Madam Mary, despite her deep aversion, carried the bloodline of the 'Time Explorer' Yaxley family. She'd never imagined she'd tap into such power, though her social standing had always kept her far from the Ministry-regulated Time-Turners. Yet, in the lost memories of her past, she now felt the undeniable stir of this ability.
The current moment, she realized, was before her very birth. Why had she come back to this past? She couldn't say. Nor could she explain why she was on this small Irish isle. Was there anything special here?
She soon found her answer. She saw a witch, shrouded in rough linen robes and exuding the dark magic of a Banshee, lurking in a corner, secretly watching a remarkably handsome wizard. That witch was her mother! A woman who, through a mishmash of dubious self-taught magic, had transformed herself into something neither wholly human nor ghost-like.
The wizarding world wasn't merely centered on British magical society, nor was it solely about the American wizarding congress striving for dominance. Wizarding communities across the globe faced their own unique struggles. Haitian wizards often roamed the world, fleeing their impoverished homeland, searching for a place to simply exist, never quite finding their soul's final resting place, enduring lives of hardship.
In their culture, seeking the protection of the powerful was quite normal. Tragically, her grandmother's chosen protector had ultimately betrayed her, and her mother seemed to be repeating the same mistake. Madam Mary, as a child, had often wondered about her father, but before she grew up, her mother had completely lost her mind and could no longer communicate. She couldn't help but wonder if this missing piece of her life was the memory of finding her father. So, with a cautious eye, she watched the handsome wizard, her brow furrowed as she observed the unfolding events.
Then, she saw Corban Yaxley! The wicked wizard who had stolen this very part of her life's memories appeared beside the handsome man, looking remarkably obsequious, which utterly astonished her. Haitian wizards worshipped strength. Madam Mary didn't even need to look at her mother in the corner to know the expression on her face. Pursuing power was hardly objectionable, for even Corban Yaxley, of the esteemed Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, had become this man's lackey.
She quietly followed them, soon arriving at a pub. The island's population wasn't vast, and this pub was practically the liveliest spot for most of its residents. She slipped into the crowd, eavesdropping on Corban and the wizard's conversation, and heard a name she could never have imagined—Voldemort! The Dark Lord! Her eyes widened in disbelief as she glanced outside the pub at her mother, who was peeking in. She swallowed, feeling a wave of utter absurdity. How could this be? It was too preposterous!
Suppressing her inner turmoil, she carefully observed the wizard Corban called Voldemort, wondering if this truly could be the great Dark Lord from history.
Soon, another familiar face appeared: Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.
Professor Lockhart strode in, immediately falling into a heated argument with Voldemort. Moments later, Voldemort drew his wand and severed his own little finger, tossing it to Professor Lockhart, seemingly uttering words of severing all ties. Professor Lockhart appeared furious, picking up the blood-stained digit, trembling with rage.
The scene unfolding before Madam Mary was so utterly absurd that she was left stunned. Was Professor Lockhart truly like this in private? Was this what Voldemort was like in his youth? She didn't know. She attempted to commune with the confused, mysterious magical force around Professor Lockhart, beginning to secretly observe the entire progression of events.
Finally, in the afternoon, she saw Professor Lockhart rush towards Voldemort's wooden cabin. The two argued again, and another familiar figure appeared: Hermione, one of Professor Lockhart's students, also joined the dispute.
"What do you know?" Voldemort spoke to the 'siblings' in a low, somber tone. "I am eternally plagued by anxiety about my own death and eternity. I wish to be remembered as a magical master like Merlin, not to squander my life in mundane happiness like you."
"You are indeed kind and always willing to help everyone, but seeing your numb, foolish demeanor always makes me feel ashamed that you were once my close friend."
Professor Lockhart looked quite angry, and his 'sister' Hermione sneered at Voldemort, saying, "You're wrong!"
"Merlin is remembered not for his magic, but for the man he was. The magic Merlin excelled at is rarely spoken of in later generations; people prefer to speak of the great life of this magical master."
This clearly spurred Professor Lockhart. He told his 'sister' to leave, then pulled up a chair and sat opposite Voldemort, looking as if he wouldn't leave until everything was made clear.
"I understand you perfectly, my friend, but I must warn you, you are on the wrong path!"
Lockhart looked earnestly at Voldemort. "You understand this truth yourself, don't you? But your heart is utterly filled with despair. Because you have never known love, you know the emptiness within you; your magical journey can never be complete..."
Voldemort's expression was peculiar, yet also agitated, as he spoke, "What choice do I have? I tried tirelessly to align myself with a great wizard, but I found that the closer I thought I was to him, the further away I always became."
"I also tried to find my blood kin, but my uncle, who was madly malicious towards everyone including myself, and my Muggle father, who despised and detested my mother—all of it brought despair."
"Ha, I knew it!" Lockhart sneered. "Your magic seems to pursue eternity and escape death, but in truth, your heart has long since despaired. Rather, you wish to utterly destroy yourself!"
Voldemort merely looked at him indifferently, a cold sneer on his face. "Oh, so you understand me so well, do you?"
"Of course, no one understands you better than I!" Lockhart waved his arms as he spoke, his expression greatly agitated. "You never intended to do this, but you did it anyway, didn't you?"
"This tendency towards self-destruction will soon evolve into a great evil. If you leave this island with that outsider, Corban, and venture out, you will only bring war and death to others, leading more people to destruction alongside you!"
"You are always so clever, always able to clearly perceive the contradictions in this world, always knowing what to propose to truly set this train, carrying the world towards ruin, in motion."
"You know what contradictions exist in this world, and you know what slogans will make people believe."
"But, my friend, you cannot do this. You are squandering your chance at salvation!"
Voldemort said nothing, merely listening with interest to the other's grand pronouncements. It was quite amusing, truly. The fragmented soul of Tom Riddle, affected by the body of the boastful peacock, had actually revealed his hand. Despair of life and eternity, thus leading to self-destruction?
Old Voldy, I've finally got you by the tail now!