On the fourth day, he began to despair.
His body had reached its limit. The blisters on the soles of his feet burst and reformed, then reformed and burst again; his lips were cracked and bleeding, his throat hurt so badly that even swallowing was difficult; his eyes were burned red and swollen by the blazing sun, and his vision was beginning to blur. He did not know how much farther he had to walk, how much longer he could hold on, or whether this damned desert had no end at all.
But he did not stop.
He could not stop.
On the fifth day, the pyramid finally grew larger.
On the sixth day, he reached the foot of the pyramid.
The pyramid's entrance was a huge, gaping beast's maw. There were no teeth within it, only a dark, bottomless passage. Voldemort stood at the entrance, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, his legs trembling slightly.
He stepped into the passage.
The passage was short, only a dozen or so steps. At its end was a small stone chamber. In the center of the chamber stood a stone platform. On it lay a mirror.
The mirror was small, no bigger than a washbasin. Its frame was made of some golden, lustrous metal, carved with dense runes. The surface was not glass, but some flowing liquid like mercury, slowly swirling in the darkness.
Voldemort walked up to the platform and looked down at the mirror.
The reflection in it was himself—not that twisted, inhuman monster, but Tom Riddle from decades ago. Young, handsome, black-haired, with refined features and a faint, proud smile at the corners of his mouth. It was what he had once looked like, what he missed most, and what he hated most.
He reached out and took hold