Chapter Text
“Tom Marvolo Riddle, or rather, the Dark Lord Voldemort, as he was formerly known - was terrified of me,” The deep, booming voice of Death sneered from where he gracefully sat upon his throne of skulls and bones. “In fact, his fear of me had been so deeply rooted that it had driven him into knowingly splitting his soul six times to achieve his ambition of becoming immortal. Sadly for Mr Riddle, his dreams of immortality were rather short lived. Remind me again, Tom, how old were you when you died?”
Voldemort thrashed against the chains, that were wrapped around his body, in distress. His outraged screams were muffled by the gag that had been unceremoniously shoved into his mouth by one of Death’s little minions. Death chuckled and the terrible, rasping sound of it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Voldemort’s neck prickle.
“Only seventy one,” Death tsked, "It's a shame, really. Majority of wizards live well beyond the age of a hundred without having to split their souls.”
Voldemort felt his face burn red with humiliation as he could hear some chuckles and mumbling among the people that spectated from the jury box, no doubt mocking him. From his pathetic position of kneeling on the courtroom floor, he could recognise a few familiar faces from the crowd. Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, Sirius Black and, of course, Harry Potter’s bloody parents. Voldemort pointedly decided not to look at any of them.
The past hour (had it been an hour? He had sort of lost track of time) had felt utterly bizarre and surreal. He was originally duelling his fated enemy, Harry Potter, determined to end the boy once and for all. And then, the next minute, he had been hit by the killing curse that had been cast from his own wand! If Death wasn’t his biggest nightmare, then he would have laughed at the irony of it all. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a white void, in his sixteen year old human body and came to the harrowing conclusion that he had died. Harry Potter had killed him. And just when he was about to have one of the biggest and probably most unpleasant mental breakdowns of his whole life - Death had appeared, tied him up and whisked him away to a place that resembled a courtroom. Sort of like the Wizengamot.
And Death being the sadistic, pain in the arse that he was - decided it would be funny to invite all of these dead wizards (majority of which had been killed by Voldemort himself) to watch the whole, mortifying ordeal.
“Now, Tom,” Death began, thoroughly enjoying how Voldemort grimaced at the usage of his real name, “Whatever shall I do with you, hm?” Voldemort did not answer. Well, it’s not like he could have answered anyways with the metal gag in his mouth. However, he froze at the tone of Death’s voice and silently prayed to himself that Hell did not exist.
Death slowly rose from his throne, his black, billowing cloak hovering just above the ground as he flexed his spindly, skeletal hands. Voldemort didn’t know whether he was delusional or if the temperature in the room had actually dropped by twenty degrees.
“What shall I do to the man who dared to try and defy me?” Death spoke again, fury lacing his words and all previous hints of amusement vanished, “Well?! ANSWER ME!” With a snap of his fingers, the gag had disappeared yet Voldemort found himself unable to form any words. Instead he felt himself mere inches away from begging for forgiveness. Perhaps that’s what he should do and it might satisfy Death who, in return, could grant him some mercy.
“Please,” he began, his voice, which was no longer high or hissing, sounded unfamiliar to his own ears, “Please forgive me.”
Death’s laugh, grating and cold, echoed through the room and much to Voldemort’s chagrin, the spectators joined in, some chuckling whilst others laughed uproariously.
“Oh, Tom,” Death sighed, “Still attempting to manipulate even in the afterlife. And it is a bit late to ask for forgiveness, don’t you think?”
Voldemort gritted his teeth as he looked down at the floor, his face flushed red in indignation.
“Ah, I have the perfect idea,” Death said, and if he had a face - he would definitely have been grinning. “Why don’t we let the jury decide your fate? I mean, surely, at least someone here must take pity on you, no? I’ll tell you what, if at least one person from the audience believes that you should be granted mercy - then I shall not punish you and you will be a free soul like everyone else.”
Voldemort’s head whipped up at the suggestion before he nodded eagerly. This was perfect. He just needed one person to take his side. At least one. And he would be free. Surely someone here didn’t completely hate him?
