Blindness

Chapter 11: Brown Soul-Eaters

The Diary had been first; his first true, savored kill, his first time fracturing his soul and shattering it.

The Ring had been second, less than a year later, and Riddle had gained a taste for it, the exquisite pain, the flood of power and strength that came with such Dark Magic.

The strength had faded, but Riddle knew how to gain more of that feeling.

Looking into a mirror for the first time, he beheld the true malevolence of what he had become; though Crouch had expected his twisted appearance, Riddle had not been prepared to see red eyes instead of hazel, split nostrils and gaunt cheeks instead of round, human softness. Though he was younger by decades than his older self had been, the dark magic of the resurrection ritual had twisted his form just as severely. He was no longer a handsome boy; he was a deformed monster.

But he couldn't mourn his lost looks when he had to deal with a lost empire.

He understood something of what was going on, memories gleaned from the mind of the older wizard who had found him, inevitable conclusions falling into place.

His older self had failed; and not only once, but twice over. He did not know the details that Crouch himself did not know; any hope of regaining the memories of an older horcrux lost with the execution of Voldemort.

Had he made more? Would he ever be able to find out?

He had to regain his past glory; or was it his future glory? He had to grow in strength and take his revenge. He had to become Lord Voldemort once again, not the seventeen year old Tom Riddle who did not even remember graduating from Hogwarts.

He needed his followers; and they were locked away in Azkaban Prison.

A prison guarded by darkness, cold deep darkness, beings that knew the sweet succor of taking a life and making it shred and tear and die.

He had always thought wizarding kind should have thought harder about bargaining with such creatures.

No given meal was as sweet as one taken.

-O-O-

The letter came in the pale blue claws of a large owl.

Harry, of course, couldn't read it. But before he even tried his usual spell to read it aloud, so familiar he could cast it in his sleep, the tan light of the parchment unfurled on its own and began to read itself aloud.

The goblins had always been courteous to him.

What they had to say, however, surprised him greatly.

"Sirius Black's Heir?" Hermione said doubtfully, when he came to her house the next day.

"It seems." Harry replied with a frown. "He left a will, though his estate was frozen while he was considered a criminal. Most of the assets were seized by the Ministry a long time ago, though they couldn't touch the family Vault or properties. I've been granted a sizeable sum in reparations to cover what was taken, though Dripsnout, the Potter Manager who looked over the documents for me, says it does not amount to the total value lost. Nearly all the properties were sold to pay fines to the families who claim Black killed someone of theirs. That hasn't been repaid, and won't be."

"So you've basically inherited a title?" Hermione asked, and he could read the disapproval in her tone.

She never had approved of the aristocracy in any of its forms.

Harry laughed.

"Well, no. There's one house, somewhere in London, and probably a fortune in magical artifacts that couldn't be touched by the Ministry, not to mention the reparations. It's only poor compared to the Potter Estate."