The Little One with Green Eyes

38: Realizations

Voldemort frowned. "My Horcruxes?"

"Temporary, I assure you," Death said with a grin. "Meant to give you no more than a thousand years at best. Merely prolonging the inevitable."

"Then why are you here?" Voldemort asked.

"Did you not ask already?" Death said, shaking his head slightly. "You are my friend."

"How? How can I be your friend? You are Death! That doesn't... It doesn't make sense! Why would you be my friend? You must have an ulterior motive!" Voldemort said harshly, glaring at the bemused being.

"Must I?" he asked, and Voldemort was sure he heard fondness in the question. It set him on edge, causing him to grit his teeth. "Is it so hard to believe that I wish us to be friends?"

"Yes," Voldemort said firmly. "What use do you have for friends? If what you say is true, I will die eventually."

"And why should that mean we can no longer be friends?" Death asked.

"What? Because I'll be dead!" Voldemort exclaimed. "You can't be friends with dead people!"

"Really? I am quite good friends with Merlin, though. We sit for a game of chess every few centuries," Death said cheekily. Voldemort huffed, blaming his undignified behavior in his frustration. "Just because you are dead, does not mean that you cease to exist."

"That's the literal definition!"

"No, that is the mortal definition," Death corrected. "Mortals assume there is nothing after death because they have no way of proving it. That does not mean it does not exist."

"Are you telling me there's an afterlife?" Voldemort scoffed. Death hummed, moving once more to sit down on the grand stone throne.

"Of sorts," he said, resting his chin on his hand. "There is no heaven and hell in the traditional sense. There is a resting place where souls go to be in peace before they are born once more."

Voldemort freezes. "Reincarnation is real?"

"Souls are quite difficult to make, you know," Death said, matter-of-factly. "They require quite a bit of energy and effort to create. It is far easier to recycle souls than it is to create new ones."

"Is everyone reincarnated? Have.. Have I been reincarnated?" Voldemort asks, the desire for knowledge overpowering his wariness for a moment. Death seemed to enjoy Voldemort's enthusiasm, though, as he leaned forward to get closer to Voldemort's rigid figure.

"Souls may only be reincarnated if they wish it," Death said. "There is a final resting place where souls can finally be at peace, should they choose it. However more often than not, souls choose to be reincarnated. As for your soul..."

Voldemort frowned when Death smiled at him, suddenly feeling naked under the intense gaze. "What?" Voldemort snapped, fighting back the rising heat in his cheeks.

"You were not reincarnated," Death spoke, ignoring Voldemort's obvious discomfort. "You are a new soul, one of the newest souls made. There is only one other soul that was born after you. You were created with a specific purpose, unlike all of the other recycled souls."

Voldemort frowned. There were so many things he wanted to ask now, the answer only giving him more questions. "A specific purpose? What do you mean?"

"Soon, my Dear," Death said with a wave of his hand. Though it wasn't an outright dismissal, it still angered Voldemort. He was so done with these vague answers. "As for the youngest soul... It was brought to me too soon, but taken back just as fast."