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The deafening beat of her power seduced and obscured his senses in a way that denied him the right and ability to see reality for what it entirely was. The energy vibrating off her was exquisite, so dark in its glory that it sucked the air out of his lungs the first time she appeared before him, and let it roll off her in a steady wave caressing him. It was intense in its might, searing both him and his fractured soul with its touch. Suffocating. Erotic. It sang to his own magic in a tempting call, a call he imagined sirens would bestow upon sailors before leading them to their utter demise. It whispered lewd encouragements for him to come closer, to come undone under it. Sinful obscenities, promises of power beyond his reach. And so, in his foolishness, he did. Because if there was one thing, that Tom Riddle couldn’t deny himself, it was power.
The acknowledgement of her form, of what she truly might be underneath her alluring exterior, slipped his mind's grasp easily that day, as if a thick veil of ignorance and unbarring lust was thrown over his eyes. He was a powerful man, one that conquered and ravished the world, bending it to his will and whim. A man that thought he made a fool out of Death itself, openly laughing in its face as he kept wreaking havoc upon the mortal realm, playing God and claiming lives that were not yet or his to take. But Death knew that his body was still that of a man with carnal urges and so she had sunk her sharp claws deep into his soul, mind, and body - her presence and magic becoming an always present humming underneath his skin, an unwelcomed parasite coursing through his veins, slowly draining his magic and life essence.
Time started slipping through his fingers in a blur of nothing as his fascination with her grew steadier, tightly waving itself into an all-consuming obsession. Fire settled deep inside his core, burning him from the inside, his lust for her blooming into a force of ultimate destruction. And, as Morpheus continued to elude him on her request, mocking him for all the sins he ever committed, he started his descent into madness - his mind slowly beginning to corrode and rot. Death watched, the corporal form she had donned always dancing in the shadows of his peripheral vision; her delicate bare feet gliding across the floor, her wide hips and slim waist swaying and gliding through the air like a serpent readying itself to strike. Wild, unruly curls fell down her shoulders and back, each move and turn she made causing it to glint in the dim lights of his chambers like the darkest waterfall would gleam under full moon’s light.
Her gaze would sometimes lock with his, eyes the colour of molten gold piercing right through his disgusting soul. She’d smile then, her full lips stretched into a taunting smirk, as she dragged her tongue across her sharp canines and let her hands roam across her body in obscene ways. He would watch, his crazed crimson eyes transfixed on her body, and scream profanities in frustration when she held him in place with her magic, not allowing him to ease the ache of his throbbing cock, already slick with precum. And Death laughed cruelly, as he begged her for release, tormenting him with her power even further by letting it stroke and caress him, each time stopping just before he could spill himself. The Danse Macabre of her creation.
He’d plead with her, damn her existence, desperately trying to distinguish reality from a dream while she lingered in the shadows mocking him, observing with satisfaction as his meticulously built world crumbled away and his position of power dimmed steadily. Soon, he became paranoid and deranged, scared of treason, as his strategies started to fail miserably and his followers begun to drop dead, one by one, at his vicious hand. He would break down, his psyche unstable and volatile, his mind already destroyed beyond repair. But Death was ruthless and liked to mingle, and so words of Riddle’s cursed fate at the bequeath of angered gods soon broke out among his ranks, and those that were still unscathed started to flee, defecting.
“Come to me, Tom Riddle” she’d whisper the taunt into his ear each time he lashed out violently. “There’s nothing left for you here, little boy” she’d add in an almost motherly tone, as her tongue slowly made its way up his cheek, tasting the fear, hate and despair oozing from him, before disappearing.
Death searched the mortal realm for the blasphemies he had committed against the old laws, collecting the obscure artifacts along her Hallows that she had once graciously bestowed as a gift upon earth. Upon entering Hades, she made her way towards the Phlegethon, its stream of lava flowing unsteadily, fires and waves of smoke blooming on its surface. She stared at the objects in her hands with both disgust and pity, feeling both the weight of Tom Riddle’s soul pieces and the souls of those he murdered and trapped inside them. Death sighed before throwing the Horcruxes into the river, and as wails of anguish echoed through the empty space around her, she turned on her heel. Mortals were becoming more and more audacious.
“We’ll meet again, little boy” she smirked, hearing the devastating screams from the other side of the veil that was connecting the realms of dead and living.