— — — — — —
The moment Bella saw that weak, tattered cloud of black mist that was the Dark Lord, she burst into tears and fell to her knees.
"Master, my master! I finally found you!"
Lockhart also felt like crying, though Bella wept from excitement while he cried inside from pure misery.
It had been over half a year since their escape from Azkaban. Aside from the two months spent recuperating at the Lestrange home — the only time that had resembled normal human living — the days afterward had gotten worse and worse.
Especially after fleeing Britain and setting out in search of Voldemort. They slept in the open, ate what they could, and hid wherever was desolate enough.
And each time Bella tried to locate Voldemort through the Dark Mark, it was a nightmare. The connection flickered on and off, so they zigzagged across continents. They would reach a destination only for the signal to jump somewhere else.
Their journey took them from Northern Europe to Spain, and now somehow all the way into a tribal region in Africa.
"Bella… weren't you imprisoned in Azkaban? Did you all escape together?"
Voldemort sounded genuinely delighted. Anyone else — say, Lucius Malfoy or the other Death Eaters who were still living comfortably — would not have earned that tone. In his current state, Voldemort was painfully aware that those who bowed only to fear and power wouldn't stay loyal to a helpless phantom. They would have some other motive for seeking him out.
But Bellatrix Lestrange was different.
She was the Death Eater he had trusted most. His loyal hound. Betrayal was simply not in her nature.
Hearing his question, Bella's joyful expression faltered.
"Master, they're still in Azkaban. It happened like this…"
She explained how Lockhart had taken her along in the escape, and told him everything that happened afterward.
"Wandless Obliviate… but casting other spells like a lunatic. Interesting. Not bad. Once I return, you'll be rewarded for saving Bella."
Lockhart nearly choked from excitement — unaware that Voldemort was just saying things. He had flattered Quirrell the same way once. His attention was actually fixed on something else entirely.
"You said Grindelwald attacked Hogwarts? And dueled Dumbledore?" Voldemort asked, unable to contain himself. "Tell me everything you know. Every detail."
Bella didn't dare leave anything out. She strained her memory, recounting the battle scene as best she could. Unfortunately she had been far away, so her view was limited. Any closer and she might have been caught in the crossfire — or spotted.
Voldemort fell silent, piecing together Grindelwald's power from that thin scrap of information. He muttered, "No wonder he dared come after me. He's a strong opponent… but you're all old men now. Only I will conquer death."
"Came after you?" Bella stared wide-eyed, her already bulging eyes looking ready to drop out. "Master, you met Grindelwald?!"
"Yes."
He didn't bother hiding it. He was already miserable enough. He might as well admit that he had fled from the Albanian forest because of Grindelwald, chased until he tumbled into this forgotten wasteland.
Bella and Lockhart were stunned that two Dark Lords had clashed so soon, but neither doubted Voldemort's strength. If anything, it made him seem even more terrifying.
If he could escape from Grindelwald while half-dead, then at his peak they must be nearly equals.
Lockhart suddenly felt their whole journey was worth it. Once Voldemort returned, they could storm Britain — maybe even Hogwarts.
Bella trembled with excitement. "Master, what do you need me to do? How can I help you recover?"
"No rush. First find me a wizard… not a strong one. I'm very weak right now. I can't even properly possess a suitable body. Everything must be done slowly."
Voldemort was in a state neither alive nor dead. The thing speaking to them was basically his disembodied consciousness. Escaping Grindelwald had come at a heavy cost. His mind slipped into unconsciousness at random, and if that continued, one of those sleeps might last months, then years, then forever — until he became nothing but a lingering ghost.
Bella eventually captured a tiny leaf-green snake barely three months old and stunned it with the Imperius Curse. Voldemort managed to force himself into the snake. Then the three — two people and one snake — made for the nearest city.
Along the way, Bella described what had changed in Britain and Europe. Outside of Britain nobody was really hunting them anymore. You could still buy wizarding newspapers overseas, so they were fairly up to date.
The more Voldemort listened, the worse he felt.
The "washed-up loser" he once despised — an old man defeated by Dumbledore — now had the whole magical world stirred up. At his own brightest, Voldemort had never shaken the world like Grindelwald was doing.
Though envy flickered through him, his mind was clearer than Grindelwald's on one point: until the biggest obstacle, Dumbledore, was removed, any glory was meaningless.
