Awareness returned.

The press of stone beneath him, an aching in his head.

His head…

The Dark Lord took a hurried inventory of physical sensations. Cold. Light against his eyelids. He had eyelids. The scent of copper. Blood?
No particular sharp pain on his body so possibly not his blood

Oh gods… on his body. The sheer abject JOY of being tangible. He stretched awareness further.
Fingers – and an opposable thumb! Toes – not opposable! He was probably human.

He stretched his hearing to the point he thought his ears might actually be twitching.

It was perfectly silent.

After minutes of listening, he dared to raise his eyelids a carefully calculated fraction.

Torchlight. An amber glow – so it was reflecting on walls. Likely stone walls if the surface he lay upon was any indication.
A castle, church or dungeon?

He raised his eyelids further and spied a softly concave arching ceiling. It was covered in what looked like runes.

And yet not runes.

Peering harder, he was certain that he did not recognise a single one.

Which was…unusual…if such a word could be applied to one's own mysterious reanimation. He was familiar with most runic languages in existence, and of the very few he did not master, all but one were lost in whole or part. The letters were not cuniform or –

"What a strange mind you have"

The voice, emanating as it did from above and to the left of him, startled him, setting his heart (his heart!) racing.

"You awaken, a new physical being, rejuvenated and cleansed of the decay eating at your very soul, and before you can even stir yourself to wonder at your fortune, you are blinded with fascination for the elementary wards upon the room."
The male voice sounded amused. It also sounded superior, with shades of condescending.

The Dark Lord wrenched his head upward in the direction of the voice. It was undoubtedly the same being that had held him trapped in a jar. He raised a hand, already thinking the spell he felt such disrespect warranted

Only to be once again transfixed.

His hand.

Oh Salazar – what was this new horror?!

His hand was tiny. A child's hand.
No! Yet more unbelievable. It was, he was quite certain, his OWN hand, merely as it had looked in his earliest childhood.

This was not possible. There could be no way to build a vessel of his body in his youth. No particle remained of that flesh. Not a drop of blood or hair was saved. It lay many decades behind him now.

"How…"he gasped.

The man gave a soft chuckle. "The simple answer -and the one that you will have to accept – is that I use a form of magic that is foreign to your own. I could explain the rites that I performed, but they are extremely complex, ordered in a language you will never master, and require capabilities you have no means of obtaining. Thus, it would be a waste of time, and time is a valuable resource for you. So you will agree it is unimportant how you came to be clothed once more in flesh – what matters is why I have taken the trouble to perform this service for you."

The dark lord scowled. That was no explanation at all. A magic foreign to… What was this creature then? He had thought it a wizard when he glimpsed it from within the jar. Perhaps it was another magical species. He needed to see it.
As he was struggling to persuade his far too tiny body to cooperate and let him sit up, so that he could turn, the implications of the rest of what the male voice had said occurred to him.

As he had suspected, the creature (if indeed a creature was what it was) apparently wanted something of him.
On the one hand – yes. He grudgingly appreciated being reembodied. Reluctantly he had to admit that he had been in an inhospitable position, weak and far from any servants who might be able to recognise him and assist him.
On the other hand – who was this being to have the gall to demand a service of Lord Voldemort?!

Another soft snort behind him. And now he did finally manage to push himself upright and turn to look.

A figure stood, slender and tall – unusually tall in fact - in the shadows of the chamber. By the voice it was male, although the shadow he could see was not overly masculine in any aspect. Its face was wreathed in darkness. He could make out nothing at all of it. From the silhouette, it appeared to be wearing robes of a sort, though they fell only to mid-thigh.

"step into the light"

The figure stepped forward, but the shadows followed it.
"At present you do not need to know my face. Know only that the 'service' I would have of you will also bestow you with power beyond your most heated imagining. As I understand it, power has always been highly desirable to you."

Lord Voldemort could see nothing of the creature's face, and yet he knew it was smirking.
"what is the nature of this power?"

The being seemed to pause in thought.
"You fear death. What if I were to offer you true immortality, without the need for mutilation of your soul and magic? More than mere longevity – I could grant you indefinite invulnerability to the decays of time.

Having the one thing he had most urgently pursued for the past decades abruptly dangled before him, the Dark Lord was infuriated to realise he actually salivated at the offer. Swallowing discreetly, he scoffed at the other sceptically. "And what if you could offer me the moon on a string?! Prove yourself. If you are able to grant such power, you must surely already be in possession of it. And moreover – I would know why you would be willing to share such a power, if indeed you did possess it?! What would such power cost me?"

The being tilted its head as if in thought and then turned, pacing away back into the deeper shadows. When it returned, it held a rectangular black shape in its hand. Carelessly it tossed it toward him, and the object landed on the stone byre with a slap, skidding a few inches toward him.

