"Fascinating," he whispered as his eyes glimmered in the semidarkness, contemplating the distinct shape of her mark. She lifted her gaze and took on his physiognomy. He looked young. Not Tom Riddle-young, not her Tom anyways. The boyish features were no longer there. He was all sharp edges and stern lines. She could even distinguish a few streaks of gray in his hair. This was Lord Voldemort right before his downfall, the evil wizard on a path to conquering the world, who met his end unexpectedly, obliterated by no more than a child. This was the image of the last time he had been human, restored and improved by her magic and the fragments of his soul he had severed in his quest to achieve immortality. 