surroundings seemed to come back to life. The river roared loudly beside the pair, tossing with filth as it poured past.

"Quickly," hissed the woman. "Before we are seen."

She held out a greying, scabbed, hand. Lord Voldemort took it, lip twisting in disgust.

"This will hurt," said the woman softly, smirking.

With surprising strength, she pulled him into a tight embrace. He stumbled, and they teetered for a split second on the edge of the deafening river.

Then they fell backwards into the swirling black water.