What Anton called summoning wasn't so easy. Voldemort whispered his calls, but the enormous egg before him, glowing faintly, remained utterly still.
He pressed his lips together and sank helplessly to the ground. With a touch of self-mockery, he realized he hadn't really tried that hard to call Bella.
Yes, in the end, he couldn't let go of his pride.
Especially not in front of so many enemies, even if he couldn't see them now.
Voldemort clenched his fists, his thoughts in chaos.
The past was churning through him with such wild intensity. He even found himself thinking of his student days, when he had watched Dumbledore and Grindelwald's war with such cold amusement, so enthralled by magic.
If only...
If only he had been like Anton, devoting himself solely to magic. Perhaps by now, decades later, he would have become far more powerful than Dumbledore, with life and death no more than things he could mold at will.
If only he hadn't been so ambitious.
But without ambition, would Tom Riddle still be Tom Riddle?
He began to feel disgusted with it all, disgusted with himself for greedily wanting to restore his soul to wholeness, greedily wanting to go back from "Voldemort" to "Tom," greedily stealing the Magic of Love from Harry Potter and, in the end, completing himself.
Yes, at first, he had planned to use this method on Anton. He had discovered long ago that Anton's soul had shattered into fragments.
But later, to his surprise, he realized he could no longer defeat Anton.
He had settled for the next best thing, setting his sights on the child whose own soul had grown under the influence of his Horcrux: Harry Potter.
Through his soul, the boy had quietly come to share his Bloodline, growing into another version