Chapter Text
The Gaunt shack was not a place that housed mortal men any longer. It was old, decrepit, and filled with nothing but the memory of a long dead tyrant. The memory was cruel, a twisted and evil little thing that sat in the bowls of it’s family’s most shameful history, and Death had no pity for it.
He looked around the small building with an impartial eye, finding that he had seen far worse over his years as the encapsulation of the End. He had seen children, innocent in every right, being completely and utterly betrayed by the world that had birthed them, he had seen the world spit out the very worst of humanity, had seen each and every cruel little soul, every sad broken fragment that had once been a person, all find their way back to him.
Except, of course, for Tom Riddle and Hadrian Potter. Those were two souls he was either cautious or incapable of taking.
He stepped through the dusty interior of the Gaunt shack, easily finding the loose floorboard that his stone sat under, betrayed and forgotten by the family that was originally tasked with keeping it safe. He had seen the beginning of the end that had lied in the Gaunt lineage, and had watched their destruction with something that resembled tired detachment. The birth of Tom Marvolo Riddle had come with his own personal repentance for ever letting the stone fall into such untrustworthy hands as the ones of the Slytherin line. Sure, it had been rather smart at the time, as the Slytherin family was nothing if not obsessed with their lineage, and were sure to have kept such an important family heirloom safe from harm, but the degradation of their line was something that only Fate could have predicted, and if she had not had such a good reason for making it happen, he would have forced the choice out of her hands. The Hallows were simply too important to him for the goddess to ever understand, and he was loath to admit that he had been scared for what might happen if they fell into the wrong hands... if he was forced to be tethered to someone undeserving.
Luckily, Fate would never saddle him with anyone but the best.
He peered down at the ring with familiarity, watching as the dark gem gleamed in the low light of dusk. Despite wishing that he could simply bring the stone to his master and call it a day, Fate had been insistent that there was a very particular way she wanted to get things done. Death could admit that her plan was rather ingenious, but doubted that every single piece on the board would do as they were told, and Harry would always be an uncontrollable wild card.
“Well… what's the worst thing that could happen?”
Without pause, he reached forward, hand glowing faintly as little threads of gold and green magic pulled themselves from his body and into the horcrux, and he watched as it began to pulse with power and light. As the glow became unbearable for mortal eyes, Death began to press more magic into the ring, observing the particular shade with a careful eye, it wouldn't do to give too much or too little, he had to be very exact, or all would be for naught. The death magic was taken in greedily by the twisted little soul shard, and the voice of an evil little memory rose up from the bowels of the Gaunt ring, cackling with glee as it was given thought and consciousness and power.
“You’ve got one last chance at life Voldemort, don't waste it.”
Death still had his doubts about this plan, that was clear to him, but there was not a single doubt in his mind that the next year wouldn't be anything but a great deal of fun.