Only when he was the world's strongest would fame and power fall into his hands as naturally as breathing.
For now, the priority was to nourish his mind and craft for himself a perfect vessel.
...
"A perfect body… it's difficult. Too difficult."
Fate really had a sense of humor. At that same moment, another Tom Riddle was wrestling with the same question: how to build the perfect vessel for a soul.
And his requirements were a lot higher than his predecessor's.
Ariana, Andros, and Jeanne were all waiting inside the learning space with anxious eyes, practically begging him to hurry up.
The bond between soul and flesh was delicate. You couldn't just shove any soul into any body. There had to be compatibility, plus an anchor to fuse spirit and flesh together.
And the most important requirement: magic.
Magic was a wizard's natural gift. It didn't come from body or spirit alone, but from the miraculous union of both. Tom could already craft a physically flawless body, but forcing Ariana and the others to possess it could lead to unpredictable disasters.
"Voldy really was absurdly good at this stuff…"
No wonder Rowling had labeled him the strongest dark wizard. Forget everything else, the magic he created just to resurrect himself was ridiculous enough to go down in history.
"Wait."
Tom suddenly looked up. The stands erupted into cheers at the same moment. Hogwarts' fourth-year contestant, Rorsell from Slytherin, had just beaten the Castelobruxo student.
Tom ignored the noise. His thoughts were racing.
Why not follow Voldy's logic?
"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master."
"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."
Tom slipped into the study space, whispering the resurrection incantation Voldemort had used. With the knowledge he'd accumulated, he began breaking it down and then triggered a a turbo. His academic credits instantly dropped by five hundred, but his mind snapped into perfect clarity.
"No doubt about it… this is a massive, multi-layered dark spell."
"Potioncraft provides the energy foundation. Three spells and three ingredients supply the physical components. It's essentially a sacrificial ritual. Binding soul and flesh pulls in contract magic…"
"The father's bone symbolizes lineage. The servant's flesh represents loyalty. The enemy's blood implies conquest. Three parts combined to overturn the law of life and death…"
Ideas exploded out of him. Quills flew, parchment fluttered. Dozens of sheets filled with tiny, cramped handwriting, runic formulas, potion notes, and enough magical notation to make a grown wizard dizzy.
By the time that ended, Tom stared at his own work and felt lost.
What the hell was this?
Could systems this unrelated really coexist? The side effects alone sounded like the ritual might explode on completion, leaving the poor soul revived just long enough to bounce between life and death like a malfunctioning yo-yo.
Then again… that was dark magic for you. Power at the cost of consequences. Voldemort had mastered Slytherin's biological alteration arts, so what Tom considered catastrophic side effects probably counted as mild inconveniences to him.
...
While Tom brooded, the fourth-year dueling bracket reached its final match.
Cassandra and Rorsell were tied in wins, and the organizers had scheduled their duel as the closing fight. Whoever won would take that division.
Cassandra had never taken Tom's potions, but she'd been trained by him before.
So even with several professors tutoring him, Rorsell couldn't withstand Cassandra's signature weather spells. She bombarded him until he toppled unconscious with a spectacular frizzled hairdo.
Snape's face was darker than Rorsell's burnt hair. Even so, his reflexes were fast. He flicked his wand and caught the boy before he hit the ground.
Three rounds of competition had passed so far. The first two winners were Hogwarts students, both from Gryffindor. And the one Slytherin who finally made it up there just lost.
How was Snape supposed to look anyone in the eye after that?
The Ilvermorny chaperone finally relaxed and even smiled, and several other school faculty seemed visibly relieved.
At least someone besides Hogwarts won a match. If Hogwarts kept sweeping the board, what was the point of taking the risk of excluding Riddle from competing in the first place?
Grindelwald suddenly stood. Dumbledore looked at him, puzzled.
"The matches are over. Why are we still here?" Grindelwald tilted his head. "Unlike you, I actually have a life… and an entourage known as the Acolytes."
He walked out without waiting for a reply, with the rest of the Durmstrang party scrambling after him.
In reality, Grindelwald had felt Tom calling him. Most of his consciousness had already slipped into the study space, and he'd left quickly to avoid Dumbledore noticing anything strange.
---
Inside the space, at the familiar little round table, Tom sat with his chin resting on his palm.
"Everyone, I might need to dig up some graves."
.
.
.