A Snake Named Voldemort

Chapter 11

He woke up wondering when exactly he had been Crucio'd and who the hell was going to pay for it.

Voldemort curled in on himself, intent on hiding his pounding head in the depths of his coils, only he found that his body was incapable of bending that far. Instead he just buried his head in his hands.

Hands? Fingers too.

For this Voldemort was willing to crack open his eyes just enough for him to study the twin appendages he now held away from his face. There was a moment where he thought he was mistaken, and that these really weren't his because, well, he didn't recognize them. He opened his eyes a little further. He changed his mind when he was continuously able to flex the delicate, un-clawed fingers. So these were his.

It was then that his jumbled mind caught up with another piece of information. He placed those soft, slim fingers back on his face to examine the nose that must be his as well. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have one. He moved his hand downwards and felt his full lips, and then trailed upward again to brush against his eyebrows. He carded the hand through his thick head of hair in fascination, feeling the mid-length strands fall back against his ears.

So, he had his body back. His old body. There was a certain amount of pleasure in this conclusion.

Gingerly, Voldemort sat up against the headboard and looked around the room. He remembered how he got here, in the form of a pale cobra wrapped around Harry Potter's shoulders. And then...yes, he took the potion; that he knew for certain. Beyond that, though, there was a distinct lack of clear, definable recollection. Voldemort rubbed his temples with his new hands, trying to fight the daze that had settled over his mind.

He remembered... a burst of magic...glowing, green eyes...heat, skin, confusion...and then pain. Lots of it. It really was the only clear thing he could remember. Everything else was a blur.

Voldemort hissed in discomfort as he slid out of bed, absently noting that he was unclothed. He flexed his toes against the cold wood floor, nonetheless enjoying the sensation. He would never take his hands and feet for granted again.

Hanging from one of the bed posts was a set of plain black robes. He took them, and dressed himself, feeling a bit more ready to take on the day.

Still barefoot, he padded across the room to the easily identified bathroom. He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. There it was: his old face. His eyes were still red, he idly observed, but that was of little consequence. Voldemort had to admit the initial investigations of the changes with his fingertips really didn't compare to seeing it with his own eyes.

One would be hard pressed to find someone unwilling to admit that, intellectually, Voldemort was a genius. It didn't take him long to use his virtuoso to deduce what had happened yesterday. No matter what he did, whatever rituals or rejuvenating spells he used, there was only one thing that would reverse the inevitable effects on his body as a result of his Horcruxes.

It was because there weren't any Horcruxes. He was no longer immortal. He was human.

Part of Voldemort watched with a detached fascination as the panic and shock that had held off until that moment coloured his expression while the other part of him experienced these emotions to their full extent. That same, disconnected portion of himself grudgingly admitted with wry humor that the old coot Dumbledore may actually had been right about something.

Voldemort's chest was tight, and he placed a hand right over his rapidly beating heart. This, apparently, was him in his prime, in his greatest point of strength and fortitude. His soul, his emotions, his mortality, his humanness...all brought back by a potion meant to re-claim the strength of bygone days.