Work Text:
Lord Voldemort was not even sure of how long he had been in the Scottish forest he currently resided.
He had lost count somewhere, sometime during the third year of his exile, in the midst of losing another little part of himself while possessing yet another unfortunate snake.
The endless cycle that he had thought would only last a few months, maybe, if his followers had been more loyal, or braver, or maybe less backstabbing, had extended for a now unknown number of years, and he felt that someday he would die while trying to leave his host. Something he would have to do soon, if the rapid progression of his hosts decay was anything to go by.
He had hoped, foolishly, that one of his followers would appear and take him back to civilization, where he could start the process to get himself a new body. Nothing of the sort had happened, and he had hopped from body to body, trying to get closer to any human settlement, but failing. In the beginning he had aimed to find a magical one but as time passed and his failures mounted, he resigned himself to hope for any human contact.
He felt that he was moving in circles, each time more and more confused as to what he was doing. His mind, the one thing untouched by neither the filthy blood inherited from his muggle father, nor the disgusting weakness that had plagued his maternal family, was failing him.
Sometimes, an overwhelming fog would make him stop mid thought because he would realize his thoughts were contorting themselves. That malignant haze turning whatever he was planning into a chain of unconnected ideas that belonged in the realm of dreams -fantastic, feverish, dreams- rather than to his once sharp intellect. He would shake himself, ashamed, and try to continue with his plans, only to discover, much to his anger and confusion, that he had fallen again to the same patterns.
Trapped on his own mind. As if being defeated by a child wasn’t enough.
The snake raised its head with difficulty above the fallen leaves. Its skin was dry and rotten, sores blossoming on its belly and under its chin, its red eyes milky and sunken. The dry tongue slithered out of its mouth sluggishly before disappearing again.
There was a body near him, warm and alive, sniffing the air in his direction. It was big and dangerous, but had something human in its essence that called for the wraith’s attention. He slithered forward through the grass so his weak eyes could see what was there.
It was a brown mutt of unrecognizable breed, that raised its furry tail in attention once it noticed the creature in the forest’s soil.
The Dog’s head tilted in confusion, and his tail wagged slowly, but it started to move rapidly when the thing opened its mouth and hissed, trying to look intimidating. He moved his head, this time in the direction of the voice of his Human, and a bark transformed into a whine before it was completely formed. The thing was interesting, and if he took the thing to the Human, he would get happy noises, hands patting his head and sides, and maybe even a bite or two of human food.
Decision made, the Dog lowered his head and ears, taking the position that would best serve him to lunge into the not-dead-but-not-alive snake in front of him.
The moment in which his eyes connected with those of his prey, however, something was ripped out of him, or maybe he was being ripped out of something, and the Dog knew no more.
For Voldemort, there was only pain.
Burning, scolding pain. Running like lava through his new veins and limbs, carving a hole into his skull, forcing an agonizing sound out of his throat. And it seemed to go on, and on, and on.
An eternity of agony and confusion. The light was too bright, even though the colours seemed too dull. His limbs felt stiff, numb and weak under his body. He was able to take two dizzy steps before falling on his side, laboured puffs of breath barely raising the dirt around his muzzle.
His legs twitched, attempting to keep walking even though he was slumped over in the dirt. ‘I will be late for Hogwarts.’ He thought, barely able to follow the line of his thoughts. ‘The school is safe and I can use my magic there.’ Another whine, although this time it was out of sorrow, not pain.
‘I want to go home.’
But he was tired, and the world was harder to focus on, and finally it dissolved in darkness and the smell of rotten leaves and dirt.