A small, stooped figure paused doubtfully before starting up the walkway to the old mansion. He took in the unkempt lawn, the decrepit paint, the random integral pieces of the building that were parting company with the main structure before his eyes. The house was falling apart, and it was far too old to still be left standing. The stooped figure chuckled darkly to himself—it was ironic how much the building resembled its inhabitant.

He squared his already hunched shoulders and proceeded up the path to the door. He had business to conduct with Lord Voldemort.

* * * * * * *

Hands both bone-white and bone-thin clutched the bottle of wine and delicately poured it into a goblet. The wine was a deep crimson-purple, quite close to the colour of coagulating blood.

Voldemort licked his lipless mouth before taking a slow sip. He hadn’t needed to eat or drink for over three decades, but he still enjoyed the refined pleasures (and ensuing drunkenness) of a glass of wine every now and then.

He relished the quiet, private moments when he could relax by himself and think leisurely of homicide and world domination. Nothing in his way, no one interrupting him…

At that moment, the door was flung open, and a small, stooped man stepped inside. He cleared his throat. “I have shown myself in,� he said in a thin, unctuous voice.

Normally, Voldemort would have no qualms about blasting the living daylights out of any such intruder. Normally, a man who showed such disrespect toward the Dark Lord would be dismembered before he could utter a single word. But these were not normal circumstances.

Voldemort stood and inclined his head. “Mortimer Deathly,� he spoke. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,� replied Mr. Deathly, taking a seat in the chair in which Voldemort had been sitting and taking a debonair sip of wine.

Voldemort gaped. Stepping into his home, stealing his chair, drinking his wine out of his glass? His fingers itched for his wand, but he knew better than to try anything against Mr. Deathly. He had no power against him, anyway.

Most people could glance at Mr. Deathly and forget that they’d ever seen him. Indeed, he was not the sort of person that you would look at twice—but if you did, with a discerning eye, you would notice some things about his appearance that were not quite normal. His skin was just slightly too pale to belong to a living human his teeth just slightly too sharp, and his black eyes were in fact nothing but hugely dilated pupils, with no iris surrounding them. Even less noticeable but more unusual, he never blinked or breathed, and his heart did not beat. It was as silent and cold as a frog in a deep-freezer. Mr. Deathly’s black hair was scraped back from his forehead and combed into an oily ducktail, and it matched his austere black suit. There was something about his presence that simply commanded attention and respect, despite his quiet voice and frail appearance.

“It’s very dim in here,� Mr. Deathly remarked, and snapped his fingers. Instantly, twenty black candles sitting on the table burst into flame, casting eerie shadows across his ferrety face. “There. That’s much better.� With the skull-like appearance that the shadows gave him and his hood of black hair, he greatly resembled an image of the Grim Reaper.

Actually, this was about right, although Mr. Deathly did not like to be addressed as such. He was a refined man, and the title ‘Grim Reaper’ had all of the suave subtlety of a whack upside the head with a shovel. Basically, Mortimer Deathly was in charge of organizing, arranging, and choreographing deaths. He had built the veil in the Department of Mysteries, it was with him that those wanting to become ghosts had to register, and he was the one who dealt with the preservation of fragmented souls.

Voldemort looked extremely nervous—unusual for him, but usual for anyone in the presence of Mr. Deathly. The Dark Lord’s hands knotted together anxiously, and he hovered on the spot like a disoriented bee, seeing as he now had no chair.

“Mr. Deathly,� he said at last. “To what do I owe this… rare pleasure?�

Indeed, Mr. Deathly did not normally mingle with mortals anymore. Since the invention of the internet, he no longer had to make house calls to inform people of their impending doom. Voldemort had only met with Mr. Deathly six times before, on his visits to the Horcrux Registration Office, and he had not hoped to meet him again.

“I wouldn’t say ‘pleasure,’� Mr. Deathly replied dryly. “When I pay a visit to a mortal, it usually means bad news.�

“I am not a mortal!� Voldemort blurted.

Mr. Deathly leaned forward, using one of the candles to light the end of a cigarette in a long holder. “Tom,� he said softly, milking the benefits of being the only entity in existence who could get away with calling Voldemort ‘Tom’. “Tom, I hope you realize that when it comes to those on this earth, only I am truly immortal. I’ve been around since… since…� He began to count on his fingers, “Since my father, Pluto Deathly, retired four thousand years ago—� (Voldemort didn’t even want to think about how Mr. Deathly had managed to get to four thousand by counting on his fingers) “—and guess what?� He smirked. “They all died. People’s lives are like a blink of an eye to me, and even those who think they’ve got a ticket to immortality eventually die. Those living on unicorn’s blood eventually run out of their supply. Horcruxes can be destroyed. Even Nicolas Flamel got rid of the Philosopher’s Stone.�

Voldemort said nothing, and if he wasn’t so mature, he probably would have pouted. He was of the opinion that his six Horcruxes would be more than enough to keep him alive forever. After all, no one before him had ever had more than one.

“Anyway,� drawled Mr. Deathly, lounging lazily on Voldemort’s chair, “That’s precisely why I came here today. You see, your Horcrux Holder’s License has expired. You need to retrieve your Horcruxes and re-register them with my by the thirty-first of October, or else our agreement is off.�

‘Or else our agreement is off…’ These words, so casually uttered, were like a blow in the stomach to Voldemort. If their agreement was off, it meant that Voldemort’s Horcruxes would no longer work, and he would be mortal once more.

“But Mr. Deathly,� he protested, “The thirty-first of October is less than two months away. To find my Horcruxes and bring them to you will be very difficult, especially seeing as my sched—�

Mr. Deathly stood up and strode across the room, and Voldemort seized the opportunity to reclaim his chair.

“If you’re too lazy to get your Horcruxes yourself,� said Mr. Deathly, “You may take the opportunity to send a servant to do the deed for you.� He tilted his head. “However, mortals are greedy, and take it from someone who should know. If you don’t choose a servant that you’re sure is faithful, you could lose six sevenths of your soul forever. And make sure you pick someone who doesn’t have ‘DEATH EATER’ stamped across his face—you don’t want the Order to get a hold of your Horcruxes. Especially since you’ll have to pay me a fee for any Horcruxes that are damaged or destroyed.�

A slow, malevolent smile crawled across Voldemort’s face. “I am not worried,� he told Mr. Deathly calmly. “I have a servant at Hogwarts, most faithful of all, whose servitude to me is known to nobody—not even the other Death Eaters.�

Mr. Deathly rolled his iris-less eyes, and he snorted impatiently. “Pur-leeze. Absolutely everyone knows about Snape,� he said. “Even the Muggles do.�

Voldemort laughed, a soft and eerie sound much like the hissing of hundreds of serpents. “I do not mean Severus Snape,� he whispered. “I am speaking of…� he paused dramatically. “Minerva McGonagall.�

(A/N: Some people have asked what the Deathly Hallows are in this story. Mr. Deathly told Voldemort to return the Horcruxes on All Hallow's Eve. So the events of the Hallows will have quite a lot to do with Mr. Deathly.)