You're Not Worthy?

Voldemort was already distinctively ugly, but after being hit by the Bludger, he became even more unsightly. His bruises swelled up like rotten peaches, and his nose was dented in, turning him into a Noseless Freak.

Its skin was gray, like a dead person's; its eyes were red, with vertical pupils, like a snake's.

"Let me out." Voldemort's voice was very low, as if it came from a very deep well.

Voldemort let out a series of cold laughs. "How many years has it been since I've felt threatened?"

Quirrell lowered his head. "Master, why didn't you let me do it just now?"

"Even if we can't kill him in the castle, we can use the Imperius Curse to control him and then erase his memory. He's just a first-year student."

"Idiot."

Quirrell flinched.

"He wouldn't have dared to come to your office unprepared. Do you think he came unprepared to blackmail a professor?"

"His wand has always been in his hand, and his eyes have always been watching you." Voldemort's voice lowered.

"Besides, Albus Dumbledore is already watching you. The Imperius Curse will give you away. Do you want Albus Dumbledore to know what you're doing?"

Quirrell didn't say anything.

"There's another reason," Voldemort's eyes narrowed, "His name."

"Name?"

"Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle is Tom Riddle. Just having that name makes you special. What are you? Do you think you're worthy to control Tom?"

Quirrell's lips trembled.

Voldemort was weaker than ever before; when Quirrell was hit by the Bludger, he blocked 80% of the damage.

His face was smashed to pieces, his nose was broken, and his entire face was covered in bruises and scars.

He's been in a daze for two out of the last three days, and the remaining day is just barely hanging on. He doesn't have enough strength to stay conscious, enough to control Quirrell, or to do anything.

"Keep Riddle calm first," Voldemort said. "Do two things. First, find out what methods those professors have set up in the Third Floor Corridor. Second, gather the materials I need."

"Master, Snape is staring at me like a mad dog. He was Death Eater back in the day, and now he's working so diligently for Albus Dumbledore."

Voldemort scoffed. "When a person dies, the light goes out. And it wasn't just Snape. After my downfall, how many people willingly went to Azkaban?"

"Even if I didn't see it, I know those Pure-blood families are surrendering faster than the last."

"But so what? As long as I regain my strength, they'll still kneel down and lick my shoes, Snape included."

Quirrell said cautiously, "Can I contact him now? If he knows you're still alive, he might help us!"

"Who gave you permission to act on your own!"

Quirrell clutched his head and screamed in agony, feeling as if thousands of silver needles were piercing his brain, each one drilling deeper and deeper.

He knelt on the ground, his forehead hitting the floor with a thud.

"Do you think Snape would choose Albus Dumbledore, or me, weakened to the point of being barely human?" Voldemort's voice was as cold as ice.

"Snape is Potions Master. He can thrive no matter who he's with. He doesn't need me. He doesn't need anyone."

Quirrell lay on the ground, panting heavily.

"Do as I say, keep Riddle calm first, we can deal with the rest later."

When Tom returned to his dormitory, Zabini, Malfoy, and Nott were playing cards around the table.

The Wizard card depicts people who move, blink, and make faces.

"Is there anything to eat?" Tom asked.

The three men immediately threw down their cards and began rummaging through drawers and cabinets.

Zabini pulled two packets of Chocolate Frog from the bedside table, Malfoy rummaged through a box and found a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Nott took a box of Pumpkin Pasty from the bookshelf.

In less than a minute, the table was covered with snacks.

The three people stared at each other, forming a stable triangle.

The competition among "simps" has always been like this: the more others give Tom, the fewer opportunities you have to show off, so how can you make your presence known to Tom?

Tom sat on the bed, picked up a Pumpkin Pasty, took a bite, and found the pie was still warm, the pumpkin filling was sweet, and the crust was crispy.

"Blaise."

Zabini turned his head. "Big Brother."

"How's your Wit-Sharpening Potion coming along?"

Zabini's eyes lit up. "It's a success! The third batch is much better than the first two!"

He took a bottle of dark green liquid from the box and handed it to Tom.

Tom took it and looked at it against the light. The liquid was thick, like honey, and slowly flowed in the bottle.

It contains no impurities, no bubbles, and has a uniform color.

"Good. This batch is basically a success."

Zabini beamed with excitement, his lips curling up wide and his eyes narrowing into slits.

Tom taught him how to brew Wit-Sharpening Potion a month ago, and he failed four or five times before finally succeeding today.

Even so, it's enough for him to be proud of, as this is a high-level Potions that even fifth or sixth graders might not be able to handle.

"Make a few more batches tomorrow. Practice makes perfect. Once you've mastered it after a few consecutive unsuccessful attempts," Tom patted Zabini on the shoulder, casually tossing out a favor.

Tom tore a page from his notebook, wrote a few lines on it, folded the paper, and handed it to Zabini.

"What's this?"

"My understanding of the Stunning Spell can enhance both the casting speed and the travel speed of the spell."

Zabini's hand trembled slightly. "Brother, is this really for me?"

Such things are closely guarded secrets even within Pure-blood families.

Why can others use the same spell so quickly and effectively? Besides their fundamental skills, it's this fine-tuning technique that makes it so powerful.

A powerful wizard will adapt spells to suit their own style, and go even further by refining spells, reducing their difficulty and increasing their power.

Zabini is Pure-blood, but not from Pure-blood families. His parents were both Pure-blood in a political marriage, his father died early, and his mother remarried several times. Apart from having some money, he has no family heritage.

He could never have such a skill, even in his wildest dreams. Zabini took the note as if it were a priceless treasure.

His fingers were trembling, and his eyes were fixed on the words on the note, reading them one by one.

Nott and Malfoy's eyes also reddened.

Zabini swallowed hard. "Tom, brother, are you sure you want to give it to me?"

"Okay, but don't make excuses to refuse when I need you to concoct Potions for me in the future."

Zabini swore, "Absolutely not! As long as I'm skilled enough, I'll brew Potions you need, Tom, and I'll even cover the cost of the materials."

Nott peeked over from the side, his face full of expectation. "Tom, is there anything I can do for you?"

Malfoy joined in. "Me too."

Tom looked at them. "You should find out what you're good at first, then come talk to me."

Nott lowered his head, and Malfoy's lips curled down.