“Alright, all those in favour of I, Death, forgiving Tom Marvolo Riddle for his numerous crimes against humanity, including the repeated usage of all three unforgivable curses upon victims including men, women and even children as well as the creation of horcruxes in an attempt to cheat me - raise your hands.”
Voldemort looked around the room, anxiously, upon noticing that not even one of the spectators had raised their hands and instead were either glaring or sneering at him.
Shit.
“Dumbledore,” Voldemort began, in a desperate last attempt to save his soul, “Please. Have mercy on me.”
He hated this.
He hated having to beg for the help of this ridiculous, old coot that he had always fervently despised. Alas, what choice did he have? Majority of the spectators in the crowd had been killed by him or his followers. They would take great pleasure in knowing he would be tortured for the rest of eternity.
Dumbledore gave him a sad smile that made Voldemort want to scream before saying, “I’m sorry, Tom. I cannot help you.”
He could hear Death chuckle from where he sat on his throne and he could feel his time begin to run out. His eyes darted to the man sitting besides Dumbledore.
“Severus, I’m terribly sor-”
“Not going to happen,” Severus drawled, before pausing and adding with a smirk, “my Lord.”
This caused a few snickers across the courtroom. Voldemort tried to reason with each person across the jury who either shook their head or straight up decided against looking at him. Some, like Sirius, ridiculed him for even attempting to ask.
“You’re pathetic,” Black scoffed, “if you think that any of us will pity you.”
“As entertaining as this is,” Death chuckled, causing everyone to quieten down, “I’m afraid that we must come to a conclusion now.”
Dejectedly, Voldemort lowered his gaze to the floor, trying to blink away the strange, prickling sensation he felt in his eyes which could definitely not be tears because Lord Voldemort never cried.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Death spoke, his voice reverberating across the room, “I hereby sentence you to an eternity in Limbo as a punishment for your crimes.”
Voldemort’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to plead.
But it was too late.
Because within a second, the room around him had warped and flickered away before he found himself in an empty, dark abyss where mist floated in the air. Voldemort flinched when he heard a feminine voice whisper:
Welcome to Limbo, Tom Riddle.
He spun around, looking for the speaker but was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” He called out, hating the way his own pathetic teenage voice wobbled. The voice just laughed in return. It was an awful, cruel sound.
Foolish boy! You can’t see me.
Voldemort felt his breathing quicken. He had to get out of here. He was going to lose his mind.
So he ran and ran across the endless void, unable to escape the taunting voice that followed him.
All alone.
Helpless.
Weak.
For eternity.
For the first time in what had felt like centuries, Voldemort dropped down to his knees, tears freely rolling down his face as he let out an agonizing wail.
“What was the purpose of that, Death?” An entity, known as Fate, asked, as her white and gold hemmed cloak fluttered in the non-existent breeze.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” Death responded, not really sounding all that sorry, “I was angry with him. I wanted to humiliate him.”
“I know,” Fate said, turning to face Death as she approached him, “but I’ll remind you once again that he will not be spending eternity in Limbo.”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“When do you plan on informing Harry Potter?”
“I’m sure my Master will find out soon,” Death replied, “The pull of a soulmate bond is a strong thing which cannot easily be ignored. He will come to me and ask me to help him, I’m sure of it.”
“Hm,” Fate agreed, “You are right. It is his fate after all…”
“Besides, my Master deserves a break and I’m sure that temporary isolation will do the Dark Lord some good,” Death sneered.
“Or maybe this is just because of your hatred towards him, isn’t it?” Fate sighed.
“Why wouldn’t I hate him? He tried to cheat Death! ME! He’s lucky I didn’t decide to torture him in Hellfire for the rest of eternity!”
“Only because I forbade you to do so.”
“You like him too much,” Death huffed, crossing his skeletal arms against his chest.
“No. I just see potential.” Fate replied, looking down at the various humans on the Earth through her glass globe before zooming in on a certain Harry Potter, “But you are right. Harry deserves some time to recover from all the madness that has happened. He shall figure out the soulmate bond in due time.”
“And then?” Death asked, “What do you plan to do for the two of them?”
Fate turned to face him, her aura unreadable.
“Time will tell, Death, time will tell…”