In a cozy corner, by a roaring fireplace, Goyle found himself in a peculiar sort of limbo. The warmth emanating from the flames did little to chase away the perplexing mist that seemed to cling to everything. He was terribly bored, you see, occasionally gazing at his companions, who seemed to have turned into statues, or trying to discern the shadowy figures within the fog. He even considered speaking to Crabbe, his best friend, but Crabbe had been acting rather strangely lately, staring into the fire and, most peculiar of all, losing his appetite for delicious treats. Goyle felt a pang of unfamiliarity. He opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding against disturbing his pensive friend.
Boredom began to consume him, and he grew restless. He fished out a half-eaten sausage from his pocket, nibbling on it with great care. One had to be cautious, as he'd only managed to snag half a sausage, and it wouldn't last long if devoured too quickly.
Time, however, seemed to have lost all meaning. Apart from the occasional creaking of a grand grandfather clock, he felt no sense of its passage. Then, quite suddenly, a wave of frustration washed over him. He yearned to change something. He paced among his statue-like friends, his gaze falling upon the various objects scattered on the floor.
There were three books. One appeared ancient and stout, without a title, but he recognized it as a fairy tale book Professor Lockhart used to conjure adventurous scenarios. The second looked like a diary, which he instinctively avoided. Firstly, he had no interest in others' private affairs, and secondly, a gut feeling told him to keep his distance from that particular journal. He trusted his instincts; old Goyle had always advised him, "A pure heart should trust its intuition," and he had always dutifully complied.
The last book was titled Breaking Up with a Banshee, his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, which Goyle also recognized. Having participated in the Duelling Club's collaborative efforts to compile Where to Find Dark Creatures, he knew full well that a banshee was not a ghost but a wailing woman. Professor Lockhart had described this dark creature as an old hag, mentioning that "a banshee isn't the bringer of death, but arrives after it; and the reason everyone believes she's a harbinger, a pre-announcer of doom, is because death, in truth, often comes far sooner than death itself."
"Death comes far sooner than death itself"—such words were difficult for Harry, Draco, and even the clever Hermione to grasp, but Goyle, surprisingly, understood. Indeed, he and Crabbe might have been the first to comprehend Lockhart's meaning, for they had, since childhood, heard that very adage from the fairy tales Draco's mother, Narcissa, used to tell them before bed.
"Some people irrevocably walk towards death, and thus death becomes foreseeable."
Goyle felt a touch of sadness, a sorrow stemming from his own powerlessness in the face of everything. Crabbe's parents had already passed on, and he wondered, were his own parents irrevocably walking towards their end? Perhaps even he and Crabbe were as well? His dim-witted brain couldn't offer him any thoughts or decisions, and this spiritual realization only deepened his discomfort.
Fortunately, his attention was soon diverted by something else, as was often the case with him.
"Huh?"
Goyle rubbed his eyes in confusion, staring blankly at the textbook before him. The words on its cover seemed to squirm like tadpoles, rapidly shifting. From Breaking Up with a Banshee, it transformed into Breaking Up with Tom, then The Loneliness's Crack, followed by Escaping Death, Choosing Between Loneliness and Death, and Death and Eternal Torment...
He picked up the book, puzzled, only to find the constantly changing words finally settling on The Banshee of Bandon, Ireland. It flickered a few times, then reverted to Breaking Up with a Banshee. He was about to flip it open, wondering if the contents were still the same, when—
"What are you doing!" an angry voice reprimanded him.
Goyle, startled, quickly placed the book back in its original spot, gently wiping a spot that wasn't even dirty with his wizard's robe sleeve. He turned to see Crabbe.
"Hey, mate, don't get so worked up, I was just looking," Goyle grumbled.
"I advise you not to meddle. We don't know what's coming next. We can't change anything. We can only do what we're supposed to and follow orders," Crabbe said coldly, his voice growing louder.
Goyle, too, rose in anger. "Don't you think it's laughable to bring up your father's advice to us now? Vincent, you've changed. You used to follow Draco's orders obediently, just like me, but now you're becoming more and more opinionated!"
Crabbe fell silent.
"Undying loyalty means absolute loyalty, your father said that, remember?" Goyle stepped past Harry, approaching Crabbe. "Vincent, if we lose our loyalty, the Malfoys won't shelter us anymore!"
Silence. A sudden, profound silence.
After what seemed like an eternity, Crabbe looked back at the flames in the bonfire, his expression unreadable. "I just want to live, Gregory, you understand, don't you?" he said.
"No, I don't understand!" Goyle glared at him fiercely. "Do you remember the words on the painting in my house? 'Those who fear death the most die the fastest.'"
"If you don't believe the Malfoys can keep you alive, you won't get their protection!"
Crabbe turned back to him and suddenly laughed. "What if I don't want to listen to the Malfoys anymore? What if I want to embark on my own magical path?"
Goyle stared at him in disbelief. "We're both dolts, and a dolt wants to walk his own magical path? Have you not eaten anything and gone mad? I should have saved that sausage for you!"
"I'm not a dolt, I'm just slow-witted!" Crabbe looked at him coldly. "Only you would think you're a dolt, because Draco always says you are, and so you, the loyal one, believed him and became a true dolt."
Goyle was beside himself with rage. "This is betrayal! This is shameful betrayal!" he roared.
