Harry remembered the name—Lord Voldemort—but felt little emotion. From his perspective, Voldemort sounded like a failed British nationalist with delusions of grandeur, dreaming of ruling the magical world. But his methods? Laughably crude. His strategies? Ineffective. His reputation? Propped up by fear, not merit.
He had neither the charisma to inspire nor the power to seize lasting control. He couldn't even defeat Dumbledore, and without eliminating the most powerful force of opposition, how could he ever hope to rule? If Voldemort had dared to rule publicly, Dumbledore would've crushed him.
He was, most likely, a failure—and a dead one at that, given how Hagrid kept referring to him in the past tense.
What bothered Harry more was the possibility that Voldemort was already dead. That meant Harry wouldn't get the chance to finish him personally. And he didn't want to just kill him—he wanted to torment his soul forever.
If a time limit had to be imposed, ten thousand years sounded fair.
"Could the cold god's divine power track a soul?" Harry wondered.
"If not... then I need more divine points. More gold. More power."
He was certain: once his attributes—especially beyond strength—reached five, something would change.
"By the way," he asked suddenly, "how many people did Voldemort kill?"
Hagrid shivered again. "I—I don't know. No one kept count. But... many. Maybe hundreds!"
"...?"
Harry blinked. Only a few hundred?
This was the feared You-Know-Who? This was the name that silenced grown wizards?
Harry was honestly puzzled. In Westeros, he'd killed more than that in a single day. Was this Voldemort's fault—or his own for having a warped sense of scale?
Still, he stayed silent as Hagrid moved the conversation to his parents.
"Your parents were incredible," Hagrid said with emotion. "They were Head Boy and Head Girl at Hogwarts."
"Maybe Voldemort thought he could recruit them... or maybe he just wanted them gone. But on Halloween, ten years ago, he came to your village. You were just a baby, only one year old. He entered your house and—then—"
Hagrid suddenly pulled out a filthy, stained handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "This still gets me. Your parents... they were good people. The best."
"You-Know-Who killed them. And he tried to kill you, too—maybe he wanted to wipe out your whole family. But he failed."
"Why?" Harry asked, touching his forehead. "Why didn't it work?"
Hagrid's eyes rested on Harry's scar. "That's the strangest part. That scar is no ordinary wound. It was caused by an incredibly powerful spell. A spell that destroyed your home, killed your parents—but didn't kill you."
"What spell?"
"Avada Kedavra," Hagrid whispered.
He looked away. "Most people can't even cast it. If the wizard lacks intent or magical strength, it fizzles. But when it succeeds—there's no counter-curse. It's called the Unforgivable Curse for a reason."
"You're the only one in history to survive it."
Hagrid looked Harry over with some awe.
"Dumbledore and the Ministry confirmed it—you were hit directly, and it was cast by Voldemort himself. I used to worry that it might've affected your brain, but... seeing you today, I don't think that's a concern anymore."
Harry frowned. Before he'd transmigrated, he had no system, no magic, no unusual survival abilities. He'd barely scraped through life. His system had only activated afterward. If Hagrid was right, and Avada Kedavra was that lethal, there was no way his infant self should've survived.
"So what happened?" he asked quietly. "Why am I still alive?"
"You don't understand how famous you are," Hagrid said softly. "Voldemort never failed. No one ever escaped him. He wiped out some of the best—like the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewett brothers... But you survived."
At Hagrid's words, something flickered deep in Harry's memory.
There—green light. A flash, more vivid now than ever before.
And then—a laugh. Cold. Cruel. Unforgettable.
Harry didn't know how, but he could suddenly hear it again—like a nightmare echoing through time. A laugh that chilled the soul.
That must've been Avada Kedavra. That must've been Voldemort.
"Dumbledore sent me," Hagrid said quietly. "I carried you out of the ruins of that house myself... and brought you to the Dursleys."
But Harry wasn't finished asking.
"What happened to him after that?" he asked. "Is Voldemort dead or alive? If he's alive—where is he? If he's dead—where's the grave?"
Hagrid scratched his beard nervously. "That's just it. He disappeared. The same night he tried to kill you. Vanished. Poof."
He shook his head. "It made you even more famous. That someone like him—just gone—it's hard to believe."
"His magic was getting stronger and stronger, and then suddenly... he vanished? It doesn't make sense."
Hagrid's voice dropped. "Some people say he died. I used to think that was nonsense. But then again... he wasn't exactly human by the end, was he? Maybe he couldn't die the way we do."
"We thought he might be hiding somewhere, weakened. Maybe he lost his magic. Maybe you took it from him."
"No one knows, Harry. But something you did... destroyed him that night."
Hagrid's eyes were full of wonder and reverence. But Harry didn't share the sentiment.
He felt no joy, no pride.
If it had been a battle he won himself—he'd be proud. If he had earned that scar through effort, he'd carry it with honor.
But this? He couldn't even remember it clearly. He hadn't done anything. He didn't believe in claiming glory he hadn't earned.
That had always been his way—even on the battlefield.
Glory was earned with sweat and blood, not by accident.
Maybe it was because he had power now—real power—that he didn't care for empty titles.
But Hagrid didn't see it that way. He grew more animated with every word.
"Harry, I finally understand now. You weren't just a normal baby. You might've been born powerful. Maybe even more than we knew."
"That punch you threw earlier—you held back, didn't you? But to me, it felt like a god had descended. It was like... the storm itself was answering your call."
"It makes sense now. Voldemort couldn't handle you. Your strength paralyzed him. Your will crushed him."
"It's just like the old myths," Hagrid said, eyes shining. "You know the story of Heracles? Hera sent venomous serpents to strangle him in his cradle, but baby Heracles crushed them with his bare hands."
"You're like that, Harry. Maybe even stronger."
"And maybe Voldemort's only legacy will be that he left a scar on your forehead... and then fell under your iron fist."