"Quirinus Quirrell… and the legendary Dark Lord Voldemort?"
The voice from the darkness nearly scared Quirrell's soul out of his body. His face drained of color in an instant, turning pale gray. Forget responding—he couldn't even breathe.
The figure standing in the shadows at the doorway didn't know what to do with the silent Quirrell. Come in? Stay out? The situation quickly turned awkward.
Fortunately, while Quirrell was a wreck, the entity living on the back of his head—Voldemort—was a classic self-made villain. This kind of tension didn't faze him one bit.
"Ni si sen mo ren," came Voldemort's distorted voice through layers of thick turban cloth.
"What the hell? Can't even speak properly?" The mysterious figure in the shadows sounded annoyed. "Hiding and trembling like a coward—don't even have the guts to speak clearly?"
"How dare you!" Voldemort roared inside Quirrell's mind. "Take off this damned turban! I want to personally deal with this ill-mannered wretch!"
"Master… please calm down… we can't expose ourselves…" Quirrell pleaded, blood trickling from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth due to Voldemort's furious roar.
"Idiot. He already called me by name. Do you really think playing dumb will help now? You'll just make us look more pathetic." Voldemort was increasingly convinced he'd picked a particularly dimwitted host. "You must've slipped up somewhere."
Quirrell didn't dare argue. Obediently, he unwrapped the turban coiled around his head and, trembling, turned around.
From the back of his head emerged a terrifying face—wrinkled like a toad, forming a flat, snake-like visage on Quirrell's skull.
With the creaking of Quirrell's joints, his arms were twisted by dark magic and reversed into a posture controlled by Voldemort himself.
Using Quirrell's hands, Voldemort stroked his face, savoring a brief moment of freedom.
If not for Quirrell's original face still hanging on the front, he might've enjoyed it more.
"Show yourself," Voldemort said, turning toward the darkness. "Since you've come straight to me, I assume you're not one of those cowardly fools. What do you want?"
"Of course. I've always considered myself a genius."
The shadows at the door churned, slowly gathering into a human form before Voldemort.
A British gentleman stepped forward, clad in an ornate tuxedo and a tall top hat. His face was hidden behind a cold, white mask, disrupting the elegance of his appearance.
"My reason for coming here is simple: I want to propose a partnership."
"A partnership, huh?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes, lifting his head like a snake ready to strike. "Then start by telling me your goal."
"My goal is simple…"
But just as the man opened his mouth, Voldemort suddenly raised Quirrell's wand. A sickly green light gathered at the tip.
Avada Kedavra!"
With a harsh shout, Voldemort unleashed the infamous Killing Curse—a spell capable of ending lives instantly.
Despite speaking of cooperation, Voldemort had never intended to chat. His swift, merciless strike made that crystal clear.
Clearly, any mysterious person who could call him out by name was a threat, and Voldemort was not one to take chances.
Yet to Voldemort's shock, the curse that could kill any wizard—or even severely wound a fire dragon with high magical resistance—did nothing. It merely coated the stranger in a brief green shimmer, which faded harmlessly moments later.
"This how you Death Eaters greet people? Lobbing Killing Curses the moment we meet?" the masked man said, casually brushing off his tuxedo as if dusting away a bit of lint.
Voldemort was stunned. Even weakened as he was, the Killing Curse was still the Killing Curse. How could anyone just shrug it off?
Even if the man had dodged or blocked it with magic, Voldemort wouldn't have been this shaken.
This could only mean one thing: the stranger was highly alert and well-prepared. He must've used some magical artifact to withstand the curse.
And not just any artifact—it had to be unbelievably powerful, capable of letting him touch the remnants of the curse with his bare hands.
Realizing this, Voldemort regained his composure. "If you want to work with me, you'd better be worthy of it. Not every small fry gets the privilege."
"Well said," the stranger replied with a smirk. "But qualification goes both ways. Right now, I'm beginning to doubt yours. Maybe a powerless Dark Lord isn't worth working with."
Voldemort's gaze turned dark and cold, his stare boring into the man. "Did you come here just to mock me?"
"I don't have that kind of free time," the stranger chuckled. "There are many fascinating things in this world. You're merely one possibility I came across during my travels."
He took off his hat and began rummaging inside—despite it appearing empty.
Rabbits, doves, ribbons, balloons… all sorts of objects poured endlessly from the hat, turning the room into a circus mess.
"Ah, found it," the man said cheerfully, pulling out a tattered, ordinary-looking slip of paper.
He produced a pen and scribbled something on it. The paper floated over to Voldemort.
"Messing around in a tiny country like this is meaningless," the stranger said. "You need to broaden your horizons. Here—this might look unimpressive, but it's a significant invitation."
"I'm gathering like-minded individuals from around the world—people with the ambition to change it. And I think you have potential."
Voldemort took the paper and stared at the ornate, flowing script written on it.
___
Global Villains: Unite as One – Invitation Letter
To the amusing Mr. Tom Riddle,
We are pleased to inform you that you've been selected for a chance to join our growing family.
Respectfully,
Dio Brando
___