Luck was a funny thing. You never knew how it would turn out.
Take Voldemort, for example.
As a boy, he'd lived in an orphanage, thinking he'd spend his whole life in obscurity. Who could have known that, in his teens, he'd receive an invitation to attend a school of magic?
From then on, everything had gone his way. He'd been on the verge of conquering England, only for his grand ambitions to be crushed by a newborn baby.
After lying low for a long time, he'd finally received Heaven's favor and obtained the ring that represented the "Dark Ruler." Before he could even celebrate, the Ministry of Magic had seized it, and he'd ended up in the sewers.
He'd come back to life, been locked up, escaped prison, been killed by Soren, come back to life again, fled across Europe, been resurrected once more, been hunted by the Ministry of Magic, tried to possess someone, and been killed in turn.
Sometimes, Voldemort really regretted it.
Why had he made so many Horcruxes in the first place?
"Crack."
Without warning, the golden cup in front of them split apart. Dumbledore's pupils contracted.
He pondered for several minutes, then decided to ask someone what was going on.
"Klein, are you free?"
After a while, the Muffliato finally stirred.
"The user you are calling is busy. Please try again later."
Dumbledore: "..."
"Stop fooling around."
He rubbed his brow, helpless.
"Headmaster, don't you think you've been looking for me rather often lately? I'm busy too, you know."
Klein, wherever he was, sounded a little impatient.
Dumbledore pretended he hadn't heard him. It was just adolescence—young people were rebellious.
"I really do have something to discuss. Come over for a moment. One of Voldemort's Horcruxes just cracked."
"It cracked?"
Klein sounded surprised on