Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Voldemort felt a flicker of annoyance when he remembered the only thing his family had left him. That irritatingly common name, devoid of power, of significance; and it grated on him like an unscratchable itch.

But in the end, the name had served its purpose. It had led him down a path of discovery, a journey that had been far more than satisfactory. It had been transformative.

For it was on that path that Tom Riddle ceased to exist. His blood lineage—the one thing he had once clung to—became a mere footnote in the legend he was building. Yes, he was the last living heir of Salazar Slytherin, but that alone wasn't enough to distinguish him from the countless other witches and wizards who had descended from great bloodlines. It wasn't the new name he had crafted that set him apart—though wizards everywhere trembled at the sound of it. It wasn't even his reputation or the vast power he wielded over life and death.

No, what truly made him unique, what made him eternal, was the soul he had fractured and embedded into objects of ancient magic. Pieces of himself, safeguarded against the natural order. The most precious of them all was the locket of Salazar Slytherin—a relic that had slipped through the hands of its rightful owner.

The locket had belonged to his mother, a broken woman who had relinquished it in a moment of weakness, unaware that she was surrendering not only a family heirloom but a piece of their legacy. It had never been hers to give away. The locket, like the blood of Slytherin, was meant for one of power, for one who could claim its significance. For him.

When Voldemort had finally tracked it down, it felt like reuniting with a part of himself he hadn't realized he'd been missing. The memory still burned in his mind. Morfin had been a twisted, bitter shell of a man, with nothing but hatred and a fading connection to the great bloodline of Slytherin. His house had been a ruin, a testament to the downfall of his once-great family.

But simply possessing the locket wasn't enough. It had to be more than just a symbol of his birthright. It needed to be something more intimately his.

That was when he had truly claimed it—when he embedded a piece of his soul into the locket, sealing his bond to it through the darkest magic imaginable. Killing his father and grandparents had been nothing—just a momentary pleasure, a fitting end to the wretched bloodline that had spawned him. He had enjoyed it, relished in the act. They had it coming.

But to use his father's death, to take that moment of vengeance and twist it into something greater—that was truly satisfying. It was fitting that the life of Tom Riddle Sr., the man who had denied him his name and abandoned him, should fuel his immortality. The death had served a higher purpose, one far beyond simple retribution.

It had cemented his connection to the locket, forever binding the artifact to his very soul; and, in doing so, ensuring his immortality.

The locket, rich with history and the bloodline of Slytherin, was his, in every sense of the word. For no one, absolutely no one, had the right to such a treasure.

He felt an odd sense of pride knowing that it, too, would serve him faithfully, as if in silent acknowledgment that he had restored its rightful place in history. If the unthinkable happened—if he ever faced death—the locket would endure, and with it, so would he. But Voldemort wasn't one to leave anything to chance. The locket would remain hidden, untouchable by those too weak to appreciate it.

He had ensured its protection, and in return, it would protect him.

As long as it existed, he could not truly be defeated.