Prologue

This is my attempt (emphasis on ATTEMPT) to follow the whole "Tom Riddle meets girl" fanfic framework. I'm trying my best to be (fairly original) and in character. So with any luck, it will stand out a little. Possibly for the shameful quality of the writing, but hey, let's be optimistic. Voldemort is a fascinating character, and I just love putting him in mundane situations and seeing how he copes. It starts with a conversation with Dumbledore that is mentioned in book 6, which I altered a little…well, a lot. Where the italic writing ends, so does the book extract.

Enjoy.

"I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed-"

"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some. Of others, you remain … forgive me … woefully ignorant."

For the first time, Voldemort smiled, It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.

"The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."

"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore.

"I've looked where I was supposed to." Voldemort said, his eyes narrowing. "It did not serve me well."

"Love does not come at a command, Tom."

"Love does not exist. It is an illusion." Voldemort hissed. "A mindset designed to trick the unwary… love has no power."

"Have it your way, Tom. Had you ever given love a chance-"

"I have. I did." Voldemort said, "And, as I said before, it did not serve me well."

"Did you really try?" Dumbledore enquired gently. Voldemort stood up and walked slowly towards the window.

"I can tell you." He said, turning back to look at Dumbledore. His words were cold, but his old professor could see the young boy he had been looking back at him, his vulnerability reappearing for a brief second. Then, after a fleeting instant, it was gone.

"If you want to tell me Tom, I have plenty spare time." He said mildly.

"I shall." Voldemort continued, as if he had not spoken. "If only to prove to you…"

He crossed the room to the desk, slipping his deft fingers into his robes, drawing his wand. Conjuring up a bowl, he pressed his wand to his temples, bringing a grey string into the shallow dish. He replaced his wand, swirling the bowl with long fingers. He placed the dish on Dumbledore's desk, and a figure rose out of it, hazy and poorly defined.

"There she is, as best I can remember." Voldemort said, looking at the laughing figure with distaste.

"Caroline Hunter." Dumbledore said quietly. "Slytherin, bright, picked on by the rest of the class…"

"At first." Voldemort added, through gritted teeth.

"A very pretty girl, no?" Dumbledore looked speculatively at his ex-pupil.

"As far as looks go, I suppose she was tolerable." Voldemort said coolly. Dumbledore nodded, watching Tom closely. There was a long silence. Voldemort placed his wand once more to his temple, letting another strand fall into the bowl. The figure redefined itself, to show a young witch in robes too large for her, dark black wavy hair partially obscuring brown eyes. She held a small pile of books in her hands, which she tried to shrink behind.

"You remember her well, after all." Dumbledore commented.

"Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not." Voldemort gave the girl an critical look. "Sometimes, she is merely a shadow that lurks in the background of my mind, other times, I can see her in perfect detail, right down to the way the rain looked as it fell on her eyelashes. Sometimes… I think of her. Rarely." Dumbledore was silent, and waited for Voldemort to speak again. He rose, taking the bowl with him. The figure was rapidly maturing before their eyes. She pushed her hair back from her face, dropped the books, walked upright. She smiled, and stood confidently, chatting animatedly to thin air. Voldemort regarded her for a minute distastefully, then began to speak, not to Dumbledore, but to himself.

"Caroline Hunter was in my year when I began at Hogwarts…"