I Am Voldemort, Whoever is Stronger is the True Body

Quirrell was absolutely the worst teacher Tom had ever seen in his life.

Not only had he not prepared a lesson, he read straight from the textbook word for word, and even stumbled over his words the whole time.

Every student struggled to get through the entire class.

Harry even slumped face-first onto his desk and fell asleep on the spot, treating it as a chance to catch up on rest.

Seeing this, Tom simply stopped listening to the lecture and started flipping through the book to study on his own.

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection contained two parts: defensive spells and introductions to certain dark creatures.

Tom had already memorized the entire book before entering school; he was only reviewing it now to prevent memory errors while practicing spells.

[Release Charm: causes an enemy to drop the item in their hand. Banishing Charm: delivers a heavy blow to an enemy with magic, forcing them backward. Booger Curse: makes a large amount of boogers flow from an enemy's nose...]

Quirrell seemed to have turned into a mindless textbook-reading machine, choosing to ignore the students who were all busy with their own affairs.

"How pitiful." Tom felt a bit of sympathy for Quirrell.

Before encountering Voldemort, Quirrell had been an outstanding Ravenclaw—not only a top student with excellent graduation results, but also someone called a "genius in theoretical defensive magic."

Otherwise, Dumbledore wouldn't have chosen him as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Unfortunately, he was cowardly and weak, and happened to run into Voldemort during his travels, sending his life down a path of darkness.

If Quirrell were still in his right mind, he could probably teach Tom quite a few high-level defensive spells.

For example, advanced spells like the Disarming Charm and the Shield Charm.

Finally.

Defense Against the Dark Arts class ended.

After the bell had rung for a long time, the students who had been listening until their souls left their bodies finally regained their senses and fled the classroom.

"You two go ahead to the next class's room. Don't wait for me."

Tom instructed Harry and the other, then walked toward Quirrell, who was waiting for him at the classroom door.

Quirrell's office was very close to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, just a flight of stairs away.

The moment they entered, Quirrell locked the door and, with trembling fingers, cast a Silencing Charm on it.

After ensuring no outsider could hear their conversation, he gradually relaxed his body, intending to let the face on the back of his head take control.

Voldemort had been curious about Tom for a long time—a young wizard with the same name as himself, brought into the magical world by Dumbledore.

Too much of a coincidence.

Now that he had the chance, he wanted to use the Imperius Curse to control little Tom's mind for a while and resolve the confusion in his heart.

"Tom, tell me about your backgrou—"

Before Quirrell could finish, Tom spoke first.

"If I'm not mistaken, you must be the newly joined Death Eater, right?"

"!"

Quirrell's sphincter tightened, his body tensing abruptly, interrupting Voldemort's control progress.

"How—how do you know?"

"I am Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord who created the Death Eaters. Do you think I couldn't guess your identity?"

Tom's plan was very simple: he intended to impersonate Voldemort, just like the real Dark Lord's plan, making Quirrell a helper at his side.

Right now, Quirrell was at the lowest point of his life.

Magic was a very will-based thing—if you didn't even believe in your own magic, how could you cast a spell successfully?

Just now, Quirrell had needed to tremble for a long time just to cast a Silencing Charm, which fully reflected how unstable his mindset was at the moment.

Under these circumstances, even if he messed up, Tom was confident he could escape with his life.

"Why should I believe you?"

Quirrell tried to glance at the back of his own head out of the corner of his eye. There was already a Voldemort behind his head—how could a second one appear before him?

Was the world crazy, or was he crazy?

"Do you want to become a true Death Eater?" Tom asked.

"A true Death Eater?" Quirrell tilted his head.

He knew well that true Death Eaters all bore the Dark Mark, a magical brand that connected them to Voldemort, a symbol of core membership among the Death Eaters.

The Ministry of Magic had once tried to crack the secret of the Dark Mark, but had never succeeded to this day.

Quirrell had always wanted that mark.

Because that represented recognition—proof that everything he had done over the past few months had meaning.

It was just a pity that Voldemort had always refused to brand him with the Dark Mark, citing his own weakness as an excuse.

"Stretch out your arm."

As if overwhelmed by Tom's confidence, Quirrell actually extended his arm.

A small finger tapped lightly.

"Ah!"

Quirrell felt a searing heat in his arm, the acrid smell of burning flesh mingling with the stench of garlic.

He lowered his head and looked closely.

A skull + a snake.

It was exactly the same as the Dark Mark on the Ministry of Magic's wanted posters. That black snake in the mark seemed almost alive, writhing faintly beneath his skin.

"Interesting." Tom focused his attention.

Through the Dark Mark, he could clearly sense Quirrell's location, and with just a thought—

"Pain!!!"

Quirrell suddenly felt a sharp agony shoot through his arm, draining his already frail body of strength. He doubled over, curling up on the ground in pain.

The Dark Mark could sense its bearer's loyalty. If disloyal, it would inflict punishment as a consequence.

Of course, as the caster, Tom could trigger the punishment at will.

In other words, whoever he declared disloyal was disloyal.

"Impossible!" A furious roar erupted from behind Quirrell's head.

The turban unraveled, revealing the hideous face beneath.

At that moment, Voldemort stared at Tom with an incredulous hostility.

He found it utterly unbelievable—how could the Dark Mark, which he had never taught to anyone, now appear in the hands of a little brat?

He was clearly the original, yet compared to this kid in front of him, he felt like the counterfeit!

"You—"

Before Voldemort could finish a single word, Tom cut him off.

"Hello there, my Horcrux. Enjoying your pathetic existence, clinging to someone else's body?"

"Damn it!" Even someone as elegant as Voldemort couldn't help but curse.

Tom's—those were all his lines!

"Your... Horcrux?" Quirrell trembled as he stood back up.

As a top graduate of his year, he had read extensively. Deep in his memory, some ancient text seemed to mention "Horcruxes," but they were a long-lost magical artifact.

"Now I appoint you as a core member of the Death Eaters, to assist me in my rise." Tom slowly extended one hand.

"Yes." Quirrell slowly knelt down.

No matter how much Voldemort behind his head roared and struggled, denying Tom's identity, Quirrell still went down on one knee before Tom.

Though he had spent the most time with the Voldemort at the back of his head, compared to the child before him, the gap was simply too vast.

Never mind which one—him or the one at the back of his head—was real.

In the end, whoever was stronger was the true original.

"Professor, didn't Dumbledore ever teach you basic etiquette back then?" Tom smiled faintly.

"I understand."

Quirrell leaned his upper body forward slightly and gently kissed the back of Tom's hand.