It was a book. A very familiar book in fact. He reached for it at once, forgetting any wariness for the moment. When he held it and turned it over, his heart sank to see the gold embossed writing proclaiming the book the possession of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

But this book could not be here! He had entrusted it to one of his most powerful servants. Lucius would never have willingly relinquished it. He was possessed of the resources to hold the book even more securely than Gringotts, and would have died before he allowed it to be taken.

He had been loyal! The Dark Lord had verified it himself before he had entrusted…

If this creature had his diary, what then of the other containers of the pieces of his soul?!

His eyes slid slowly back up to the figure.

There was something indefinably smug in its posture.
"I have them all. Or, if you prefer to view it that way, you have them all. It was a false and foolish way of seeking immortality. Surely you must have realised that at some point during the progressive disintegration of your mind."

The horror unfolded fully in his mind and he felt himself slide inexorably toward sheer terror.

He was mortal! He could DIE! This being had only to toss a spell in his direction, toss a knife or a vial of poison… had only to reach out and throttle him, and he would be no more. He would die. He would die. He would die. He would DIE.
Wide eyed, his hand grasped spasmodically for a wand that was not there. He felt as if his stomach has been abruptly filled with ice and his teeth chattered in the shock of it. Frantically he jolted into action, sliding from the high stone byre and landing painfully on the stone flagstones below, before half crawling, half skittering away in the direction he hoped held a door.

Away! He needed to get OUT of this death hole and away to safety. He needed a wand.. yes.. first a wand. And then a wizard or muggle to kill. And something to use. There was no time to be picky. Any object would do. He needed to ensure he was safe! He could not allow himself to DIE!

He registered in his peripheral vision the shadowed being's seeming surprise and concern at his quite reasonable reaction to impending death, and it started to move toward him, but he had reached the wall and stumbled clumsily along it looking for a door. There must be one here somewhere. Surely.

And then he froze.

A spell. He hadn't felt it strike him, or seen it flash across the dim room, but his body refused to obey him. Only his eyes, wide in near maddened panic, stared unblinking at the wall ahead where, dimly, he could see the edge of what was clearly a door.

There were soft footfalls approaching him and he struggled to find his magic to throw off this spell and escape, but there was nothing…nothing…when he reached for it. Then arms were wrapping gently around him and lifting him up and he was turned and held, his body limp as the child he resembled. His staring eyes found a shadowed form above and he thought he might go mad with the need to kill it and escape.

"You are so very damaged." It sighed wearily. "Perhaps I shall send you to the vampires. I suspect if I do not grant you some sense of security in the meantime, you will only go and ruin yourself anew to attain it."

Voldemort felt himself shrieking internally. What was this insane creature talking about?! He couldn't send him to any vampires! Vampires ATE children! They delighted in it. Children were a delicacy for them. And they had a particular loathing for Voldemort himself. They would kill him on sight! He had approached them several times seeking the longevity of their blood and the last time had been quite sufficient to ensure he never attempted to contact them again. Sending him to vampires would be a particularly cruel means of KILLING him! He struggled frantically to communicate just that but his body refused to respond. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he hung in the creature's arms as it walked slowly through darkened corridors to an even darker room, where he was deposited on a bed gently.

"Pay close attention" it told him calmly and quietly, seeming to stare down at where he lay helpless. "I will be placing you with a clan of vampires. I know you are very frightened at this idea, but you WILL seek to learn all you are able from them and WILL remain there until I return to collect you. You will not attempt to leave the clan and you will not seek to cleave your soul again. This is necessary for your future attainment of the power I have promised you. If I do not find you there waiting when I return for you…. I can promise you that I will end you utterly. There is nothing you might do to shield yourself from me, and no spell, soul container or other preparation you could construct to preserve your life should I choose to end it."

This was not even remotely encouraging to Lord Voldemort. Apparently, not only was he to be fed to vampires, but should he by chance escape them, he would be hunted mercilessly by a being that was in possession of an alien form of magic against which he may have no defences. He felt nearly unhinged with horror and fury.

The being tilted its head again, looking down at him through the shadows it wore.

"I will confess to being quite fascinated with you, little self-created Lord. For a mortal, your tenacity and inventiveness is intriguing, even if you are rather histrionic. I will look forward to seeing how you have changed and grown in this new life, when next we meet."
It seemed to hesitate for a moment and then added, quite gently "Do not imagine that I wish your death – it is the furthest from my desires. I know you are full of fear, but you must trust that I would not put you in a place that I knew you could not survive. I want very much for you to be the bearer of the fathomless power I would offer you. It is why I have taken so much trouble to locate and heal you."

The shadowy form leaned down over him then, reaching out with a slender hand. The Dark Lord hissed and spat and recoiled from him in his mind, even as his small body remained motionless on the bed.
The hand brushed lightly over his forehead and down to cover his eyes.

"Do not concern yourself. I am merely ensuring you remember my words when you wake" came a soft murmur from above.

And then the darkness took him again and he knew no more.