This Voldemort might look dull-witted, but he is anything but careless.
Perhaps his nature truly matches those sly, treacherous Acromantulas. Even amid the festive Christmas atmosphere, Voldemort moved through the castle like a solitary shadow.
Watching the students laughing and hurrying toward the Great Hall, Voldemort hid in the darkness with a face twisted by resentment.
Worthless fools, lost in pleasure… such people have no future. In his eyes, none of these students were qualified.
But he did not harm a single one of them. For him, the top priority was uncovering information about himself, not creating unnecessary trouble.
Taking advantage of everyone heading to the Great Hall for the Christmas feast, Voldemort slipped into the school library in the form of a shadow.
Naturally, his goal wasn't any of the forbidden dark tomes in the Restricted Section. What he needed were old newspapers.
Nothing carries information closer to the truth than a newspaper.
Voldemort firmly believed his future would never be mediocre—he was destined to shake the wizarding world. His death, therefore, would certainly have been widely reported.
But when he saw the date of the most recent issue, he froze.
1992.
Sixty-plus years after he completed his second Horcrux.
Impossible… had so much time really passed? Perhaps his true body had only recently been killed, and that was why he awakened?
Where had his true body placed him back then? Why did he wake up in the Forbidden Forest?
He rapidly flipped through the articles until finally, in a 1980 issue, he found mention of himself:
"The Dark Lord defeated by an infant; Death Eaters crumble; mass trials imminent."
Voldemort felt struck by lightning.
The report was absurd—so absurd it felt like a cruel joke.
He had died twelve years ago?
And at the hands of a newborn?
He—great, terrifying, invincible Dark Lord—killed by a baby? How could something so ridiculous ever happen?
His hands trembled as he held the paper.
Instead of answering his questions, reading it only deepened his confusion.
If the newspaper had said he was killed by Dumbledore, he wouldn't have reacted so violently. But killed by a newborn? That defied all comprehension.
Even more incomprehensible—why had he suddenly awakened twelve years after his true body's death, and directly in the Forbidden Forest?
"Twelve years old… If nothing unexpected happened, that infant should be here at Hogwarts right now…"
A vicious gleam flashed through Voldemort's eyes, but it quickly vanished.
"No… I can't risk going after him. I don't know how he killed my true body right after birth, but going straight to him is far too dangerous."
At the critical moment, Voldemort chickened out. He felt completely unprepared.
Besides, with the true body dead, he now had to carry the Dark Lord's mantle and complete what the original had left unfinished.
"The key is that I'm alive… that means the other Horcruxes should be alive too, right?" His expression grew ruthless. "There can only be one Voldemort."
But unfortunately, the Gaunt-line fragment of Voldemort had no idea where the remaining Horcruxes were hidden.
He could only roughly guess what objects the true body would have used.
"Next step: find the Horcruxes, devour them, reclaim my power!"
Voldemort—this fragmented Voldemort—set himself a long-term goal.
Before he fully became the Voldemort, he could not afford any complications…
Suddenly, he froze.
His hand stopped on the most recent stack of newspapers.
Under the bold headline "Renowned Author Gilderoy Lockhart Holds Book Signing at Flourish and Blotts — Reliable Sources Confirm He Will Become Hogwarts' New Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor", a glossy photograph of Lockhart himself was attached.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?"
Voldemort's gaze turned dangerous.
He had coveted that position for a long, long time. Right after graduating, he had eagerly applied for it with Headmaster Dippet, who had always appreciated his talents—yet he was rejected.
When he returned later to apply again, the headmaster had already changed to that detestable Dumbledore. With Dumbledore present, Voldemort was utterly barred from ever obtaining the position.
So he cursed it.
No one would ever hold that job for a full year without meeting misfortune.
It was an ancient curse, a dark spell he had obtained from the Chamber of Secrets. Apart from the Basilisk, Salazar Slytherin had also left behind numerous handwritten notes for his heir.
That chamber was where the foundation of Voldemort's terrifying reputation as the Dark Lord had truly been forged.
"Another fool unafraid of death…" Voldemort's eyes glowed red.
For his curse to have lasted so long, yet someone still dared accept this accursed position—clearly this man thought very highly of his own strength.
Any thought of "don't create complications" evaporated from Voldemort's unstable mind. Staring at the biographical blurb about Lockhart in the newspaper, Voldemort became faintly curious about this man.
"As expected… a perfect fit for the position."
He eyed Lockhart's blunt, boastful book titles with a flicker of unease.
"In that case, I definitely can't let you live."
His icy whisper echoed through the empty library.
A gust of wind swept past—and Voldemort was gone.
The newspaper, featuring Lockhart's flawless smile, fluttered into Hogwarts' ever-burning Gobflame brazier and was quickly reduced to ash.
---
Recently, Lockhart had been feeling extremely unsettled. Because of the incident at the Dueling Club, it felt as if everyone had seen right through him—to the fact that he was, fundamentally, a fraud.
At the Christmas feast, that sensation intensified. He felt the students whispering while staring at him, as if they were openly discussing his incompetence.
For someone normally as confident as Lockhart to think this way, something had to be wrong. He could feel a kind of chill—
A sensation like a venomous snake staring at him.
The last time he had felt this way was when he met that old wizard—the one who could chat casually with a werewolf—while gathering material for his new book.
The man had eyes sharp enough to pierce straight through Lockhart's façade.
He had been careless back then. The old wizard had seen through his 3.9-out-of-10 magical aptitude, yet failed to see through his masterpiece-level Memory Charm.
But today's chill was far worse—far more exaggerated than when he stood near that old wizard.
Maybe the winter is simply too cold?
Lockhart tightened his robes and comforted himself with the thought.
He returned to his office and, with practiced ease, lit the candles using a fire-starting charm.
Just as he was pondering how to salvage his public image, he suddenly noticed someone sitting in his chair—someone cloaked entirely in black.
The man's face was swallowed in shadow, impossible to discern.
A fan?
A student here to comfort him?
Lockhart straightened his posture, preparing to appear suave and gracious—
But the stranger slowly rose to his feet.
The candlelight finally illuminated his face—
A dreadful visage, as though covered by a web of black veins.
---
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