Voldemort: He Who Kills Harry Is Crowned King!

"A very beautiful Obliviate, Quirrell, I must say."

"The rhythm of the incantation, the frequency of the tremor, the arc traced by the wand—all were flawless."

On the way out of George Finn's office, Voldemort praised his follower in a soft yet fervent tone.

This child was far too lacking in confidence; he needed encouragement, especially from him.

"But there is a problem."

As expected, at this turn, the soul belonging to Quirrell deep within his mind immediately grew tense.

"When you cast the spell, there was a moment of hesitation."

"I know it was because of me, and I also understand you merely wanted to confirm that I was watching you."

"But."

"Child, you need to be more resolute and decisive. You know what that means for a spell."

Voldemort stopped his murmuring and reached out to hail a taxi.

"36 Hall Street."

The moment the words left his mouth, Quirrell's voice already sounded in his mind.

"Master... The Dark Lord, I have recognized my error. If there is a next time, I will be more resolute and decisive."

Voldemort nodded and said no more.

Both the man and the soul inside the taxi fell silent.

Voldemort stared absently out the window. Amid the neon lights and bustling streets, he saw life.

It had been ten years since he crossed over.

These ten years, he had lived in a daze, spending most of his time locked in battle with Voldemort's remnant soul.

This was a war—one between two souls, a fight to the death with no quarter.

The origin of it all might have been that "Avada Kedavra" aimed at Harry, or perhaps something else entirely.

His predecessor, Lin Zuo, could not clearly identify the cause.

In any case.

By the time he became consciously aware that his soul had crossed over, it was already entangled with Voldemort's remnant soul, inseparable.

That was a battle that lasted ten years.

Lin Zuo relied on his complete soul and formidable willpower.

Voldemort's remnant soul relied on its understanding of souls and mastery of magic.

Over ten years, the two souls fought savagely:

Charge, fail, charge again...

Charge, fail, charge again...

Charge, fail, charge again...

The battle seemed destined to drag on endlessly, and Lin Zuo's complete soul, in the process, became riddled with holes.

That remnant soul—which had grown from Tom Marvolo Riddle into Voldemort—had divided itself by two time and again, until only a faint wisp remained, yet it could still deliver a fatal blow to Lin Zuo, who possessed a complete soul.

And that wasn't all.

Over ten years, all Lin Zuo could do was, between bouts of recuperation, actively or passively endure the attacks of Voldemort's remnant soul.

As for Voldemort's remnant soul, it dragged Lin Zuo's entangled soul along, wandering through the forests of Albania, barely clinging to existence.

It could be said.

Without the desperate struggle of Voldemort's remnant soul, Lin Zuo could guarantee that his own soul would have long since dissipated in this world of magic.

Yet even so, he still saw no glimmer of hope or possibility of survival, until...

The Golden Finger appeared.

Voldemort's gaze shifted slightly downward, toward the lower left corner of his vision.

There, a line of gray text read:

Darkest Hour.

If he ignited this line of text—and unless absolutely necessary, he would never do so—then his soul would become both powerful and evil.

It was in this state that he completed the fusion of his own soul with Voldemort's remnant soul.

And then...

A new soul was born, with Lin Zuo's shattered soul as the main body and Voldemort's remnant soul as the supplementary material.

This was the new Voldemort.

Yes.

He was Voldemort, not Lin Zuo.

Because this soul was already deeply branded with Voldemort's mark.

Anyone who saw this soul would cry out: "Voldemort."

And Lin Zuo, having become Voldemort...

Through his knowledge of the Harry Potter series and the Legilimency he could still use, he successfully convinced Quirrell to become his little fanboy.

Quirrell was just like Colin Creevey, whom the Potter kid met in his second year—timid yet eager to play.

The difference was, what awaited Colin Creevey was the Baslisk's gaze, while what awaited Quirrell...

Was the sweet, cloying love of the greatest White Wizard of the age, Dumbledore the Old Bee.

But Voldemort felt no sorrow for his little fanboy, because compared to himself, this was nothing:

Transmigrating into the Harry Potter world, starting face-to-face with the Dark Lord.

Barely escaping by relying on his Golden Finger, only to have his enemy turn into the Old Bee...

Heh heh...

A hell-level dungeon, now clenched in the current Voldemort's grasp:

He had once fantasized about explaining to the all-loving Old Bee that he wasn't Voldemort...

He had also thought about doing good deeds without asking about the future, using love to move Harry, Neville, and Sirius Black, who had lost their loved ones...

He had even imagined showing a nuclear-friendly smile and blowing Hogwarts to hell...

But in the end, he abandoned all unrealistic fantasies and rationally accepted everything.

After all.

He couldn't fantasize that the White Wizard King's will was weaker than the Dark Lord's...

Nor could he pin his hopes on Harry, Neville, and the others forgiving him after losing their loved ones...

And he certainly couldn't actually use weapons of peace, because that would trigger a series of follow-up problems he couldn't solve.

So...

Let everything continue.

Let Harry face the Chamber of Secrets, the Baslisk, Sirius Black...

Until the Old Bee dies from his own "love," and then he waves his hand:

"Whoever kills Harry shall be crowned king."

Whoever wants to go, go ahead—he, Voldemort, would never lift a finger.

In short, smooth over all the bumps, and in the end, he was willing to put everything down and choose to throw himself into the embrace of magic.

After all, this was a fun world, and he himself had once genuinely loved it from the bottom of his heart.

He only hoped everything would go smoothly; if not...

Voldemort's gaze once again fell to the lower left corner.

There, the gray [Darkest Hour] lay quietly.

"Sir, 36 Hall Street has arrived."

The taxi pulled to a smooth stop, and the driver's voice snapped Voldemort out of his reverie.

"Alright, thank you."

After a polite reply, he took out money and handed it to the driver, then stepped toward this short-term rented mansion.

"My Lord, are we training today?"

Quirrell's voice echoed from the depths of his mind.

"Yes, why not?"

Voldemort responded softly, while waving at the few people greeting him.

These people were mostly experts in combat and marksmanship.

Their significance to Voldemort was to improve his reaction speed and non-magical combat ability.

A wizard with powerful magic, even if physically frail, still had decent reaction speed.

But if magic was strong and the body was strong too...

Why not make yourself stronger?

After all, the Voldemort in the books wasn't him.

The Old Bee allowed himself to die before the mad Voldemort, but if it were him, perhaps Dumbledore would want to step in personally.

And to avoid that, pretending to be crazy and stupid...

If the script really followed that path entirely, how could he be sure he wouldn't end up with the same outcome?

Don't overestimate Dumbledore, or you're doomed to fail.

Don't underestimate Dumbledore, because he had spent ten years wrestling with the remnants of his student's soul.

"Tonight, let the storm rage even fiercer."

Stripping off his clothes, leaving only his turban and shorts, Voldemort said with excitement.

He would not admit defeat—not to anyone.

Simply because those ten years had been far too damn hard for him.

Having finally earned a chance to live.

No one, absolutely no one, would make him...

Draw a death lot again!