"Very impressive Obliviate, Quirrell. I have to tell you that."
"The rhythm of the spell, the tremor, the wand's trajectory—it was all perfect."
As he left George Finn's office, Voldemort praised his follower in a soft but passionate voice.
The boy was far too insecure. He needed encouragement, especially from him.
"But there was a problem."
Sure enough, at this turn in the conversation, Quirrell's soul deep within his mind immediately grew tense.
"When you cast the spell, you hesitated for a moment."
"I know it was because of me. I also understand that you just wanted to make sure I was paying attention to you."
"But..."
"Child, you need to be more resolute and decisive. You know what that means for a spell."
Voldemort stopped murmuring and raised a hand to hail a taxi.
"36 Hall Street."
As soon as he spoke, Quirrell's voice came from within his mind.
"Master... Dark Lord, I realize my mistake. If there's a next time, I'll be more resolute and decisive."
Voldemort nodded and said nothing more.
The person and the soul in the taxi fell silent.
Voldemort gazed blankly out the window. Amid the bright lights and bustle, he saw life.
It had been ten years since he crossed over.
He had spent those ten years in a daze, passing most of his time struggling against Voldemort's Soul Fragment.
It was a war between two souls, a battle to the death.
It might have all started with that "Avada Kedavra" aimed at Harry. Or perhaps it had been something else.
Lin Zuo, the previous owner of this body, couldn't be sure of the cause.
In any case...
By the time he became fully aware that he had transmigrated into this world as a soul, his soul was already entangled with Voldemort's Soul Fragment, inseparable from it.
It was a battle that had lasted ten years.
Lin Zuo relied on his intact soul and iron will.
Voldemort's Soul Fragment relied on its understanding of souls and control over magic.
For ten years, the two souls fought like mad:
Charge, fail, charge again...
Charge, fail, charge again...
Charge, fail, charge again...
The battle seemed destined to go on forever, and in the process, Lin Zuo's intact soul became battered and torn.
The remnant soul that had grown from Tom Marvolo Riddle into Voldemort divided its own soul in half again and again. In the end, only a faint wisp remained, yet it could still deal a fatal blow to Lin Zuo, whose soul was whole.
And that wasn't all.
For ten years, all Lin Zuo could do was endure Voldemort's Soul Fragment's attacks, willingly or otherwise, while recovering his strength between each assault.
Meanwhile, Voldemort's Soul Fragment wandered through the forests of Albania, dragging Lin Zuo's soul along with it, barely clinging to life.
It could be said that...
Without Voldemort's Soul Fragment's desperate struggle to survive, Lin Zuo could guarantee that his soul would have long since vanished from this magical world.
And even so, he still couldn't see the slightest hope or possibility of survival. Not until...
The Golden Finger appeared.
Voldemort's gaze shifted slightly downward, to the lower left corner of his vision.
There, a line of gray text appeared:
Darkest Hour.
If he ignited those words—which he would never do unless absolutely necessary—his soul would become powerful and evil.
It was in that state that he merged his own soul with Voldemort's Soul Fragment.
And then...
A brand-new soul was born, with Lin Zuo's battered soul as its core and Voldemort's Soul Fragment as the raw material.
This was the new Voldemort.
Yes.
He was Voldemort, not Lin Zuo.
Because this soul had been branded with Voldemort's mark.
Anyone who saw this soul would call it "Voldemort."
And Lin Zuo, now Voldemort...
Drawing on his knowledge of the Harry Potter series, as well as the Legilimency he could still use, he had successfully persuaded Quirrell to become his little fanboy.
Quirrell was just like Colin Creevey, whom Harry had met in his second year: timid, but eager to have fun.
The difference was that Colin Creevey had faced the Basilisk's gaze, while Quirrell was waiting for...
The sweet, cloying "love" of the greatest White Wizard of the age, Dumbledore, Old Bee.
But Voldemort didn't feel the least bit sorry for his little fanboy. Compared with what he'd been through, this was nothing:
Transmigrating into the world of Harry Potter and starting out face-to-face with the Dark Lord.
Barely escaping thanks to his Golden Finger, only for his enemy to turn into Old Bee right afterward...
Heh.
The hell-level dungeon was now in Voldemort's hands:
He had once imagined explaining to the all-loving Old Bee that he wasn't Voldemort...
He had also thought of doing good deeds without asking what the future held, and using love to reach Harry, Neville, and Sirius, who had all lost loved ones...
He had even considered putting on a warm, amiable smile and blowing the damn Hogwarts to smithereens...
But in the end, he abandoned every impractical fantasy and accepted reality.
After all...
He couldn't imagine that the White Wizard King's resolve would be weaker than the Dark Lord's...
Nor could he count on Harry, Neville, and the others, who had lost their loved ones, to forgive him...
And he certainly couldn't actually use a weapon of peace, because that would lead to a whole series of problems he couldn't resolve.
So...
Let everything continue.
Let Harry face the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk, Sirius Black...
Until Old Bee died of his own "love," and then Voldemort would wave his hand:
"Whoever kills Harry shall be crowned king."
Let whoever wants to go take him on. Voldemort wouldn't lift a finger.
In short, he'd smooth away every obstacle, and at the end, he was willing to let it all go and immerse himself in the embrace of magic.
After all, this was a fascinating world, and he himself had once truly loved it.
He could only hope that everything went smoothly. Otherwise...
Voldemort looked toward the lower left corner again.
There, the gray [Darkest Hour] lay quietly.
"Sir, we've arrived at 36 Hall Street."
The taxi stopped smoothly, and the driver's voice roused Voldemort from his thoughts.
"All right, thank you."
After replying politely, he took out some money and handed it to the driver, then strode toward the luxurious house he'd rented for a short stay.
"Dark Lord, are you training again tonight?"
Quirrell's voice rang out from deep within his mind.
"Yes. Why not?"
Voldemort replied softly, waving to the people waiting to greet him.
Most of them were experts in combat and firearms.
Their purpose was to improve his reflexes and his ability to fight without magic.
Even a physically weak wizard with powerful magic could still have quick reflexes.
But if he had both powerful magic and a strong body...
Why not make himself stronger?
After all, the Voldemort in the books wasn't him.
Old Bee had allowed himself to die before the mad Voldemort did, but if it were him, perhaps Dumbledore would want to step in personally.
And to avoid that, he would have to pretend to be mad and foolish...
If the script really followed that story to the letter, how could he be sure he wouldn't meet the same end?
Never overestimate Dumbledore, or failure was certain.
He would never underestimate Dumbledore, because he had spent ten years struggling against the soul of one of his students.
"Tonight, let the storm rage even harder."
Having stripped off his clothes and left only his headband and underpants, Voldemort spoke with excitement.
He wouldn't give up. Not to anyone.
Because those ten years had been so damn hard.
He'd finally won a chance to live.
No one was going to make me...
Draw the death lot again!
Before you continue