With that, he charged forward like a bull, swinging his thick arms at Crabbe, tackling him with such force that they both tumbled into the fireplace behind them, engulfed by the strange, two-colored flames.
They weren't burned to ashes. Instead, they plunged into Lockhart's peculiar ritual. As the grandfather clock ticked and tocked, they both fell into a swirling vortex of time.
Adventure was a journey both exhilarating and perilous. Lockhart orchestrated the adventure, providing ample guidance, yet he could not pen the course of the journey itself. For it was never a theatrical stage where one simply played a role; it was full of the unexpected. And these unexpected twists were precisely where magic found its opportunity to bloom.
---
In Bandon, Ireland, at some point in a past that might have existed, there lay a secluded island, rarely visited by outsiders due to its legends of banshees. On this island lived a carefree, happy, and unassuming young man whom everyone called 'Young Lockhart'. He was always brimming with joy. Even when he led his cattle past the seashore and heard the dreadful cannon fire from beyond the island, he would merely grumble to his friends before returning to his mundane, leisurely life.
However, these past few days, he hadn't been so cheerful. His good friend, 'Riddle', had actually declared in the pub that he was breaking off their friendship, no longer wanting to be chums. This was utterly baffling, and Young Lockhart had pressed him for answers, but he received none. This friend was so resolute that he publicly announced if Young Lockhart spoke to him, Riddle, one more time, he would cut off one of his own fingers to signify their broken bond, continuing until Young Lockhart ceased speaking to him altogether.
Young Lockhart had a suspicion; he believed some people escaping the war from beyond the island were spreading tales of the conflict out there, tales of two close brothers who had fallen out and fought due to differing political choices. And his habitually restless friend, Riddle, had become captivated by this 'trend', which was why he intended to sever their friendship.
That day, he dug out his old wand, intending to teach that outsider a lesson.
If only his sister, Hermione, hadn't stopped him. Yes, if it weren't for his sister, he would have definitely taught that outsider a lesson! "You can't go. I saw a banshee near you; doing this will only bring terrible consequences!" his sister had said. She even added that if Young Lockhart didn't heed her warning and went, she would immediately leave their home.
Hmph! His sister had always wanted to leave home anyway. She detested an ordinary life, yearning for the more exciting world beyond the island, even if a dreadful war was raging there. She always felt out of place among the islanders, preferring to read useless books and learn knowledge that she'd never use in her lifetime, thereby creating a formidable, insurmountable chasm between herself and everyone else.
So Young Lockhart didn't go. He didn't want to lose his sister. Or rather, he didn't know how he would face life without her. He had grown accustomed to her presence; she was the family member he cherished most.
"That blasted outsider!" Young Lockhart pulled out his spyglass, angrily watching the outsider conversing in low tones with his friend Riddle from afar. He was supposedly called Corban Yaxley? He watched as the two, chatting and laughing, boarded a carriage, their heads bowed in conversation. Young Lockhart's eyes narrowed instantly.
What were they saying? He desperately wanted to know.
He soon found out. Magic answered his call, and a gentle breeze carried the distant voices to him.
"Do you know me?" Riddle asked.
"Yes," Corban Yaxley replied, "I've heard tales of your deeds from many, and even though you are currently in a forgotten corner of the world, I am willing to follow you, to follow you all the way to the brightest stage in the world."
Oh! Listen! Just listen to those words! Young Lockhart felt sickened. A restless person had found a restless follower, and this would make him completely lose his confidant. He angrily pounded the table, continuing to listen to the voices carried by the wind.
"Say My Name!" Riddle then commanded.
"You are the great Gilderoy Riddle! I pledge myself to you!" Corban Yaxley declared.
Riddle's lips curled into a slight smile. "How intriguing!"
---
"An interesting topic," Gilderoy Riddle mused, gazing at his reflection in a puddle on the ground, his eyebrows slightly raised. "When my body is Riddle, my magic is Riddle, my bloodline is Riddle, and even..."
He let out an astonished sigh. "My brain, my thoughts, every bubble that pops up in my mind—they all belong to Riddle."
"Corban, tell me, am I Riddle?"
Corban was bewildered. He had no idea why this powerful wizard, rumored to be revered and supported by many, would ask him such a question. What puzzled him even more was how to answer such a seemingly foolish inquiry. Was this an interview? A test for him? What should he say?
Fortunately, Gilderoy Riddle didn't actually demand an answer. Instead, he spoke with profound meaning, "No, I am not Riddle. Even if my thoughts claim I am Riddle, my spirit is not. My spirit belongs to me."
"Of course, I need some 'social' validation, some true recognition to claim the most precious treasure of this fascinating journey of life."
Then, he looked at Corban. "Remember my name—Voldemort!"
"Voldemort?" Corban was baffled. He suddenly realized that finding this powerful individual might have been a mistake; his supposedly clever mind simply couldn't keep up with the other's pace.
"Yes, it means 'flight from death'!" Gilderoy's voice was filled with a strange cadence.
"Voldemort!" Corban had no choice but to humor the eccentric wizard, respectfully uttering his name.
"Excellent!" Gilderoy exclaimed, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at his hands. He could feel an incredibly unfamiliar magical bloodline suddenly awakening within him. It felt somewhat like the sudden emergence of a werewolf's bloodline, but far more bizarre than lycanthropy.
This was... Parseltongue? He carefully felt the magical bloodline surging within him, observing its influence on his magical state, savoring every minute detail.
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