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He was beautiful.
His aquiline nose, the centrepiece of his lofty face, sculptured in power.
He looked down his nose at muggles and wizards alike.
He was the greatest of all. His nostrils flared in pride, and breathed in the scent of supremacy.
Baby Potter would die tonight, as would his parents. His impending victory as plain as the beautiful nose on his face.
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It…didn’t work out. Just an minor obstacle. He had as many lives as noses had snots.
He had a nose for dark magic, the best nose at that. He knew he will revive someday.
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He used to be beautiful.
But something had changed since his revival.
He kept having a blocked nose. Anapneo wasn’t helping.
At first he wasn’t worried. The aliment was minor and practising the Cruciatus Curse improved his mood.
Then more and more of his nose collapsed. It’s…not pleasant. He would even go as far to say it’s painful.
But what was pain to an immortal? Nothing.
It even made him look like a snake, his favourite animal.
It was no skin off his nose, except when it became literal. As in skin literally peeling off his nose.
Something was wrong. Something smelt fishy. Had Wormtail messed up the regeneration potion? No matter. That sniveling fool would face the consequence.
His Death Eaters sneaked fearful look at his nose but no one said anything- Good, they shouldn’t stick their noses into, well, his nose. It was ludicrous to think they had anything to contribute, except as target practice. His mood was foul. He smelt foul, then one day he couldn’t smell anymore.
Weeks passed and thing weren’t looking up. Wormtail was dead with a quick Avada Kedavra, and most of his Death Eaters had made themselves scarce after the example.
He lost his appetite. He thought he could tongue a hole on his upper palate. He checked - it’s not an anatomical feature of a snake. His face didn’t look like a beautiful snake anymore. He looked deformed. Diseased. There were lumps along his neck that were hot and sore to touch.
Was it a curse? His Death Eaters recommended healers. No. He could smelt sabatoge coming miles off. And he wouldn’t go St Mungo for obvious reasons.
He holed up in his room most of the time now. Plotting and seething at his nose, which was now a blasted big ulcer. He still hadn’t freed Lestrange, hadn’t retrieved the prophecy from the Ministry, hadn’t killed Potter...
He hobbled towards his bed, spots in his vision and sweats on his forehead. He had no nose. He had no reprieve. Even swallowing saliva was excruciating.
So weak, so weak - the antithesis of all things Voldemort.
His nasally doom awaited. He didn’t understand.
When DNA replication went wrong, even by a nose-hair’s breadth, the result could be catastrophic.
Voldemort collapsed and didn’t wake.
The next day when the remaining Death Eaters mustered enough courage to enter their master’s room, they would find Voldemort dead and flies abound.
No one in the wizarding world knew what happened to Voldemort.
The anwser was right under his nose all along.